A Nest Within Briars – Sebastian Nothwell

If Hull believed in him, required him, needed him, he could do no less than rise to the challenge. He steeled his nerve and planted his palms on Hull’s shoulders. While the strength of his arm might not account for much, he knew he was certainly not a slender man, and perhaps the sheer weight of him would make up the lack. “Just so,” said Grytha approvingly, surprising Ephraim again. Without further ado, she took Hull’s limb in her two strong hands and⁠— A strangled groan escaped Hull’s throat.

Ephraim, who hadn’t the nerve really to watch the actual bone-setting, instantly looked to his beloved’s face; the jaw clenched in pain, the eyes screwed shut, the brow knit. His heart couldn’t bear the sight. And yet he forced himself to watch, for if his dear Hull had courage enough to withstand the necessary agonies, Ephraim could hardly do less than bear witness to his stalwart example.

Only once did Hull rear up against his grasp—and Ephraim, determined to do right by him, to do what he needed, to do what he must—leant down with his full weight, and this, mercifully, sufficed. Hull gazed up at him afterwards with a dazed, pain-stricken, yet unmistakably grateful look, and Ephraim’s heart performed a discomforting acrobatic manoeuvre. “You may release him now,” said Grytha, startling Ephraim a third time. Ephraim dared a glance at her handiwork.

The limb was splinted and wrapped tight, so straight and clean one might suppose no bone had ever broken and Hull merely wore a curious sort of stocking. No trace of blood remained, for which Ephraim felt most grateful. And Hull, when Ephraim met his gaze again, appeared very much relieved. Ephraim resisted the urge to press his lips to the beads of sweat blooming on his brow. “Have you crutches or a cane?” Grytha asked, jolting him out of his reverie.

“I’m afraid not,” Ephraim regretfully informed her. Privately, he resolved to make himself more prepared for unfortunate accidents in the future. At present, Grytha seemed unbothered by this lack. She withdrew from her bag a length of wood. A considerable length of wood. A length of wood that no mortal bag of such dimensions could possibly hold. “Ah,” said Ephraim. The branch—for such it had been, stripped of its leaves and twigs and bark though it was now—stood almost as tall as Hull would if he were upright.

Grytha took out a knife from the purse at her belt (commonplace enough, Ephraim supposed, having not the least idea what ladies might typically carry on their person) and a hatchet (which Ephraim did not think quite so commonplace, but then again, he supposed himself hardly an expert in that particular field).

Copyright 2026 Kenneth Henry Cover painting by Deiridaa Cover design by Sleepy Fox Studio Feeding any part of this book into any artificial intelligence or any other form of machine learning for any purpose, commercial or non-commercial, is expressly prohibited. 1kitap1.com/en To my patrons and backers, without whom this book would never exist. 1kitap1.com/en Contents Bruises Bloom in Blackthorn Briar Sentiment Bookseller & Bone-setter The Unveiling of Daniel Durst A Quiet Solstice About the Author 1kitap1.com/en Bruises Bloom in Blackthorn Briar 1kitap1.com/en Author’s Note.

This scene occurs during and immediately after Chapter Thirty-Seven of Oak King Holly King. 1kitap1.com/en B ring him home. Those three words had formed the whole of Shrike’s need from the instant he heard his true name whispered on the wind between realms. Mr Grigsby had at that very moment arisen to fetch down the tea-chest and refill the kettle. In the space of a blink, while the mortal’s back remained turned, Shrike leapt from his chair and dashed from the office. He shifted to his feathered form in the stairwell’s solitude.

Then he flew through the fog to Hyde Park and dove into the toadstool ring to emerge from the well in the Rochester stable-yard. All this passed in mere minutes. To Shrike, it felt like eons. He staggered upright, still in his feathered form, convinced he’d come too late. Rochester lacked the smothering fog that blanketed London. The moon shone bright, casting its silvery rays clear across the town.

More than enough to illumine Shrike’s path to Cemetery Gate. He shot for it swift as an arrow. Shrike. The second whisper shivered through his feathered ears and shuddered down into his bones ‘til it grew barbs in his ribcage that dragged his heart towards the whisperer. If he hadn’t already known where Wren was, he knew for certain now.

Less than a minute of flight lay between the stable-yard and Cemetery Gate. Still not fast enough for Shrike. His wings had never felt so inadequate before. At long last, the gate-house loomed ahead of him. He flitted from window to window, peering in to find his Wren, drawn ever- onward by the whisper in his heart, until⁠— There, upstairs, in Tolhurst’s office, moonlight without and a guttering candle within shone upon his Wren.

Held aloft by his throat in Tolhurst’s grasp. For an instant, Shrike’s heart ceased to beat. Then his blood surged forth with rage the likes of which he’d not felt since the night Larkin died. Shrike flew up beyond the roofline, his heart pounding against his barbed ribs with every feverish wing-beat.

This is a short excerpt from the opening of “” by Unknown, quoted for review and introduction purposes. All rights belong to the copyright holders.

Book Information

• Unique ID: 7a6acf4d341cb5b4
• File Extension: .pdf
• File Size: 725,685 bytes (0.692 MB)
• Title: –
• Author: Unknown
• Pages: 145
• Language: English (en)

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• Estimated Reading Time: 202.14 minutes
• Total Words: 40,428
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