Rather than give young Felix a blistering lecture on gratitude, however, Wren took the empty copper kettle out of the office and down to the water-pump in the courtyard.
By the time Wren returned, Mr Grigsby had succeeded in getting the tea-box down from the shelf and now clasped it before him with perfect contentment as he regaled Felix with his report on the past week’s weather—fog, with intermittent rain, followed by more fog.
Felix did a better job at feigning interest than Wren, though Wren suspected this was only because Felix wanted to commit as many of Mr Grigsby’s odd mannerisms to memory as possible, so he might impersonate Mr Grigsby to amuse his university friends at a later date. Even if Wren didn’t already know the boy’s character, he would’ve realised it in a moment from the way Felix kept biting back bursts of laughter and sniffling away his snickering beneath his handkerchief.
Wren entered the room without a word, shut the door behind himself with the softest click of the latch, and wove his way around the two gentlemen to hang the full kettle over the fire. Neither acknowledged his presence; Felix because he did not care and Mr Grigsby because he genuinely did not notice. At least, not until Wren approached him directly to take the tea-box.
“Ah, thank you, Lofthouse!” Mr Grigsby said, handing the tea over with a smile. “Now, Mr Knoll, we need do nothing more than twiddle our thumbs, for Lofthouse takes care of everything. I don’t know what I’d do without him.”
Prosper, most like, Wren thought but didn’t say.
Felix cleared his throat. “Actually, I’ve just thought of something you may help me with in the meantime.”
“Oh?” Surprise did not lessen Mr Grigsby’s good humour by one jot. “Name it, my dear boy.”
“I require an advance of funds from my father’s trust,” said Felix.
For a moment, the only sound that permeated the muffling fog of Staple Inn was the crackling of the fire beneath the copper kettle.
“Dear me,” said Mr Grigsby. “I’m very sorry to bear bad news, but I’m afraid my hands are tied on the matter. The terms of your father’s will are unmistakable. You are to have sufficient funds for your education, and—” Here Mr Grigsby named a sum that had dizzied Wren the first time he heard it and infuriated him every instance afterward. “—per semester to live on in a manner befitting your station. And, as it comes from the interest of your late father’s trust, there is no margin left over from which to draw on. Quite impossible. I hope only the need is not great and the matter not dire?”
Felix waved off Mr Grigsby’s genuine concern. “Oh no, nothing pressing. It’s just I wanted to buy a particular necklace for Flora, as a Christmas present.”
Wren thought Felix might at least have the decency to look abashed at his own lie, but falsehood altered the young man’s fashionable features not a whit.
Mr Grigsby entertained no such suspicions. “How charming! I’m sure it would please Miss Fairfield very much.”
Wren had never laid eyes on Miss Flora Fairfield in the flesh, but he had seen the miniature Felix kept of her. Indeed, the boy had shown it off to him like a prized racehorse when he’d first received it. From this, Wren knew Miss Flora had pale blue eyes, white-blonde hair, and an expression that fell somewhere between astonishment and boredom. Though, Wren supposed, the blame for the latter might fall on the artist rather than the subject.
In Wren’s opinion, Felix and Miss Flora, with their matching fair hair and blue eyes, bore greater resemblance to a pair of twins rather than a pair of lovers. Indeed, as Mr Grigsby retained legal guardianship over both of them, one might call them siblings. But since no one asked for Wren’s opinion on the match, he expressed it only to his manuscripts.
“Unfortunately,” Mr Grigsby continued, “Miss Fairfield’s appreciation does not alter the terms of your father’s will. However, depending on the jeweller from which you acquire the necklace, it may be possible to pay some small amount at present and the remainder after the first of the year. Not that I suggest one ought to make it a habit to live on one’s debts! But for this singular special instance, it might do.”
Wren had long suspected Felix was no stranger to living on his debts but kept this to himself—save for a speaking glance at Felix.
Felix ignored Wren’s accusatory gaze. “I’m afraid this particular jeweller will not make such a bargain with me. Is there absolutely nothing to be done?”
“Nothing whatsoever,” Mr Grigsby said solemnly. “But fret not! Christmas is three months out, and I’m sure you can think up another equally suitable gift for dear Miss Fairfield before then. And the new year will allow you to withdraw the cost of the necklace from your father’s trust—no doubt you have already resolved to tighten your belt to meet the demand—in plenty of time for her birthday, on which occasion I’m sure the necklace will meet with equal appreciation.”
Mr Grigsby looked well pleased with the solution he’d drawn up for Felix’s supposed predicament. Felix’s own smile proved a pale imitation of such satisfaction. Wren saw through it as easily as one might see through a windowpane.
And no sooner had Wren thought this than something struck the actual windowpane behind Felix’s head.
All three men whirled towards the sound, though only Wren dashed to the window itself.
A bird lay on the sill. It didn’t move as Wren unlocked the window and threw it open. Wren supposed it had died in striking the glass.
“A sparrow, Lofthouse?” Mr Grigsby called to him from across the room.
“No, sir,” said Wren. For indeed, it was no sparrow, but something with a fluffy grey coat and a little mask of black feathers over its eyes. “Some other sort of bird.”
Just as Wren attempted to scoop its poor corpse onto a scrap of parchment, the black-masked eyes blinked open.
“Oh!” cried Wren as the bird hopped upright.
Despite its passerine shape, the queer little bird had a fierce gaze beneath its mask. It blinked at him several more times, shook itself all over, then hopped onto the parchment and from there onto the cuff of Wren’s jacket.
Wren willed himself not to flinch, lest he startle the stunned creature.
