Chapter ONE
Nigel kept waking to the sound of tinkling bells.
It would be better if there were any sort of a rhythm to it. Then, at least, it might blend into the mild dissonance of his dreams. But the intermittence of the tinkling startled him awake again every time. It was enough to drive him mad. Tinkle-tinkle—followed by ten minutes of silence. Then tinkle-tinkle, breath, tinkle-tinkle, pause. Another two minutes. Tinkle-tinkle.
He was going to break something. The bells. The door. His own head against the wall.
His drowsy mind slowly rose through layers of groggy unconsciousness to a space of semi-lucidity. On this plane of existence, anxiety set in. He became more and more convinced that each ring of the bells announced the arrival of some new intruder come to steal his wares. After they raided the cash register, they’d strip the copper from the pipes, and when that was through, they’d make off with the daisies and petunias. Or something. It was all a bit vague, but strangely potent in his sleep-addled imagination.
More than anything, he wished to go back to sleep. For another ten hours at least. Violent coughing had prevented any real rest for days on end, but the cough seemed to have subsided, and if it weren’t for those damnable bells, he could get some real, revivifying rest in the works.
With extreme reluctance, he managed to pry one eye open. His narrow range of vision was taken up almost entirely by the sight of Debbie perched on his bedpost. She, catching his gaze, ruffled her feathers and uttered an enthusiastic, “Never mind!”
“Urrrgh,“
Nigel replied. Not his most eloquent moment. He pushed the heels of his hands into his eye sockets before forcing his aching body upright. “What is going on downstairs?“
he demanded in a rough, scratchy voice he hardly recognized. “I thought I told you to watch over things?”
The raven flapped her wings at him, but otherwise refused to comment.
Nigel growled inarticulately. It occurred to him, quite suddenly, that there was, indeed, something downstairs that was worth far more than the black market price for copper piping.
Garden.
Garden was alone down there. Unprotected. Without even Debbie to stand watch.
A vivid mental picture of his brother loomed large in Nigel’s brain. He could almost see Fabian Grimm, still bristling with wrath after the humiliation he’d suffered at The King’s Crown Hotel, bursting through the doors while Nigel was too sick to defend his territory, bringing with him the shadowy figures of the Brotherhood. They were searching for Garden, after all. And, while Nigel was fairly certain it would take a few months, at least, for Fabian to return from where Nigel had banished him, well . . . that would depend on how much help he was able to solicit from the Brotherhood. Some of those fellows were quite good at transmatterportation spells.
Galvanized to action, Nigel threw back the covers, swung his legs out over the edge of his bed, and promptly fell in a tumble of limbs onto the rag rug-covered floor. There he remained for a full minute, cursing. At length, however, he pulled himself to his feet, snatched the dressing gown from his wardrobe—wouldn’t want to face invaders in his pajamas; a man must have his standards—then stormed down the stairs, his hands already in the act of forming dire sigils. He would blast the Brotherhood into oblivion if they dared infiltrate the sanctuary of his—
Nigel staggered out of the stairwell. And came to an abrupt halt. He found himself facing, not an ominous congregation of Dark Sorcerers, but a gaggle of Silly Young Things.
The Silly Young Things were society misses, one and all. Having taken it into their pretty heads that the tea witch of Addle Street was “just it,“
as they declared in their modish vernacular, these well-dressed, well-manicured, and ever-so daring ladies ventured weekly to The Arcane Bouquet to have their fortunes read. Otherwise, they risked losing standing among their peers.
It was a bit of nonsense which had greatly benefited the shop in every particular, but Nigel had come to dread the Silly Young Things. They were terribly demanding creatures who, every morning since Green Yule, had arrived on his doorstep, pounding at the door, demanding to know when he would reopen for business. With absolutely no consideration for his poor, throbbing head and aching body, languishing upstairs.
This particular trio looked like an advertisement straight from a fashion magazine, with their sleek bobs framed under stylish slouch hats, their lips very red, their thinly-penciled eyebrows expressing mild scorn. To Nigel’s gaze, they were indistinguishable from one another as they stood before him at his counter, staring at him with frank amusement over the rims of steaming teacups.
