Chapter NINE
“If I were a countess,“
Luna muttered as she buttoned up her work blouse and tucked it into the waistband of her skirt, “and I found myself trapped in my fiancé’s house, full of my fiancé’s guests, and I wanted more than anything to get away for a chance to recover my composure . . . where would I go?”
When it came to your regular, run-of-the-mill countesses, the answer wasn’t very clear. But based on what she knew of Countess Claudine d’Ackerley . . . she had a pretty good guess.
Luna shrugged into her coat, tightened the laces of her boots, and firmly zipped the Rowdy House costume into its garment bag. She wasn’t ready to give up. Not yet. Not completely. She couldn’t bear to look back on this night, with all its layered embarrassments, and not have the satisfaction of knowing she’d accomplished her mission. Mr. Grimm should be well on his way by now, and the wardsmen seemed to have given up their search.
She would make one last attempt, so help her Green Mother.
The party was still in full swing, and the attention of the household staff very much concentrated on keeping up with the demands of the innumerable guests. Which made sneaking out the back way much easier than sneaking in had been. Luna, divested of her Rowdy House finery, felt all but invisible as she made her way from the dressing room back to the kitchens. She crept along the passage, keeping her head down and her shoulders hunched, but it was hardly necessary. Footmen and waitresses—proper waitresses, without secret bustiers glittering underneath their staid blouses—bustled back and forth with scarcely a glance her way.
The kitchens themselves were positively crawling with activity. Luna’s only real problem was ducking and dodging around the surplus of bodies on her way to the back door. She hoped Mr. Grimm had managed it easily enough and was even now making his way home.
She paused suddenly.
Her gaze swiveled to one side.
There, on a preparation table, waiting to be carried out in stately procession, stood the most glorious tea set she had ever seen in all her born days. Royal Bastian—the Queen Edna pattern. Black chintz with pale pink roses and gilt trimming, absolutely exquisite in design and proportion, and so thin, one could see the light shining right through. She’d never seen so much Queen Edna porcelain in one place before. It was expensive. Auntie Aurora owned a single, small dessert plate in that pattern, and it was never to be used, always displayed in a place of prominence right in the center of the hutch. To see an entire set of it, without a chip or crack in sight . . . it was enough to make Luna’s tea-loving heart perform a little flip.
It also gave her an idea.
Moving swiftly, before someone could interfere, she selected a cup, poured a serving of nice black tea—Twiglings brand, she guessed by the smell—added a whisper of sugar and a splash of milk. Then, supporting the teacup carefully on its saucer, she slipped around the perimeter of the kitchen, out the back door, and into the snowy courtyard. Long ribbons of pale tea-steam trailed behind her as she made her way hastily along the drive, her destination firmly in mind: Lord Bruxley’s stables.
Luna was not particularly comfortable around horses. Her aunties kept an old, flea-bitten gray mare named Gwendolyn Astoria, and she and Luna got on well enough that Luna could drive her little cart to town once a week without incident. But that was the extent of Luna’s equine experience.
Still, there was something undeniably comforting about the earthiness of stable smells. Yes, it made her nose twitch and her eyes itch, but in such a familiar, homely sort of way. Though these stables were certainly a thing removed from the little stable behind Tealeaf Cottage. They exuded pure wealth, and the noble beasts, who lifted their heads to peer at her from behind stall doors were like mythical beings, such exquisite specimens of their kind. Luna felt as though she made her way through the halls of some sort of temple, so hushed and worshipful was the atmosphere of this place. And yet, that smell kept her grounded.
The Royal Bastian teacup rattling softly in its saucer, Luna crept down the aisle, calling softly as she went. “Countess? Countess d’Ackerley? I’ve brought you a spot of tea. Are you here, Countess?”
