Sentiment
It had required a draught of fae courage before Wren could even attempt the house-breaking.
Planning it had taken some weeks. The portrait of Daniel had given Wren the first inkling.
In sketching and painting it he found himself thinking of the other commission he yet owed in a century and a day.
Tatterdemalion had seemed to think it worthwhile to invest in what little talent Wren possessed at present.
Whether that talent lay in art or spell-craft, Wren didn’t know.
“Both,” Shrike had said when Wren asked.
Wren made allowances for Shrike’s more generous assessment of his talents but thanked him all the same.
Yet Wren had to admit there seemed at least a touch of magic in the resulting wedding portrait, if only for the effect it had on Daniel.
Perhaps he’d infused some charm into it without realising.
Daniel well deserved a fae boon—moreso than most, in Wren’s estimation.
Wren certainly owed him something in recompense for the nineteen years of horror his negligence had inadvertently put him through.
Nonetheless, it did force Wren to think again on his bargain with Tatterdemalion.
And, particularly, why Tatterdemalion had considered a work of art wrought by Wren’s hands a suitable replacement for the initial demand of his teeth.
To say nothing of how, when Wren had suggested giving Tatterdemalion his milk-teeth rather than the ones still in his head, Shrike had warned him against it in no uncertain terms.
(“Sentiment,” Shrike had told him, “is the highest value any artifact may attain. It would grant powerful magic to its wielder. Your milk-teeth, imbued with a child’s innocence and a mother’s love, would prove potent indeed.”)
Which left Wren with a growing sense of unease at leaving said milk-teeth to rot in his father’s house. Where anyone might steal them away and seek to use their magical influence over the Kings of Oak and Holly.
If his milk-teeth were even still in his father’s house at all.
“Ought I to reclaim them?” Wren asked Shrike as he concluded explaining his concerns.
Shrike hesitated before divulging, “If you did not, I intended to.”
The thought of Shrike swooping into his father’s house like an avenging angel to reclaim what was dearest to him sent Wren’s heart fluttering. The only remedy was to seize Shrike by the collar and drag him down into an embrace.
A fortnight of planning later saw them both skulking through the hedges beneath the parlour window of the Norfolk manor house scarce an hour past midnight.
No moon shone beyond the clouds overhead.
Not a single lamp nor candle burnt in any windows.
The absolute stillness of the countryside was broken only by chirping insects and hooting owls.
Wren’s knees had begun aching more than a quarter-hour ago.
Yet still he could not make himself arise and creep into the house proper.
“All well?” Shrike murmured beside him.
A frustrated sigh escaped Wren. Shrike’s enquiry had come gentle as morning dew; Wren only wondered that it’d taken him so long to question their stagnation. His own cowardice vexed him far more than the pain in his joints or the chill in the air. “What I wouldn’t give for a strong draught.”
Only one accustomed to living in close quarters with the fae—and with this fae in particular—could’ve heard the shadow-faint shuffling of Shrike’s cloak.
The sudden slosh of liquid within glass resounded like a gunshot in comparison.
Wren could see naught of Shrike, but no doubt Shrike could see how his jaw hung open in frank disbelief as Shrike pressed a cold bottle into his hand.
“What—?” Wren whispered.
“Sloe gin,” Shrike replied as though he’d asked something sensible.
Wren ought’ve known as much. He’d drunk Blackthorn Briar’s own brew before; had helped Shrike bottle some batches besides.
He found it less overpowering than the mead served in the Court of Hidden Folk or the fae wine Nell had offered up at Ostara, but no less nostalgic.
Whether that would improve his performance in this particular quest he couldn’t say. More importantly, however… “Why?”
“To offer in exchange for what we wish to pilfer, should it come to bargaining,” Shrike explained.
“Or even should it not—it’s fae tradition to leave a gift when one claims something from another.
You oughtn’t need to offer anything, as the tokens are yours by birthright, but I thought it best to come prepared with something to bargain with nonetheless. ”
His by birthright, indeed. Wren smiled to hear Shrike describe his own teeth and hair as “tokens.” The speech inspired him more than St. Crispin’s Day ever had.
He took a sip of the sloe gin regardless, just for luck.
