She considered it for a moment, then replied, “It isanno Dominieighteen-hundred-and-forty-six, now, is it not?”
Wren nodded, half in confirmation of her enquiry and half in admiration of her aptitude for time-keeping.
“Then I have wandered and returned for some four centuries.” She smiled. “And a little more.”
Wren stared.
“And you?” she asked, startling him a great deal. “How did you come to the fae realms?”
“Oh.” Wren hadn’t considered himself interesting enough that she—or anyone else—would want to turn the question around on him. Furthermore, his journey contained rather more sordid detail. “Rather less exciting and less noble than your own history, I’m afraid. I clerked in a solicitor’s office in Staple Inn. One day a gentleman in medieval garb arrived and declared I would assist him in defying his fate. And the rest… well.” He shrugged. “I went along with it, I suppose.”
She had fixed him with her studied gaze throughout his short recitation. “More similar than otherwise, it would seem. The fae came to seek your aid. And you answered their call.”
Wren felt forced to concede her point. “The ways of the fae are somewhat more amenable than the ways of the mortal realm to men of my sort. I gained as much as the Oak King in the bargain. Likely more.”
Her soft and knowing smile bespoke as well as words her complete understanding of that particular phrase—men of my sort.“So too do I find the ways of the fae are better suited to my pursuits.”
The door-latch clattered open. Shrike stepped into the cottage. He knocked a great deal of snow off his boots as he hung up his cloak by the door.
“Did it go well?” Wren asked.
Shrike glanced up, startled. “What?”
Wren supposed his enquiry had come rather abrupt. “Whatever it was that took you out of the cottage. How did it go?”
“Oh.” A sly and handsome grin overtook Shrike’s features. “Very well indeed. I’ll show you on the morrow.”
~
Wren’s excitement very nearly precluded sleep.
The confirmation that Shrike’s secretive quest was a fun one rather than anything dire did a great deal to soothe his worries, which left only the delightful anticipation of knowing something wonderful awaited on the morrow.
And even without this, just the simple promise that he would get to venture out-of-doors for the first time in almost a month would have sufficed to keep him awake.
Still, even with his heart racing against his ribs, the brawny embrace of Shrike in his arms and his beloved’s low steady breaths reverberating through his own chest eventually persuaded his mind and body alike to drift down, down, down into unconscious bliss.
He awoke to the scent of toasted cheese and the sight of dust-motes drifting gently through shafts of soft dawn sunlight. Shrike knelt before the fire cooking their breakfast. He’d left behind a pocket of warmth in the nest, which Wren curled up in with the bedclothes up to his nose whilst he watched him work.
Mere moments passed before some slight sound or faint flicker of movement alerted Shrike to his observer. He turned to regard Wren with a smile and a low rumbling good-morning.
Wren answered him in kind, though he remained on tenterhooks throughout the breaking of their fast.
Shrike seemed almost as eager to reveal the secret as Wren felt to learn it. A smile frolicked across his lips as he helped Wren dress to go out-of-doors—the first time in over a month Wren had bothered to don his waistcoat, much less his frock coat and boots. By the time they both had their scarves, gloves, mittens, and cloaks on, Wren thought the anticipation might well drive him to distraction. The cold draught through the cottage door as it opened felt refreshing as a summer’s breeze on what little of his face remained exposed to the elements.
And just beyond the cottage door stood a sleigh.
Even as he realised he ought to have expected as much—after all, Shrike had asked after the very thing when enquiring of Everilda how an invalid might travel—Wren couldn’t keep from gawking. The sleigh looked as though it’d grown out of the wood alongside the shoots and saplings of spring. Stout oak planks curved into a rounded body not unlike a curled ivy leaf, stained a deep shade of Kendall green with trim in the particular green-yellow shade of sunshine seen through the undersides of theforest canopy. Curled saplings formed its gleaming runners. It appeared not quite so large as the horse-drawn sleighs Wren had seen whilst in England. He supposed since Shrike had no horses, he’d sized it to suit his goats—or perhaps a stag.
“You made this?” Wren asked, his voice soft with astonishment.
Shrike looked abashed. “‘Tis not much, but twill serve.”
“I’ll say!” Wren wondered how many years would pass before Shrike understood the worth of his own handiwork. “I think it’s splendid.”
A dashing hint of rosy hue appeared across Shrike’s sharp cheekbones as he graced Wren with the small-yet-handsome smile he loved so well.
“When did you build it?” Wren asked, recalling the weeks he’d spent cooped up in the cottage. He remembered Shrike as remaining by his side at all hours, though the first week or so he’d slept a great deal and supposed Shrike might have snuck out then to construct this marvel. Surely he couldn’t have done it all yesterday in the few hours he’d been gone. He knew from watching Shrike weave withy over the summer months that wood had to be green or steamed—ideally both—to bend into the graceful, polished curves of the sleigh and its runners. No green wood grew in the dead of winter, and where Shrike might have steamed it in so short a time Wren knew not.
