Chapter TEN
Nigel woke to the scent of chamomile-lavender in his nose, the image of a sparkly bustier fitted snugly to soft feminine curves in his head, and certain parts of his anatomy not behaving as decorously as one might wish.
With a growl, he rolled out of bed and staggered, still half-asleep, to the bathroom. His hands fumbled for the shower taps. While the pipes choked out an icy stream, he stripped off his pajamas, drew a deep breath, then took the plunge. “Gods!“
he yelped as the frigid deluge hit him full blast. “Damn!“
he added for good measure, before gritting his teeth and submitting to self-inflicted torture.
It took some time, but eventually, the blood-freezing flow produced the desired effect. Nigel stood there a little longer, just to be certain, then climbed, shivering from the shower. His teeth chattered, and his lips were a bit blue around the edges when he peered at his reflection in the mirror. This little maneuver was probably not the best choice following a recent bout of pneumonia, but at least it seemed to have worked out the worst of his body’s early-morning inclinations. He should be able to keep himself under better regulation now.
He met his haggard gaze in the glass . . .
. . . and felt the remembered pressure of her hand on the back of his neck . . .
. . . drawing his face down, down . . .
. . . until his forehead touched hers, and their noses brushed against each other, and . . .
“Get it together, Grimm!“
he snarled.
Then turned around and sprang back into the shower for another arctic plunge.
When he emerged for the second time, he stood before the glass once more and gave himself a stern look. “She had a panic attack,“
he said, enunciating the words slowly, as though to an idiot. “And you almost kissed her. She couldn’t breathe, and you nearly took advantage of her. Far worse than anything damnable Bruxley did or tried!“
He grimaced and drew a long breath through his teeth. “You will do better. You will treat her with respect. And you will keep your head in order.”
So saying, he proceeded to dress, buttoning up his waistcoat and fastening his cufflinks with all the solemnity of a knight donning armor for battle. Debbie eyed him dubiously from her perch on the bedpost. When he turned to face her, she clacked her beak at him.
“I know,“
Nigel answered. He couldn’t quite meet her eye. “I’ve got it under control.”
“Never mind,“
she answered dryly.
“Yes, well, thanks for the vote of confidence.“
Straightening his tie and smoothing his waistcoat, Nigel drew himself up straight. “Shall we?“
he said, offering an arm.
Debbie fluttered from her bedpost, and sank her talons into his sleeve. Nigel turned and descended the stairs into the shop and whatever the day would hold. All the flowers seemed to turn and look at him as he emerged from the stairwell. There was something faintly accusatory in all their pretty gazes. Had they been talking? Surely no rumor of last night’s intrigues could have reached them?
“Good morning, all,“
Nigel said with a curt nod. He deposited Debbie on her skull-pot, then set about the morning routine in a brisk, efficient manner—sweeping, feeding, deadheading, freshening. All business as usual. Because that’s all today would be. Just another day in The Arcane Bouquet. Luna would arrive soon, call out her cheery greeting, and he would respond politely. They would serve their customers, and they would not mention anything that took place between them, and he would not remember the sensation of her soft skin under his palm, the sweetness of her breath on his face, the beat of her heart against his—
A shadow fell across the window in the door.
Nigel nearly fumbled the bottle of Mama Morgana’s Miracle Spritzer in his grasp. Throat tightening, he spun on heel. His heart made one last frantic thump, then stopped entirely.
That silhouette. That hat, those pin-curls.
The sound of her key in the lock.
“Oh, gods,“
he breathed.
The next moment, he spun on heel, flight mode activated. “Never mind?“
Debbie called out as he slammed the spritzer bottle on the desk. Nigel didn’t bother to answer, but darted into the passage and the back storage room, where he snatched the hidden key from where it lay in a clay, polka-dot pot. Even as the shop bells tinkled, even as Luna’s voice called out her cheery, “Hullooo, Mr. Grimm! I’m here!“
he unlocked the boiler room door and yanked it open. There he hesitated for just a moment, at war with himself.
Then, coward that he was, he called out over his shoulder: “I’ll be in Garden for the morning, Miss Talbot. Open up the shop and keep things running, will you?”
Without waiting for an answer, he darted through the door, slammed it shut behind him, and sped into Garden’s depths. He kept on running for as long as Garden would unfurl the path before him, and would have run farther still, only the path stopped abruptly.
And Nigel found himself standing on the edge of a Dire-blighted field.
