“If you require me,” Everilda had said as they parted, “send a starling.”
Nell had said nothing but had worn a knowing smile. She wore a similar smile now as she halted before Shrike and Wren.
“Good morning,” Wren said, which seemed the most appropriate thing to say.
Everilda returned the greeting in kind, the sound of her voice removing all question as to her identity, as well as her adding, “How are you feeling?”
“Very well, thank you,” Wren told her truthfully.
She accepted this with a brisk nod.
Nell, meanwhile, insinuated her arm around Everilda’s waist, which Everilda didn’t seem to mind.
“Take care, Lofthouse!” Nell called out with a cavalier wave as she led Everilda away. Or perhaps Everilda led her. Wren couldn’t quite tell which.
Their second pair of visitors arrived a few moments later. Wren recognised Drude from halfway across the field; his bright scarlet coat and horns jutting up far above the general throng defied any disguise, much less the admittedly striking bronze mask he wore, complete with engraved beard. His companion, not much shorter than him, appeared likewise singular, but Wren didn’t believe his own eyes until both crimson incubus and Payne’s grey huldrekall halted right in front of him.
“Hull?” said Wren, the incredulous syllable falling from his tongue before he could think better of it.
A grin split Hull’s blue-black beard. His wicker mask covered just the top half of his face, leaving everything below the nose exposed. “You’ve found me out, my lord. We find you well, I hope?”
Wren supposed he ought to get used to the now-customary enquiry into his health. He gave the honest reply. “Far better than I was. And yourselves?”
“Very well indeed! I left Mr Grigsby in Dr Hitchingham’s capable hands,” Hull said before Wren could ask, adding, “Not that he’s ill! Merely that I think he’s better off in good company. I would have brought him, except…” He glanced over the meadow. “It seemed a bit much to spring on the poor fellow all at once.”
Wren quite agreed. “Do give him our best wishes when you return to London.”
Hull swore he would do so.
Drude, meanwhile, had entered into conversation with Shrike. Both spoke too low for Wren to make out their words. It ended in smiles and clasped forearms, after which both Drude and Hull withdrew.
Wren turned to Shrike to ask him what Drude had said. However, he found himself distracted by Shrike’s hands, which held not the tattered remnants of forget-me-nots but rather a crown woven of them.
Shrike raised the crown with a smile. Wren caught his impish glance and lowered his head. Shrike laid the forget-me-nots on his brow.
“It’s not the solstice yet,” Wren reminded him.
Shrike kissed him regardless.
The music wafting across the glade subtly changed its tune. Fae began to gather at the roots of the enormous gnarled tree looming in the centre of the field.
Shrike shot Wren an enquiring glance.
Wren nodded.
Shrike stood and drew Wren up beside him. Arm-in-arm, they strolled toward the winding thread of fae encircling the ancient beech. Wren glimpsed the ambassador almost vanishing around its trunk; he’d acquired another plague doctor’s mask of someone else’s make and waved with great enthusiasm upon spotting Wren in turn. Nell and Everilda stood hand-in-hand further down the line with nymphs on either side. Hull appeared between a delicate faun and a broad-bearded fellow who could’ve passed for Pan, horns and all.
Wren wondered who would take up his left hand with Shrike jealously guarding his right. He didn’t have to wonder long, for soon a familiar crimson figure loomed on his left.
Drude bowed not so low as to put Wren in any danger from his horns. “If I may?”
Wren accepted his proffered hand with a smile. He noted how, over his head, Shrike and Drude exchanged a knowing glance and affirming nod. No doubt they had coordinated this earlier to ensure Wren had a strong arm to lean into on either side. Part of him felt he ought to consider this a slight against his masculine pride. The part of him which very much enjoyed having a strong man on either side of him drowned it out.
Shrike bent low to murmur into Wren’s ear. “If you need to break away…”
Wren smiled up at him. “You’ll know.”
Fiddle, hornpipe, and tambourine struck up the fae hymn. The grapevine dance began. Shrike and Drude half-carried Wren through it—he felt almost as if he flew rather than stepped and twirled along. The thread of fae wove together, ever-winding tighter ‘round the sacred tree. The beating of the tambourine came faster and faster, until, just when Wren thought he might have to drop out of the dance if he wished to keep his breath, the song ceased with joyous fanfare.