A black horse with a white blaze stuck its head over its door and flicked its ears her way. It was followed a moment later by the countess’s own severely aristocratic face, which somehow felt like the human mirror of the horse. She no longer wore her starburst headdress, but little stars gleamed in the perfectly-coiffed coils of her dark hair. Her face was wet with tears. No streaks of makeup, Luna noticed—which meant the countess probably used illegal, sorcerous cosmetics, not an uncommon practice among the upper crust. Ladies of quality couldn’t risk the indignity of smeared mascara after a good cry.
The countess’s brow formed a stern line as she took in Luna. “I know you, don’t I?“
she said with just a trace of uncertainty. Her accent was so exceedingly clipped, it could cut flesh if she weren’t careful.
Luna dropped a little curtsy. She wasn’t sure if one was supposed to curtsy for countesses, but figured it couldn’t hurt. “I’m Luna Talbot,“
she said. “We met once, at . . . at The Arcane Bouquet. The flower shop.“
She hesitated. “You were searching for a certain flower to help with . . . with a certain difficulty. And I gave you tea instead.”
For a moment, the line in the countess’s brow deepened. Then, suddenly, it cleared away as recognition dawned in her face. “Ah, yes! The tea witch. I remember you. You read my fortune.“
The line returned again, deeper than before, and the countess’s eyes flashed. “You told me I would be happy. You told me I would be surrounded by those who loved me.”
With those words, she withdrew back into the stable. The horse caught Luna’s eye, whuffled softly, then turned away as well.
“Um.“
Luna hurried over and peered around the stall door, still holding the teacup in one hand. The countess, heedless of her glorious silver gown, had her arms wrapped around the neck of the black steed, which patiently munched fresh hay from its box, tail swishing. The countess was crying again, so very elegantly. Her voice made an actual, “boo hoo“
sound, only somehow, it was exceedingly posh. Luna couldn’t summon half that much poshness in the depths of despair if she tried.
“Did you . . .“
Luna bit her lip, then pressed on. “Did you not feel love from your friends tonight?”
“What friends?“
the countess sniffed, before turning her head to glare at Luna once more. “I supposed it’s my own fault for seeking out an oracle in Eastside. You only told me what I wanted to hear!”
Luna swallowed and looked down at the tea in the Royal Bastian cup. It wasn’t steaming as much, and she feared it would be quite cold soon. “The truth is, Countess,“
she admitted, “I didn’t tell you everything I saw. I . . . didn’t want to influence you unduly. But what I told you was the truth. I did see you happy.”
“How can I be happy?“
Countess d’Ackerley stroked her horse’s black neck, detangling its long mane with her manicured fingers. “Lord Bruxley does not love me. I know that now. Soon after I visited you, he began to pay me attention, and I thought all my dreams were coming true. At last! The finest horseman in the Wilkeringson’s Equine Club had recognized in me his equal, his mate! Together, I believed, we would build the finest stables in all Brython, and the dynasty we would create would change the nature of thoroughbred hunter breeding forever.”
While Luna couldn’t wholeheartedly enter into the spirit of this specific dream, she admired passion wherever she encountered it. And the countess was nothing if not passionate.
“You know,“
Luna said softly, “you don’t have to marry Lord Bruxley to . . . to accomplish those things. You don’t need him. You never did.”
“I know that.“
The countess sniffed and wiped a smear-free tear from her cheek. “But to face the world alone . . .“
She shuddered. “You may laugh at me if you wish—”
“I’m not laughing.”
“—the woman who has everything. Money enough to buy friends, servants, even family if necessary. To buy the perfect husband. And yet, the idea of facing all the knocks this life has to offer on my own, to the end of my days, well . . . it frightens me.”
“But you won’t be alone!“
Luna took a step forward and held the teacup over the stable door. “Please, Countess. Drink this, and I will tell you what I see. In full this time. I promise. I won’t hold anything back.”
The countess looked down her nose. It was a long look; it was a long nose. “And why should I trust you?”
“No reason, I suppose,“
Luna admitted. “But when I saw that announcement in the society papers, I knew at once the man in the picture with you was not the one I saw in your teacup.”
“Wait.“
The countess frowned. “You saw someone in my cup? You didn’t tell me.”