He staggered to a halt, breathing hard. His gaze swept over the field, which seemed, in that moment, very broad indeed. The soil here was dry and gray, without any trace of life. And bulging out from that deadness were great lumps of rotten Dire Matter. All the converted energy, summoned by both Jastira and himself in their final confrontation, unused and left to spoil.
Nigel exhaled a long breath. Though he’d spent the better part of the last few years reclaiming Garden from the brink of disaster, there were still many stretches like this one. Scars, bearing testimony to the battle which took place here.
In truth, Nigel was as much to blame as Jastira herself for the decimation of his father’s great work. When he summoned those spells to challenge her, he’d had to source the power from somewhere—and the only power source equal to the task was Garden itself. But Garden, recognizing Nigel, had given its power to him freely. He’d not been obliged to wrench it by force, and this alone had given him the advantage he needed. This alone allowed him to triumph over the Shadowbane Lady, to cast her from this world forever and banish her through that Void Gate. But at such a cost.
Nigel drew his shoulders back. Then, stripping out of his jacket, unfastening his cufflinks, and rolling up his sleeves, he called out, “Wheelbarrow!”
A rusty creak behind him. The next instant, Alfred P. Grimm’s ancient and enchanted wheelbarrow nudged his hip.
“Right,“
Nigel said, and reached into the big barrel. He pulled from its depths first a spade, then a pair of leather gloves. “Let’s see what we can do about this mess, shall we?”
It was long, arduous, backbreaking work. Exactly what he needed today. Again and again, Nigel shoved the spade down deep, driving it in with all the force of his back and shoulders, before adding the pressure of his foot. He felt resistance from the large, black, chunks of rotten sorcerous material, but he found the right angle and, gritting his teeth, forced boulder after boulder out from the ground. These he gathered, chucking them into the wheelbarrow until he’d accumulated quite a mound. Then he hauled them away to be disposed of before returning for another round. And another. And another.
By the time he was filling the wheelbarrow for the fifth round, Nigel had stripped away his waistcoat and shirt, and worked in his undershirt and suspenders. His body was covered in sweat, and his nice linen trousers were definitely the worse for wear. Not for the first time, he wondered whether he ought to invest in a pair of coveralls, such as his father used to wear. But . . . ugh. Surely some standards are worth maintaining, whatever the inconvenience.
Gripping the handles of the wheelbarrow yet again, Nigel heaved it into motion. Garden opened straight paths before his feet, leading him to the boundary’s edge. Being enchanted, the wheelbarrow could easily cart the rocks on its own without Nigel’s input, but, somehow, Nigel felt he owed that extra effort. The sweat of his brow, the ache of his muscles. It was the least he could offer after the damage he’d wrought.
So he wheeled his load on through an ever-shifting array of blossoms until he came at last to the farthest-most border of this little realm his father had created. Here the bounty and beauty of Garden gave way to a strange, gray, in-between-ness. An interdimensional space, full of nothing but pure potential. Had Alfred P. Grimm lived to the fullness of his years, he would have extended Garden’s boundaries much deeper into that in-between-ness. Now it formed a firm cut-off.
Nigel parked the wheelbarrow and proceeded to haul out Dire lumps. He’d once attempted to dump the lot over the edge, but the pull of that in-between-space was tremendous, and he’d nearly lost the wheelbarrow in the process. These days, he knew to keep a little back and heave the lumps, one at a time. He was a lot stronger than he used to be. When he first began this labor, following his incarceration, he’d not been able to manage more than a single small load each day. And he would crawl into his bed at night, muscles screaming, and feel the weakness in both his body and soul. Life as an academic had made him soft.
He’d toughened up since then. Now he could manage multiple loads per day and heave large, heavy stones over the edge without a thought. The physical labor was good—the right distraction he needed just now, and he put his back to it with a will, hauling and hurling, watching those ugly, rotten chunks of sorcerous material sink into the gray and vanish.
He was just finishing up the last couple of chunks, when something caught the periphery of his attention. Frowning, he turned to see . . . nothing. Because there was nothing visible. Whatever he’d sensed, it wasn’t with his eyes. But there was something there. Something crawling out of the grayness, reaching little fingers out to the very tip of Garden’s boundary.
Nigel dropped the lump of Dire Matter in his hands over the edge, brushed off his palms, and strode over to inspect whatever it was. Crouching, he peered over the brink into the nothing and saw . . . more nothing. But that prickling sensation in the back of his brain wouldn’t give way. The faintest, almost unnoticeable trace of magic. Of sorcery.
Someone was searching for Garden.
Nigel’s jaw firmed. If this wasn’t a seek-and-find spell, then he was a monkey’s uncle. Some sorcerer, not without power, was reaching out. And getting much too close.
