Wren, confused, nevertheless raised his arm to return the gesture.
This appeared to satisfy the young man, who went back to assisting his compatriots.
Yet while each of the three peddlers bore very little resemblance to either of their partners, Wren realized one common trait among them. They all had rounded ears.
“Are they mortals?” Wren murmured, drawing Shrike’s attention to the particular booth with a hand on his arm and a nod of his head.
Shrike followed Wren’s gaze and replied, “For another fortnight, at least.”
Wren didn’t take his meaning. He dared another glimpse at the peddlers in an attempt to glean the truth. His eye fell again to the stained cravat. A ruddy stain, he noted, and an old one at that, half washed out in blotches. Wine, probably. Or perhaps blood. Though the throat beneath it didn’t seem to bear any scars. And yet the cravat looked familiar. Wren owned a half-dozen like it himself, he supposed. What might happen in a fortnight to make its wearer no longer mortal, he couldn’t fathom. He caught Shrike’s eye again with his own brow knit in confusion.
Shrike held his gaze, then glanced away, significantly, upwards past the skeletal canopy to the shining half-moon hanging overhead.
Wren stared at the half-moon—which, in a fortnight, would wax full.
The familiar cravat was his own, given to a wounded werewolf so many months ago.
Before he could think better of it, Wren whipped his head ‘round again to gawk at the wine-bearers. None seemed to pay him any mind. The young man—the werewolf—with Wren’s blood-stained cravat on his throat had engaged another customer in smiling conversation. No hint to his true lupine nature save his sharp teeth.
Then Shrike’s palm settled gently onto the small of Wren’s back, and Wren took the hint to move along.
Walking together in the fae realm afforded Wren and Shrike the opportunity for open and silent communication between them. They could speak with touches and glances as well as words. Wren’s eyes—and indeed, his hands—might linger as long as they liked on his beloved’s form. The fae held no malice towards his wanton affection. Wren basked in this newfound freedom. Yet the presence of the werewolves conjured questions.
“Are there mortals in the market?” Wren asked Shrike in a low tone as they rejoined the current of the crowd. “Besides myself, I mean.”
“The blacksmith,” said Shrike.
“Theblacksmith?” Wren echoed.
“Aye.” Shrike’s mouth formed a grim line.
The thought of what other sorts of mortals might carve out their lives in the fae realms set Wren’s mind afire with curiosity. He looked sharp in search of a stall filled with iron. “And where is his booth?”
“She has no booth.”
Wren fixed Shrike with his full astonished attention. “She?”
“She doesn’t bring her wares to market,” Shrike explained. “Iron makes folk uneasy. She walks through when it pleases her and settles her accounts with those who owe her. Most are indebted to her for years yet. It takes several harvests to pay for something of her make.”
“And if someone wants to commission her anew?” Wren asked.
“She’s easy enough to find in a crowd. Folk give her a wide berth.”
“Out of respect,” Wren hypothesized.
Shrike gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Or fear.”
Wren glanced ‘round to see if the fae crowd avoided any particular person in their midst. While many clustered at booths and many more streamed between the trees, he found no one whom they dared not bump elbows with.
Save Shrike and himself.
“Where is your booth set?” Wren asked.
“I’ve none,” Shrike answered him.
“Then how will you dole out your masks?”
“I’ll go from booth to booth myself, for most. Others I’ll find amidst the crowd.”
