“What?” Shrike grumbled, though he knew better.
“The antlers, you dullard.”
Shrike thought that a very foolish enquiry. “I’ll tell you when they’re grown in.”
“Fair enough. Where’s Lofthouse?”
“Staple Inn. London,” Shrike told her through gritted teeth. Why she’d chosen today, of all days, to pepper him with questions, he couldn’t fathom. She had a way of needling that he’d oft seen her turn upon others. She hadn’t turned it upon him in decades. Not since their first meeting, in the aftermath of a particularly bloody hunt, whereupon he’d aroused her curiosity. She’d heard stories of the Butcher of Blackthorn—everyone had—and had taken it upon herself to learn the truth of the matter from the Butcher himself. Now, it seemed, her curiosity had renewed. “I go to meet him at sunset.”
“And d’you think you’ll be in a fit state to journey by sunset?”
“I must,” said Shrike. “And so I shall be.”
“D’you suppose it wise, then, to wander amongst mortals with such a pair of buds upon your brow?”
Shrike had to admit he hadn’t considered that. He forced his eyes open.
Nell stood in the centre of the cottage, leaning against the hollowed stump with her arms crossed as she regarded Shrike with a cocked eyebrow. He wondered how long she’d held that expression whilst waiting for him to awaken and witness it.
“If so,” Nell continued, when it became apparent that not only did she have his full attention, but he had no answer for her, “then you’re half as foolish as my twin. And a quarter as foolish as my half-brother.”
Nell didn’t oft speak of her family. Shrike knew of them from a misadventure early in his acquaintance with her that had forged their friendship in fire. Few others could claim such knowledge of either of them.
“What would you suggest instead?” asked Shrike.
“Don’t go. Or, if you must, contrive a disguise. Or find a clever friend to contrive one for you. You’ll forgive me for saying you don’t seem fit to contrive much of anything at present.”
Shrike could hardly deny it. “I suppose the hidden folk are used to it by now.”
“They have the sense not to shed the antlers once they’ve grown them.” She paused, and Shrike almost thought she’d said all she meant to, until she added, “I’d supposed your mortal dalliance was your last hurrah, after a fashion. But he seems determined to see you survive.”
“No less determined than myself,” said Shrike.
“Is there anything I might do for you?”
Shrike wondered if she meant the antlers or the solstice. Both, he supposed. “Have you heard whom the Queen of the Silver Wheel has named her Holly King?”
“No,” said Nell. “Whom?”
Shrike didn’t have will enough remaining to hide his frustration. “I know not. That’s why I’ve asked.”
Shrike expected her to laugh at him again. She did not.
“Oh,” she said instead, sounding almost contrite. Then, “Shall I find out?”
“I’d owe you a debt if you would,” said Shrike.
“You’d owe me naught,” she shot back—more like her old self. “I’ll see to it now, if you like.”
“I’ll make you a quiver.”
“So many men have promised,” Nell replied with a smirk. “And yet none have delivered.”
“You know what I meant,” Shrike grumbled, an answering smile tugging at the corner of his mouth despite his gritted teeth.
Nell laughed. Shrike shut his eyes again. A silence fell, which Shrike presumed meant she’d slipped away, until the creak of the door cut through it.
“Well met,” Nell said—to someone other than himself.
