“Pardon.”The word flew from Wren’s lips.He blinked rapidly.But his gaze focused on Shrike at last.
Shrike knew in his bones that it was he who ought to beg Wren’s forgiveness.For startling him.For failing to protect him.For allowing Tolhurst near enough to harm him in the first place.But his tongue lay leaden in his mouth.
So instead he indicated the chair with a clumsy hand.
“Thank you,” said Wren, and sat.
Shrike swung his cloak off his shoulders and carefully tucked it around Wren’s.
Wren glanced up at him with a faint flicker of a smile Shrike had thought he might never see again.
Somewhere between the hollow stump and the chair Wren had torn off his cravat altogether.His shirt-collar hung open.The fire, stronger than moonlight, illuminated the marks on his throat before it ever reached his face.
Shrike could not drag his gaze away from the bruises.The strawberry scarlet had begun blooming into sloe blue.He dared not touch them, lest he do Wren any further harm, yet he felt equally desperate to tend his beloved’s wounded flesh.He seized the desperate impulse and dragged out the medicine chest, digging through it to find whatever potion or poultice could ease Wren’s pain.He used leeches on his own bruises.The jar had lain empty for months, however, and he couldn’t even think of leaving Wren alone now to go and hunt for more.
The silence in the cottage thickened.Shrike looked up from his failures.
Wren stared at him with enquiring eyes.
“Rose-water might soothe…” Shrike trailed off.He could not will his tongue to describe it.He raised his hand to his own throat and gently traced the reflection of the marks Tolhurst had left in his Wren’s flesh.He could almost feel the ache of bruises beneath his fingertips.
Wren mirrored Shrike’s gesture and winced under his own touch.
Another pang struck Shrike’s heart.
“Looks worse than it is, I suppose,” Wren ventured.
Shrike silently-yet-heartily disagreed.
Wren dropt his hand back into his lap.“Tea wouldn’t go amiss.”
Shrike leapt to fill the kettle.
Brewing and pouring tea gave Shrike’s mind something to fix on other than the bruises blooming on Wren’s throat or visions of the wretched swine who’d marked him.But the welcome respite ended the moment he pressed the steaming mug into Wren’s grasp.
Wren cast a pointed look at the kettle and Shrike’s own empty hands until Shrike poured himself a mug as well.After he took a sip, his voice emerged stronger.“Won’t you sit with me?”
No sooner had the final word left Wren’s lips than Shrike perched on the hearth at his side.
Silence filled the cottage again, broken only by the crackling flame.Shrike knew not how to break it.He wished he were a man of more words.Everything within him wanted to promise Wren safety.But how could he do so when he’d already broken that very vow?—
“I failed him.”
Shrike baulked.The words had come from Wren’s lips, but they may as well have dropt from his own tongue, for Shrike had failed Wren utterly, and by merest chance had arrived quick enough to prevent the worst.
But Wren did not speak of him.
Shrike ought to have gently reminded Wren to spare his throat, to wait until he’d recovered before he tried to speak.Instead he asked, “Who?”
“Daniel.Mr Daniel Durst.That is, Mr Grigsby’s ward.The one who…” Wren’s words faltered, but it seemed for want of thought than for want of breath, which Shrike supposed he ought to take as a good sign.“The one I presumed was Miss Flora Fairfield.”
“Ah,” said Shrike.
“You don’t seem astonished.”
Shrike confessed he felt no surprise.
“I suppose it’s a rather more everyday occurrence in the fae realms,” Wren mused.His voice still came hoarse, but less so the more he spoke.“I daresay I wouldn’t have known what to make of it myself were it not for all you’ve shown me.”