Rising, Nigel backed away from the edge. His hands clenched into fists, resisting the urge to form sigils of protection. But Garden didn’t like it when he used sorcery within its boundaries. Instead, he returned to the wheelbarrow. “Trowel,” he said.
The magic within the barrel twisted, producing what he needed at once: an old, rusty, wooden-handled trowel, which looked as though it had been doing service since the dark ages. Green Magic infused its very essence. There was enough power here to do real damage, even against Dire Matter. Certainly against a spell as delicate as the one even now trying to encroach on Garden’s borders.
Nigel caught up the trowel, returned to the edge, knelt. With a single, sweeping gesture, he neatly sliced at what appeared to be empty air. It worked. He felt that invisible whisp of seeking magic wither up and recoil back into the in-between-ness. Garden’s boundaries were safe once more.
Nigel sat back on his heels, eyes searching along the border. Hopefully whoever was on the far end of that spell didn’t know how close they’d come to discovering what they sought. The Green Magic he’d used to disintegrate that spell would scarcely register to a sorcerer’s awareness—sorcerers were all alike that way, wholly dismissive of magic beyond their own purview.
“Well,“
he said, rising and straightening his shoulders, “I’d say that’s enough for now, then.“
He returned to the wheelbarrow to fetch his jacket, waistcoat, and shirt. “I’m going to clean up. I’ll be back later to check on that dahlia plot. Also, it looks to me as though the phlox in the back quarter is getting a bit uppity. I’ll have a look in.”
Garden, pleased by his attention, offered up a wealth of dazzling blooms for his enjoyment as Nigel strolled back up to the boiler room door. It was nice—Garden hadn’t always been so friendly with him. Luna had worked a gentling influence, however, bringing out a sweetness in the air and the soil which Nigel had never before known.
This thought made him smile a little, even as his stomach knotted. Luna. Hours of hard labor, of striving to get her out of his system, and still . . . there she was. Forefront in his mind. And he couldn’t go on ignoring her forever. At some point, what had happened between them yesterday must be faced. For better or for worse.
Jacket and shirt slung over his shoulder, Nigel trudged on through the flowers and the gentle, springlike air, all the way up to the boiler room door. There, just in front of the door, right where he would have to tromp on it to get by, bloomed a large pink flower with waxy petals and a spiky black stamen which protruded from the white carpel like spider legs. Nigel stopped and blinked at the offensive thing. It was spectacular in a hideous sort of way. And quite obviously grown there on purpose.
“Wolf Brittlebum,“
Nigel said out loud, recalling the name Luna had given for this particular plant. She’d been excited to see one blooming, claimed they were incredibly rare. They made for some sort of special tea, but he couldn’t remember what exactly. All he remembered for certain was her enthusiasm for it.
He hesitated. That Garden had grown it expressly for Nigel to deliver to Luna, he did not doubt. Why it should bother, however, was a mystery. Luna ventured into Garden regularly to gather plants and herbs for her teas. “Can’t you just give it to her when next she stops in?“
Nigel asked out loud.
His only answer was a skuttle of clouds across the sun, darkening the sky.
“All right, all right.“
Nigel shrugged and crouched in front of the ugly blossom. “Give us the shears, then. I’ll deliver it.”
He reached into his trouser pocket. Shears appeared at his fingertips by the same magic which summoned the wheelbarrow. He withdrew them and, with a quick snip, claimed the pink flower. Standing upright, he tossed the shears over his shoulder—they vanished with a little pop! into thin air—and inspected the ugly bloom.
A grin tipped the corner of his mouth. Luna would be pleased. Very pleased. He could easily picture her big, bold, spontaneous smile, could almost feel the way her fingers would grab his arm in a sudden squeeze of pleasure when he handed it over.
Hastily, Nigel shook that thought away, replacing his stupid grin with a frown. This wasn’t a gift from him, after all. It was Garden’s offering; he was merely the messenger.
“Right,“
he muttered.
Then, carrying the bloom with him, he pushed open the boiler room door and stepped through into the passage. The world on this side felt particularly dim and gloomy after a morning spent in Garden’s glory, and the Wolf Brittlebum looked almost alien. He shut the door and locked it carefully behind him, then slipped the key into his trouser pocket. Flower in one hand, shirt, jacket, and waistcoat slung over his arm, he made his way to the shop floor. It was quiet enough out there. No sound of any current customers. Luna was probably keeping herself busy with some small task or another. “Garden’s grown something for you, Miss Talbot,“
he declared, as he emerged from the passage.
And stopped short.