Luna felt her cheeks pinking. “I didn’t want to influence you too much. It’s . . . it’s the burden of the tea witch, trying to decide what to share, what not to. But I promise you, this time, I will tell you everything. The whole truth. Whatever it is.”
Countess d’Ackerley looked unconvinced. She did, however, accept the teacup. As the contents were well cooled by now, she drank the whole thing down in a few gulps, then handed cup and saucer back to Luna. There wasn’t much by way of dregs left—whoever prepared the pot had done a thorough job of straining, which made Luna’s task more difficult. But she could make do. Swirling the dregs clockwise thrice and counter twice, she peered inside. Her brow tightened as an image slowly, slowly came into view. “Oh!“
she said. “This is . . . different from the last one I saw.”
“Really?“
The countess did not sound particularly impressed. “Well, go on.”
“I see . . . a man. Coming into these very stables.“
She blinked again, because she recognized this man. It was the same round, red-faced little fellow she’d glimpsed in the countess’s teacup all those weeks ago, when she’d first started work at The Arcane Bouquet. But in this vision, he was wearing quite a nice tuxedo as he strode into the stables and walked right up to the countess. Who was wearing a silver dress. Which meant . . .
Oh, gods. This future was imminent.
Luna looked up sharply, her lips parting. “There’s a man on his way,“
she said. “Right now, in the next minute or so. It’s . . . it’s very important that you speak with him.”
The countess’s eyebrows rose. “Lord Bruxley?”
“No. Not Lord Bruxley.”
“What else did you see?”
“Nothing, I swear. But please, Countess, you must—”
She didn’t get a chance to finish. Because just then, the door at the end of the aisle opened. Luna looked, saw a figure entering: short, round, elegantly tuxedoed.
“Oh!“
Luna gasped. She herself was not in the vision glimpsed, which meant she needed to make herself scarce. Hastily, she darted into the stall alongside the countess and the black horse.
“Oh, I say,“
a man’s voice called out in that gentle, don’t-want-to-startle-the-horses tone of a true equestrian. “Is someone there?”
“Go on, go on!“
Luna hissed, motioning to the countess.
The woman gave another very long look down her very long nose. Then, lifting her chin, she swept from the stall, quite glorious in her silver getup, and stood towering over the man who approached.
“Excuse me!“
said he, sounding quite startled. “I did not expect anyone to be here.”
“Nor I,“
the countess answered with great dignity. “Which is why I came out here in the first place.”
“Did you not wish to be disturbed?“
the man asked politely.
“It would appear disturbance is unavoidable at this late stage.”
Luna cringed. This was not how she would have pictured a meet-cute happening between the two of them. But she held onto the memory of that original teacup vision: the countess and this round little fellow, surrounded by children and smiles. And she held her breath.
“I only stopped in,“
the man said, “because I wanted to check on Fly By Night’s Fancy.”
“Oh?“
Here, the countess sounded somewhat intrigued. “A magnificent creature, a new acquisition of Lord Bruxley’s. Do you know her?”
“Know her? I bred her!“
the gentleman declared.
The countess gasped. Actually gasped. Out loud. Luna couldn’t see her from where she hid, but she could almost picture the hand which suddenly clutched the aristocratic breast. “You are responsible for that exquisite beast?”
“Why, yes I am. Huntley’s the name. Gerald Huntley.”
“Huntley of Huntlingwise Horsemanship? Why, you’re the owner of Night Zephyr’s Call!”
“That I am. Three time Plymian Pleasure Horse Grand National Champion. He’s the sire of Fly By Night’s Fancy, you know.”
“Oh, I know, I know indeed! I am an avid follower of Wilkeringson’s Equine Club magazine. I keep track of all Night Zephyr’s Call crosses. Who was the dam?”
What followed was a series of horse-talk which left Luna completely in the dust. But she smiled to herself, looking down at the empty teacup. Was her presence here tonight at all necessary? Perhaps not. That meeting between the countess and Gerald Huntley was bound to take place the moment the countess fled to the stables following her embarrassment. But maybe having a tea witch’s encouragement helped in some small way.
