Wren whirled to find Shrike swiftly approaching through the already-parted crowd. While the sight of him warmed his heart, Wren could see how, with his stormy aspect, bold strides, and billowing black cloak, Shrike might strike an imposing figure to those who knew him not so well. But Wren knew the furrow in Shrike’s brow bespoke mild concern rather than ill temper.
“Hail and well met, m’lord!” trilled the spiderweb fae, drawing Wren’s attention again.
“Hail,” Shrike echoed warily. As he drew up to join their conversation, he laid a heavy palm on Wren’s shoulder. His touch felt warm and familiar, yet Wren couldn’t help but notice an undercurrent of urgency in the gesture.
“I cannot praise enough the mask you crafted for me this season,” the spiderweb fae continued. “And what a bounty it is to have the opportunity to tell you so in person.”
“You have my thanks,” said Shrike.
“And your friend has proved delightful company this eve,” the spiderweb fairy went on with a nod towards Wren. “Pray, allow me to withdraw so you might enjoy his companionship yourself. Goodnight, and good morrow!”
“Goodnight,” said Shrike.
The spiderweb fae gave another flourishing bow, deeper still than the one he’d given to Wren, and whirled away to vanish into the throng.
The instant he did so, Shrike swept over Wren like a dark tide. His cloak billowed ‘round them both as Shrike’s hands slipped beneath Wren’s coat to swiftly and gently brush over his shoulders, waist, and heart. Before Wren could do more than balk in bewilderment, Shrike’s hands rose to cradle his jaw, and while his rough thumb traced Wren’s cheek with tenderness, his palms tilted Wren’s face in a peculiar manner that Wren could only conclude was meant to examine his throat.
“Are you all right?” Shrike asked, his words low and urgent.
“Yes,” Wren answered with some impatience. He wrapped his own fingers around Shrike’s wrists to halt their bizarre ministrations. “Why shouldn’t I be?”
Shrike offered no resistance as Wren pulled his hands away to rest on Wren’s shoulders. “Do you know to whom you spoke?”
“I saw him in the Wild Hunt before. And I saw him tonight wearing a mask made by your hand. Beyond that, I know nothing of him.”
“Did he give his reason for approaching you?” Shrike pressed.
“On the contrary, I approached him.”
Shrike’s eyes widened.
“You needn’t look so shocked,” Wren added. “I found myself bereft of company, saw he stood likewise, and struck up a conversation to pass the time whilst I awaited your return. He behaved a perfect gentleman throughout.”
Shrike broke his stunned silence to reply, “I would expect nothing less of him.”
“Then pray tell me what vexes you.”
Despite this extraordinarily reasonable request, Shrike remained silent.
Wren’s unease only grew. “He commissioned his mask from you. What payment did you arrange?”
“He is connected to a certain fabric-seller,” Shrike admitted. “I cannot yet make my own wools and linens, much less silks and velvets.”
“He must do so very well indeed to earn such a mask as you’ve crafted for him. And to earn your silence, besides. Did you make his cobweb mask as well?”
“No.” This time, Shrike’s answer came far more quickly. “It’s the customary garb of his court.”
“And pray tell, what court is that?”
“He hails from the Court of Spindles,” Shrike said at last, adding, “An infamous realm of betrayal and dread.”
“Oh.” Wren felt rather as though Shrike had up-ended a pitcher of ice water over his head. The spiderweb fae hadn’t seemed the least bit dreadful, but Wren supposed that was where the betrayal came into play.
“Some call him the ambassador,” Shrike continued. “I believe it’s meant in jest. More likely he is an exile. Whether the Court of Spindles banished him or he escaped of his own accord, I cannot say, though I’m inclined to think the latter.”
“On what evidence?”
“The knowledge that the Court of Spindles is far more likely to eliminate offenders than release them from their snares.”