His eyes fastened on the pea-green uniform of the large and impressive figure seated incongruously at one of the little wrought-iron tables, positioned close to the window.
John Ward, SSSD Officer, lifted a teacup with one hand in salute. “What-o, Grimm!“
he called out, familiarly. “Havin’ a good one then?”
Nigel blinked. “Yes,“
he said. Then: “Erm.”
With a single sliding step, he retreated into the passage. For a moment, he stood against the wall, stupidly staring at the Wolf Brittlebum.
So.
Officer Ward was back again, was he?
Drinking tea.
So.
“Damn,“
Nigel whispered.
Then, because he couldn’t stand there in the passage all day while the Wolf Brittlebum slowly wilted, he moved toward the kitchen door. A vague notion formed in his mind of sticking the stem in a glass of water or . . . or something. He pushed open the door, took a hasty step inside.
And stopped short again.
Finding himself suddenly face-to-face with Luna.
Who was just on her way out.
“Oh,” he said.
“Oh,“
said she, in almost the exact same moment and exact same tone, only an octave higher. She took a quick step back, creating some space between them. “Pardon me, Mr. Grimm!”
“No, not at all,“
he answered, and shuffled awkwardly around her into the kitchen, peering at her over the large, bobbing head of the flower. She held a steaming teapot in her hands. A refresher for her handsome officer’s cup, no doubt. Nigel swallowed. “What is, erm, Ward the Wardsman drinking today?“
he asked, indicating the pot with a toss of his head.
“This?“
Luna dropped her chin, her eyelashes lowering. Then she flashed Nigel a downright wicked look. “Don’t tell anyone but . . . Limpty’s Lemon!“
She screwed up her face into an exaggerated grimace. “I made it as a joke. After the way he gagged over my nice dark taerel, I thought, You know what? He doesn’t deserve the good stuff! I’m going to teach him a thing or two. So I brewed him Limpty’s today and, would you believe it? He asked for seconds!“
She smacked her face with one hand in mock dismay.
“The blaggard,“
Nigel intoned with possibly more vim than was altogether necessary.
But Luna laughed. “Right?”
She blinked then, and her gaze seemed to take him in for the first time. Starting with the shock of disheveled hair falling over his forehead, then running down his body, noting the sweaty undershirt and suspenders, the dirt smears on his trousers. Her brows puckered and rose slightly. A swift flush flooded her cheeks.
“Oh, forgive me,“
Nigel said. This was not appropriate attire in front of a lady. He swiftly dropped the pink flower on the counter and shrugged into his shirt, covering his bare arms at least.
“Not at all, Mr. Grimm,“
she said, her voice a little faraway. Then she gave her head a quick shake and turned her attention to the flower. “And what is that you’ve brought with you?”
“Ah, yes. A gift from Garden I do believe.“
Nigel plucked up the blossom once more and presented it to her. “It’s, erm, quite hideous, I’m afraid. But Garden popped it out directly in front of the door, and I seemed to remember you saying it was good for a tea of some sort.”
“How sweet!“
Luna said, accepting the bloom and holding it under her nose. She smiled gently—not the enthusiastic smile of his imagination, but lovely in its own right. “He must have remembered,“
she murmured.
“Remembered?”
Her dark eyes flashed briefly up at him, then away again. “Oh, nothing! Here, I’d best get on. Ward is waiting for his dratted Limpty’s. I’m half-inclined to banish him from the shop entirely after such an offense!”
“Ha ha,“
Nigel managed to say. Rather than the emphatic, “Please. Do. That,“
which sprang to his lips. He watched her go, carrying that unsightly blossom with her. Then he stood a while longer, leaning back against the counter. After a minute, he dragged a hand down his face. Gods, he must look a sight! Sweaty and dirty from all that hauling, and he probably stank to high heaven as well. So much for those two showers this morning!
Well, he couldn’t spend the rest of the day like this.
Bracing himself, Nigel darted from the kitchen and hastened across the shop floor, making for the stairwell. He kept his face averted, refusing to look in the direction of that little table where Luna stood, pouring Ward a fresh cup of tea. Ward was cracking up over something in that rumbling bass laugh of his, while Luna made some clever quip.
Nigel didn’t wait to hear more.
He took the stairs three at a time to claim the sanctuary of his apartment. Once there, he shut the door behind him, taking care not to slam it. Then he leaned his back against it to catch his breath, closed his eyes, and . . .
. . . and immediately felt her hand on the back of his neck, drawing his face forcefully down toward hers.
“Damn,“
he whispered.
Time to hit the shower. Again.