The two of them were wandering deeper into the stables now in search of Fly By Night’s Fancy. Luna, with a nod to her black horse companion—who chewed hay at her in response—slipped out of the stall. She set the Royal Bastian teacup down on a convenient barrel and crept out of the stables, back into the cold night air. She couldn’t say whether she felt her work here tonight worth all the effort . . . but it was gratifying to see the countess fall into such animated chatter with the round-faced gentleman.
“I hope you’ll build a marvelous dynasty of thoroughbred hunters,“
Luna whispered, casting a last glance back at the stables. Then she hurried on through the night to the back gate. There she nodded with confidence to the gate guard, calling out a cheery, “Good night!“
He did not stop her, merely nodded back, and she slipped out of Bruxley’s grounds and onto the cold sidewalk of the posh neighborhood. The minute she was out of sight of the gate, she bent over, rested her hands on her knees, and breathed out a sigh of relief.
Then she looked up. Saw the figure leaning against the nearest streetlamp. Clad in an elegant tuxedo and a long overcoat. The light gleamed on pale hair and revealed a pair of perpetually sad blue eyes.
“Mr. Grimm,“
Luna said, drawing herself up straight. She stuffed her gloved hands into her pockets and trudged toward him, her breath curling in the air between them. “I thought you long gone by now. You didn’t have to wait around for me, you know.”
“I wanted to make certain you got out all right.“
His gaze swept over her, taking in her too-thin winter coat and lingering a moment on her nice, sturdy boots. “Did you see the countess then?“
he asked, lifting his eyes back to her face.
Luna nodded.
“And did you set everything to rights?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know about that, but . . . but I do believe everything’s going to turn out the way it should.“
She bounced on her toes, shrugging her shoulders up to her cold ears. “I probably ought to trust the visions I see to work themselves out on their own. My aunties would scold the hide off me for trying to interfere with fate!”
Though Mr. Grimm’s expression conveyed a heartfelt agreement with the scolding aunties, he was far too much of a gentleman to speak it out loud. He merely nodded, before asking, “Would you like to take the trolley home?”
“Yes,“
Luna said. “And I’ll pay my own fare this time.“
He opened his mouth to protest, but she cut him off. “No, I insist! You paid for my cab last night, and that was exceedingly generous of you. I won’t accept any more.“
She crossed her arms. “A girl has her pride, after all.”
Mr. Grimm pressed his lips tightly together. Then, with a nod and a wave of one arm, he said, “I’ll walk you to the trolley stop.”
They strolled together along the cold, wintry streets, away from the light and music and madness of Bruxley Hall and the elegant neighborhood with its symmetrical trees. They didn’t talk much, but a comfortable sort of silence existed between them. Strangely comfortable, considering the events of the day.
Luna blushed, tucking her face down behind her scarf. Something had happened in that hideous, dark little space in the undercroft, but . . . she couldn’t remember what. She remembered the darkness. The closed-in-ness. She remembered struggling to breathe, and somehow, Mr. Grimm had helped her with it. Beyond that? Nothing but a blur. Until suddenly, she was breathing again. Sitting in that tiny space, across from Mr. Grimm. Unable to see him even a little bit in that absolute darkness. And he was talking to her in that calm, measured way of his. Answering her questions. Meeting her quips with mildly sarcastic jabs of his own. Offering reassurance and presence enough to distract her from what should have been unbearable circumstances. No slammed taxi-cab door in the face. Just ready assistance and support and . . . and brotherly goodwill.
And she was deeply ashamed of herself for how much she needed it.
Green Mother save me, she thought, as she kicked little drifts of snow with the toes of her new boots. You can’t do this! You can’t let yourself depend on this man.