It went down shockingly smooth in a way he still hadn’t grown accustomed to.
He corked the bottle and returned it to Shrike, who slipped it back into his cloak’s voluminous folds.
“Follow me,” Wren declared with more confidence than he felt and forced his aching knees to unbend.
Shrike trailed after him like his shadow.
Silent as a shadow, as well, Wren noted.
He knew his own footsteps came not near so quiet, though he flattered himself that he had more stealth than he did before Shrike had spent over a year training him to hunt in fae woods.
Stealthier than anyone yet sleeping in the house certainly.
Though perhaps still not quite so stealthy as the average London sneak-thief.
They rounded the house, slipping between the hedges, and reached the library window within moments.
There Wren knelt before Shrike and proffered his hands as a stirrup to climb up to the sill.
He heard nothing as Shrike worked on the lock overhead.
He half-imagined the faint drip of oil but had no real proof of its use until the window itself opened without a creak.
Shrike leapt down again, landing in a silent somersault, then springing up to mirror Wren’s kneeling-stirrup pose, a dark form faintly limned in whatever scattered light the stars bestowed on the countryside.
They’d agreed Wren would go first since he knew the house forwards and backwards. Still, Wren hesitated. Not for want of courage, but rather heavy with the knowledge of just how much grace he lacked compared to his fae companion.
And yet, while he couldn’t see Shrike’s face, he fancied he could feel an encouraging smile beaming up at him.
Wren steeled his nerve and planted his boot-heel in Shrike’s palms. Stepping up sufficed for his hands to reach the window-sill.
Only when his grip was secured did Shrike arise, vaulting Wren up with him.
The scrape of his woollen sleeves and trouser-legs against the brick-work resounded like roaring thunder in his ears as he scrambled over from sill to stool.
The thud of his boot-heels on the wood as he landed inside felt like a gunshot.
And there he was—in his ancestral library.
Wren staggered. And not just for want of balance.
He’d picked this room as their point-of-entry not only because of its ample window and limited knick-knacks to knock about but also because of its familiarity. After all, they would come in well after dark, and what Wren lacked in Shrike’s fae eyesight he hoped to make up for in memory.
And perhaps in presuming familiarity would grant advantage, he had erred.
This was the room where Wren had spent most of his hours at home.
First with his mother whilst she lived. Then brooding alone after she’d passed on.
But this was also the very room he’d been caught out in.
His sketches foolishly left out for anyone to find with the unassailable arrogance borne of youth.
Wren didn’t think he’d entirely shed his arrogance, but he liked to think himself a touch more prudent now. This prudence was called into question as his mind fully dissolved into memory, leaving him stunned, silent, and still as stone in the library.
Jolted awake only by Shrike’s hand on his shoulder.
Wren bit back a yelp. He could not altogether suppress his flinch. A floorboard creaked under him.
“Your pardon,” Shrike murmured.
No doubt his words resounded like falling hailstones to fae ears; Wren just barely heard them. Still he didn’t trust his mortal vocal cords to match Shrike’s sotto voce, so he tried to indicate in his responding nod that Shrike had done nothing requiring forgiveness.
They’d confirmed the presence of Wren’s milk teeth in his father’s house by knuckle-bones before they’d set out from Blackthorn Briar. Now that they’d arrived in the house proper they required more precision.
To that end, Shrike produced an acorn from his cloak pocket to fashion a pendulum.
Wren held his breath whilst he waited for Shrike to perform the ritual.
It took scarcely a minute. To Wren, however, that left him with entirely too much time to muse; more than enough for his mind to wander in so potent an atmosphere as this.
He had assumed better of himself, that he cared as little for his father as his father did for him, and that to return to these halls would spark no feeling whatsoever in him.
He’d spared no thought for them in over a decade’s absence.
But in truth, he felt his mother’s presence lingering in the very beams, and the want of it made his chest ache.
The pendulum spun over Shrike’s palm. Then it began to swing. It ceased at an angle that suggested the house didn’t sit quite level, but Wren knew to mean it pointed towards the hall beyond the library.
Shrike met his gaze and nodded.
Wren gathered his courage and led the way deeper into the house.