Teacups.
Teacups.
They were drinking tea.
Tea which he certainly did not make. Tea which certainly did not make itself.
Which meant . . . which meant . . .
“Oh! Mr. Grimm. You’re up and about then, are you?”
Nigel whirled, his dressing gown flaring, to find Miss Luna Talbot emerging from the back passage, the white Whittlewedge teapot in her hands. With a short intake of breath, he grabbed his dressing gown and pulled it shut, shielding her eyes from the sight of his blue-and-white striped pajamas. “Miss Talbot!“
he gasped, and promptly ran out of breath. When he tried to speak again, his voice choked on his poor, raw throat.
He’d not seen her in a week. Not since Green Yule morning, when she’d lain in his arms, wearing her little pink nightgown, her hair all stringy and limp, her face pale with sickness, the stench of fever clinging beneath her gentle perfume of chamomile and lavender. And he had thought her then the most beautiful creature he’d ever seen.
Now she was much more put-together. Still pale, and she’d lost most of the plumpness she’d gained over the last few months. She looked once more like the pinched and underfed creature he’d first met at the end of summer. There were hollows under her eyes, but she seemed to have rubbed some rouge into her cheeks to brighten them up, and her hair bounced with pin curls. She wore one of her neat blouse-and-skirt combos and her green shop apron. His gaze lingered for a moment on the new boots peeking out from under her skirts. A little muddy from sloshing across snow-choked streets, but sturdy, and they would keep her feet dry.
Nigel dragged his gaze back up to her face to find her studying him in return. He must look an absolute sight! His hand flew to his unshaven chin, then to his hair, which stood all askew, like a lunatic escaped from the asylum.
The Silly Young Things at the counter twittered to themselves from behind their teacups.
Luna recovered herself first and took a step toward him, beckoning. “Do come back to the nook, Mr. Grimm,“
she said, “and have a seat. You shouldn’t be on your feet just yet! I’ll finish up at the counter and bring you a nice cup of ginger tea, all right?”
Nigel opened his mouth, ready to protest that Luna was the one who shouldn’t be up and about already. He could not reconcile this image of her with the languishing figure he’d last seen. What if she relapsed? That was a thing that happened, wasn’t it?
But though his mouth opened and closed on a series of half-started protests, he couldn’t quite manage to give voice to any of them. Instead, he found himself ushered back behind the counter and safely into the nook. “Sit now,“
Luna urged him. “I’ll be with you in two ticks.“
Then she pulled the privacy curtain closed with a brisk flick of her wrist.
Nigel sank into the cane chair in front of the stove. Looking down, he realized he was barefoot. He blinked in some surprise, shocked at the sight of his own un-shod feet. How scandalized Miss Talbot must be, seeing him in such an indecent state! He ran both hands down his face, horrified by the growth of beard gone unchecked for days. Perhaps he should escape. Slip back up to his room, bury his head under his covers, and wait for her to leave.
But . . . Luna was just beyond the curtain, talking to her Silly Young Things. Reading their fortunes in tea leaves, no doubt. He could hear more twittering and giggles, and once even Luna’s golden laugh. That sound made his throat swell up, and he was forced to smother another coughing fit.
At last, the shop bells sounded again, announcing the departure of the Silly Young Things. Apparently, business was open. Which is why those bells kept tinkling. It was the sound of customers coming and going. Because Luna was back to work. Right where she belonged.
Nigel listened to the sound of her footsteps, retreating to the kitchen, possibly to make the promised ginger tea. He’d not realized, during the last few days of fever and delirium, how much he’d missed the familiar rhythm of her tread, the warmth of her atmosphere. Now, though the tightness in his lungs wasn’t fully relinquished yet, he felt as though he could breathe easier for the first time in days.
But he still didn’t want her seeing him like this.
Rising, Nigel tightened his dressing gown belt, then pushed back the curtain. All was clear. Now was his chance to flee upstairs. He took a few steps, but paused and looked beyond the counter to the vibrant assortment of flowers. How happy they all looked, particularly the double-delight! They too felt the restorative benefits of Miss Luna Talbot’s return. Everything was swept, the annuals had been deadheaded, the bouquets were freshened. There was a strong, earthy scent of plant food mingling with the perfume of various teas, and all felt very much as it should be.