She thought again of that brief glimpse of his eyes—black as onyx. Of the strange, deadly shape his fingers patterned over Lord Bruxley. Of the wardsmen and their sensors. That had been a narrow escape. Much too narrow. What would have happened if the wardsmen had caught her, had incarcerated her? What would have happened if she’d been unable to get away? Because eventually, the phantoms were going to close in again, and if she was trapped, if she was at their mercy . . .
She bit down hard on her lower lip, trying not to let that thought fully form. It wouldn’t do her any good to dwell on what hadn’t happened.
Then again, neither could she allow herself to grow so comfortable, so complacent.
They reached the trolley stop at King Kybald Row. The little shelter was empty, and she and Mr. Grimm sat alone, waiting for the trolley to clatter and chug its way down its thaumatically charged line. They’d sat here once before, her first week on the job. Luna folded her hands tight, remembering that evening. It was the first time she’d seen Mr. Grimm revealed in his sorcerous form. A brief glimpse, but one which she would do well not to forget.
Mr. Grimm sat very still beside her. Silent, which was not uncharacteristic for him. Her own silence had lasted too long, however. It began to feel a bit awkward.
“So,“
she said, filling the cold air with the sound of her voice, “did you have a chance to try one of those cheese puffs? At the party, I mean.”
“No.”
“I didn’t either.“
She sighed. “But they smelled absolutely heavenly. It was torture, carrying around a whole plate of them and not getting even a single bite! I was halfway tempted to duck behind one of those potted florals and inhale the whole plateful myself.”
“Miss Talbot,“
Mr. Grimm said abruptly and turned toward her. His eyes were bright in the glow of the shelter’s lamp. Too bright, almost glassy. Like he still had a touch of fever. “There was something I wanted to say to you—”
“No, no, Mr. Grimm.“
Luna held up both hands sharply, cutting him off. “I know. I know what you’re going to say.”
“You do?”
“Yes. It was extremely impulsive of me to go breaking into that party, putting us both at risk. I am ashamed of my behavior. I should have ducked out of there the minute I saw those wardsmen! But I promise you, for as long as I stay on at The Arcane Bouquet, I will do better. I won’t draw any attention our way from the SSSD. I know how much Garden means to you, and I wouldn’t compromise it for anything!“
She drew a breath, trying to steady the uncomfortable flutter in her belly. “I hope you’ll forgive me. For everything. For my beastliness this morning. For my foolishness tonight. I hope we can . . . get back to the way things were before.”
She didn’t add: “Before I woke up in my bed wrapped in your arms. And felt, for the first time in I don’t know how long, perfectly safe.”
Because that wasn’t something she needed to be saying. Ever.
After another too-long silence, Mr. Grimm cleared his throat. “Good,“
he said, his voice a little rough still. From the pneumonia, probably. “I . . . I suppose we understand each other then.”
“Yes,“
Luna answered firmly. “I suppose we do.”
The trolley appeared moments later, huffing and puffing to a stop in front of the shelter. The conductor stepped down and scowled at them, as though they were solely responsible for his being out in this ungodly weather. Luna fetched the fare from her purse, paid for her ticket, then turned to Mr. Grimm. “Are you coming?”
“No.“
He shook his head and shoved his hands deep into his overcoat pockets. “I’d rather walk.”
The man seemed to have a phobia against riding with her on trolleys. Luna set her jaw, but nodded. There wasn’t any use in arguing with him. If he wanted to freeze that nice bum of his right off, why shouldn’t he? It was his bum, after all. “All right,“
she said. “See you tomorrow then.”
“Tomorrow, Miss Talbot.”
She climbed up the little stairs, made her way down the half-empty aisle, and chose a seat on the near side, where the window looked out on the stop shelter. Mr. Grimm stood illuminated by the lamp, hands in his pockets, shoulders shrugged up to his ears. Watching her from behind his scarf.
“All aboard!“
the conductor called out superfluously. The trolley lurched into motion. Luna raised one hand, waving out the window, even as her breath fogged the glass. But Mr. Grimm did not respond. He merely stood there, watching her go, until the trolley carried her out of sight.