Nigel released a shaky breath. He’d not realized it until just this moment, but he’d been so . . . afraid. Afraid things would be too different. After that night spent with her in his arms. After those foolish, imbecilic confessions in the darkness just before midnight. After hearing her declare to her roommate that she thought of him as nothing more than a brother. He’d feared everything would change, that the goodness they’d enjoyed, the little bubble of peace and comfort, which enveloped The Arcane Bouquet so long as she was present, would be gone forever. That he’d ruined it by letting his feelings get out of hand.
But she was here. She was back. Bringing with her that goodness, that sweetness, that warmth which made his world a better place. And every living soul in that shop—plant and animal alike—felt it.
Nigel leaned heavily against the counter, suddenly a bit weak in the knees. He licked his dry lips then bit down hard, squeezing his eyes shut. Gods, what a fool he was! Luna was the best thing that had ever happened to him. If he lost her because he couldn’t appreciate the friendship she offered, because he asked for more than she was willing to give . . . well, then he deserved to be cast into the darkest pit of Dire oblivion.
“Brother,“
he whispered fiercely, his scratchy throat tight around the word. “She wants a brother.”
And that’s what he would be. If it meant keeping her around a little longer, that’s what he would be, all he would be. He could do it. For her sake. For the sake of the flowers and the shop and Garden and Debbie. For his own sake too.
Luna appeared from the back passage, carrying in her hands the nice Royal Bastian teapot. “Oh!“
she said, stopping short at the sight of him standing there behind the counter. “Mr. Grimm, you gave me a fright! Why don’t you sit down and have this nice tea? Then, by the looks of you, best get yourself back up to bed.”
“Wh—what are you doing here, Miss Talbot?“
Nigel asked, trying to ignore the way his heart pounded in a most unbrotherly fashion against his breastbone.
Her lips curved in a grin. “Why, I’m here to work, Mr. Grimm. As usual.”
“Did Dr. Bucket say it was all right?”
She snorted softly and lifted the hinged portion of the counter to step through. “Dr. Bucket would prefer to keep me wrapped in cotton for the foreseeable future. But he’s not unreasonable—he knows I’ve got to earn my keep. So he preached caution and signed off on a clean-ish bill of health.”
Nigel would have liked to preach a cautious sermon of his own, only he didn’t seem to have the lung-capacity at the moment. At Luna’s urging, he allowed himself to be drawn back to the cane chair, despite every instinct to flee and hide his disheveledness from her sight. Luna set down the teapot in its cozy, then slipped out from behind the counter, hastening across the shop floor. She locked the front door and flipped the sign to CLOSED. “Just for tea,“
she explained. “Something tells me it wouldn’t be good for business if our regulars were to see you like this. Of course, we can’t stop the Silly Young Things from spreading tales. But in their circles, the possibility of glimpsing a handsome lunatic will only drive more of them our way. They’re very into reading gothic novels these days.”
Nigel’s ear caught on the word “handsome.“
With an effort, he wrenched it back again in bloody tatters. Because what she meant by handsome was most definitely not what he wanted her to mean by handsome, and he wasn’t about to let himself start getting ideas and, oh, gods! Was that tea ready yet or not?
Luna ventured to the kitchen and returned moments later with two teacups and saucers. She poured from the Royal Bastian pot and handed Nigel his cup. Lifting it to his nose, he inhaled a powerful blast of ginger that put tears in his eyes.
“I never get sick, you know,“
he said in shameless contradiction of the obvious truth.
“Are you quite sure about that, Mr. Grimm?“
Luna asked with a tipped eyebrow.
“Never. Not a day in my life.”
Her other eyebrow rose to join the first.
“My father didn’t believe in sickness,“
Nigel continued, staring down at the brew in his cup. “Which meant, therefore, neither of his sons could be sick. It simply wasn’t acceptable.”
Luna considered this as she stirred a bit of honey into her own cup. “You do realize,“
she said gently, “that sickness isn’t a moral failing, don’t you?”
“Try telling my old man that.”
She took a sip of her tea, held it on her tongue for a few moments before swallowing. Then: “It seems to me as though your father expected rather a lot of you.”
“In point of fact,“
Nigel said, still watching how his tea whirled in his cup, “my father expected very little of me. And generally got what he expected.“
He paused a moment, lifting the cup from its saucer and raising it to his lips. “I fear I was a disappointing son.”
He took a sip. Spicy ginger and sweet honey mingled on his palate, slid down his raw throat. There was a sort of magic to it. Green Magic, wrought by Luna herself. Perhaps not as potent as Dr. Bucket’s poultices and nasty, bitter medicines, but far more pleasant.
Still looking into his cup, he found his voice unexpectedly loosened. “Dad wanted me to pursue the study of Green Magic, you know. Not in any academic capacity—the old man had no use for academia. But it was almost as though, the more he pushed me away from it, the more enamored I grew with the idea of sorcery. At first, if I’m honest, it was just because of Fabian and the crowd he ran with, but . . . in time, it became more than that. Much more.”
Why was he talking like this? Perhaps he still had a touch of fever. Perhaps he ought to gulp down the rest of his tea and go to bed. But Luna was watching him, her dark eyes solemn as she took small sips of her tea. And he felt strangely compelled to continue.
“When I first began to dabble in those initial, low-level spells, it was as though . . . as though something unlocked inside me. Some version of myself I’d never known existed, who had power and agency and terrible potential. It was that, more than anything, which drew me. The idea that maybe I’d found a way to be something. Something more than a perpetual disappointment.“
He took another sip, closing his eyes as the warm liquid soothed his throat. “When I received a full-ride scholarship for undergrad, I thought it might get through to Dad, somehow. Force him to see that I was worth the food he’d fed me, the roof he’d sheltered me under, the effort and inconvenience of my presence and being. That I was worth . . .”
He couldn’t finish. He couldn’t say what he really meant: “Worth the death of my mother, bringing me into this world.“
But the words hung in the air, almost as though they were spoken out loud. And when he dared glance up and catch Luna’s watchful gaze, he couldn’t help thinking that she’d heard them too, somehow. Heard them and understood.
Luna was no longer drinking her tea. She held the still-steaming cup in front of her, her face very solemn, her body very still.
“Well, never mind,“
Nigel said at last, staring into his own cup. “In the end, Dad was only ever more and more disappointed.“
He shrugged. “Sometimes, I wonder what would have happened if I’d pursued Green Magic, like he wanted me to. But I have no aptitude for it, and that would have disappointed him just as much, if not more so. In some ways, it was easier choosing sorcery. Easier to pursue the path I knew would anger the old man. Better to disappoint him on purpose than to try to please him and fail.”
He felt Luna’s gaze upon him. He didn’t have to look at her directly to notice the familiar stern line which had settled across her brow.
Nigel ran a hand down his face, then set the remainder of his tea aside on a little table. “Gods,“
he murmured, shaking his head. “This is why I shouldn’t ever be sick. Blathering on like this. Please, forgive me, Miss Talbot.”
A moment of silence passed, during which Nigel found himself unexpectedly fascinated by the subtle celestial pattern embroidered into his silk dressing gown—the swirl of stars and moons and planets and other, stranger heavenly bodies, all picked out with needle and thread. He traced the pad of his finger along the tail of a shooting star, idly wondering if it would ever make contact with the nearby moon and cause a sartorial cataclysm.
A hand came to rest on his shoulder.
Nigel caught his breath. Only a few thin layers of dressing gown and striped pajamas separated her skin from his, and yet he felt the barrier most keenly. But it could not stop the shock of electricity racing straight from her palm to his core.
“It seems to me,“
Luna said softly, “that it must be quite a burden to go through life trying to please a man who does not wish to be pleased.”
Nigel tried to speak. But his sick brain couldn’t seem to invent the words needed, even if he could force them out past the lump of his heart jammed in his throat. He turned his head, stared at the sight of those slim, white fingers, sharply contrasted against blue silk.
“But you know what I think is worse?“
she continued softly, still without removing her hand.
“What?“
Nigel managed to whisper.
“To be a father so incapable of seeing his own son clearly.”
“Oh.“
Nigel closed his eyes, his head bowing. The muscle in his jaw tensed to the point of pain. “My father saw me clearly enough, I fear. Better than I saw myself.”
“And just how clearly do you see yourself, Mr. Grimm?”
He eased a slow breath through his nostrils. “Unfortunately, life has forced me to take a good, long, hard look at myself in a very dark mirror.“
He paused a moment before adding, “The revelations which followed will haunt me for a lifetime.”
He rose then. Her hand slipped away from his shoulder, which he felt like a physical wrenching. But it was just as well. He couldn’t let himself indulge in even that simple comfort. He could grow to depend on it, might learn to read into it. And that wasn’t fair. To either of them.
He picked up his tea, finished it in a gulp, then handed cup and saucer to Luna. “Don’t bother looking into my future, Miss Talbot,“
he said. “I already have a pretty good idea what it holds.”
Luna’s gaze flicked briefly down into his cup then away again, respecting his stated wish for privacy. “Your immediate future,“
she said, looking into his eyes with an expression of calm practicality, “ought to be your dose. Mrs. Goddard left it measured out for you on the nightstand and told me to remind you. Then sleep. I’ll keep the shop running through the afternoon, no worries.”
Nigel hesitated. Something about Luna bidding him to bed was doing something to his innards which it really oughtn’t to be doing under these specific circumstances, but . . . his innards seemed to have a mind of their own.
“Shouldn’t you be in bed yourself?“
he asked. Then, realizing the possible implication of the words, hastily added, “At home, I mean. In your bed. That is . . .“
He forced himself to maintain perfectly professional eye-contact. “You’re still recovering, after all.”
Luna lifted one shoulder. “If I start to feel tired, I’ll close up early. Truth is, I can’t bear to sit in that garret room any longer! I’d much rather be here, if it’s all the same to you.”
He would much rather she was here as well. Always. Forever. If he could prevent her from returning to Mrs. Boggs’s Boardinghouse for Young Women of Good Character, if he could wrap her up in his arms and keep her with him, he would.
Resisting temptation, he put both arms behind his back, left hand clasping his right wrist firmly. “Very well,“
he said, “but only on the condition that you will allow me to call you a taxi after closing. We can’t have you walking back all that way in this weather.”
Her mouth tried but failed to repress a little grin. The skin around her eyes crinkled. “You drive a mean bargain, Mr. Grimm.”
“Well, you know me. Hardnosed, intractable.”
“That’s what all your employees say about you, yes.”
“Do they?”
“All the time. Behind your back.”
“Gossipy bunch, aren’t they?”
“They just call it like they see it.”
“I should fire half of them to maintain order.”
“Good idea. Put the fear of the gods right to the heart of them. Display the iron fist of the master and all that.”
“Or possibly sponsor a company tea party?”
“Hmmm, a more subtle tactic. But your employees have been known to perform well for tea.”
Nigel couldn’t quite keep a straight face at this. He snorted. Then Luna broke character entirely and laughed outright, that golden laugh of hers, which made his heart execute a series of loop-de-loops in his chest. It was all he could do not to reach for her, to pull her close, to hold onto that warmth and sweetness which emanated from her soul and which he craved more than sunlight and air. Hands still behind his back, he squeezed the bones of his right wrist to the point of breaking, desperate to keep from doing something disastrously foolish—
“Never mind!“
Debbie croaked ominously from her skull-pot, startling them both.
The next instant, a knock sounded at the door.
Luna turned. Her eyes widened. A little, “Oh!“
sprang to her lips.
Nigel didn’t have to look. Somehow, he already knew, before he even turned his head, who he would find standing at the door of The Arcane Bouquet. It was like destiny—an inescapable fate to which he probably ought to resign himself. If he’d peered into his teacup moments ago, he probably could have seen it foretold in the dregs.
But this knowledge in no way eased the sudden eruption of roiling hot wrath in his gut.
Nigel swiveled his gaze sideways, forced himself to look.
There, leaning his forehead against the glass of the shop door window, one hand cupped around his handsome face to better see inside, dimples on full display, stood Ward the Wardsman.