Chapter THIRTEEN
Nigel lurked behind the shop counter, observing the joyous mayhem which had taken over The Arcane Bouquet. It was a lot more than he’d intended. But once he’d started the ball rolling, he’d been entirely unable to get it to stop.
His first task, upon asking Mrs. Goddard for the use of her telephone, had been to call up the Rowdy House. Bryony, working the day shift, had sounded quite pleased to hear from him. She’d entered into the spirit of the party with tremendous enthusiasm. “I gotcher, Grimmsy!“
she’d cooed, and he’d heard a clatter on the line which he suspected were her long, red nails drumming against the mouthpiece. “My mate, Kate, owes her one, and will definitely want to show. And several of the girls at old Boggs’s know a thing or two about parties! We’ll bring the booze and the bunting, and Suella will bring her portable.”
Though uncertain what a “portable“
might be, Nigel had thanked her politely. He then hastened to add an, “Oh no, the line’s breaking up!“
just as she started in on a, “And I hope you’ve got somewhere nice and snug to slink off to in that shop of yours, because I’m getting—”
He hung up before he heard how that sentence was going to end. But he could probably make a wild guess.
The next several calls he’d made were to various bakeries, searching for someone who could manage spice cake on short notice. This had proven a fruitless endeavor, and he was just beginning to despair, when Mrs. Goddard, wheedling the truth out of him at last, declared, “Don’t be a ninny. I’ve got a spice cake recipe that’ll put hair on your chest! Your Luna’s a sweet girl and always makes certain she keeps a tin of that nice tea I like put by for me. I’ll do the cake, Mr. Grimm, have no fear! Tobias and I will bring it over for the party.”
While Mrs. Goddard was hardly culinary prodigy, Nigel had to admit the cake she’d whipped up was an impressive creation: three layers and absolutely drenched in lemon-icing. Would it be up to the legendary Auntie Apolonia’s standards? Perhaps not. But he liked to think Luna would appreciate the gesture nonetheless.
Luna’s laughter broke through to his ears, even above efforts of the street fiddler’s music, competing with Suella’s portable (which had turned out to be a small, thaumatic radio) to make the most enthusiastic noise. Nigel watched as she went twirling by, the fabric of her simple work skirt whirling out from her shapely legs as Ward guided her through the dance steps. She looked so happy. Ward did too.
Nigel closed his eyes then looked down at his hands, fisted in front of him on the lower counter. That had been a call he’d very nearly not made. But how could he host a birthday party in Luna’s honor and not invite her . . . boyfriend? He wasn’t sure what else to call Ward. He certainly looked like a proud boyfriend just now. He’d showed up at the end of his shift, bringing along three work buddies, and Nigel tried not to worry about whether or not they had sorcery sensors on them. Though there had been no recent energy transfers conducted in the vicinity, there was always the risk a sensor might go off and initiate an investigation into the spellwork around the boiler room door.
But the wardsmen were all off duty tonight. One of them danced with Bryony even now, while the other two had Young Women of Good Character in their arms.
There were Silly Young Things everywhere as well. Nigel wasn’t entirely certain how that had come about. Somehow, rumor had spread, and the pretty misses and their favored fellows simply showed up on the doorstep, along with sparkling wine and flutes galore. One of them, a pretty miss, had just spilled an entire flute of wine down the front of her pink dress. “I warned you, Miss Peabody!“
Luna called out from the dance floor, much to the hilarity of the other Silly Young Things, who hastened to mop up their chagrined friend with napkins.
Another one of these society misses seemed oddly familiar to Nigel, though he could not place her. She sauntered up to the counter with two beaus in tow, one on each elbow. This was a bit surprising, as she herself was quite a plain, mousy little thing. But she ordered drinks for the three of them, and Nigel realized that the shop counter had become a makeshift bar, with him, apparently, established as pseudo-bartender. With a shrug, he popped a cork, poured, and dispensed the requested drinks.
“This is Bertrum, the Duke of Woolfwood, by the way,“
the young miss said, indicating the fellow on her right, a tall, slender man with an impressive set of nostrils set in an even more impressive snout. “And this,“
she added, waving to indicate the other, “is Tom.”
“Doorhandler,“
the second man said, leaning over the counter to shake Nigel’s hand. “Tell me, sir, does your current can opener perform to your satisfaction?”
“Erm,“
said Nigel.
He was rescued from answering by Bryony turning up just then. The street fiddler had taken an aggressive stance, turned down the radio, and struck up a lively rendition of “Don’t Care Tonight,“
much to the enthusiastic cheers of the party-goers. Bryony draped over the counter, her lowcut bodice doing her all sorts of favors, and declared, “My dear Mr. Grimm, you simply must dance with me! Otherwise that loathsome son of your landlady says he’s going to be all over me, and I just can’t face Year’s End in such straights!”
“Oh, Miss Braithwait,“
Nigel said, “I don’t mean to dance tonight—”
“Cooooeee!“
Bryony trilled, turning to the mouse-ish miss and fluttering her hand by her face. “Don’t you just love it when he talks posh like that? Hmmm mmm!”
She flipped up the counter hinge, took hold of his hand, and fairly dragged him forth. Nigel soon found himself in the thick of the dance floor, with Bryony—all of Bryony—pressed up against him, and a whole lot of lively fiddle music scraping in his ear. The fiddler was another one he had not invited, but who had made himself thoroughly at home regardless. His bow flew over the strings, his fingers danced, his foot tapped, and his body swayed as he picked out livelier and livelier tempos. Nigel had absolutely no idea what he was meant to do with his feet, but it didn’t seem to matter. Bryony wriggled and writhed and spun herself around him with tremendous enthusiasm, making certain everything jiggled as it should. It was truly impressive, and Nigel might have enjoyed himself were he not so terribly overstimulated.
His eyes kept flashing to Luna. To her hand, clasped in Ward’s. Spinning and twirling and laughing, her pin-curls bouncing, her sturdy work boots picking out the steps. Her smile was so bright, so infectious, Nigel almost didn’t mind that it was aimed solely at Ward.
As long as she’s happy, he told himself, again and again. That’s all that matters. Just let her be happy.
When the fiddler at last paused for breath, Suella’s radio was cranked up once more. A wild, primal beat began to play. One of the wardsmen uttered a tremendous bellow, followed by “whoop whoops!“
from everyone else.
“Come on, Mr. Grimm!“
Bryony said, grabbing his hands. “It’s ‘In the Mood for Trouble!’ Now we’re cooking with gas!”
Apparently, to “cook with gas“
was the current vernacular for flailing around like a bunch of mad fools, which . . . no. Nigel couldn’t. The instant Bryony’s back was turned, he darted for safety, ducked under elbows, avoided flying knees, and made for the kitchen with all haste. There he barred himself in, back against the door, and drew several long, fortifying breaths.
Debbie, hunched on the back of a kitchen chair, gave him a look. “Never mind!”
“Yes, well, I don’t think I expected it to get quite so vigorous,“
Nigel said, pushing hair back from his forehead. Then he smiled and breathed out again. “Luna’s having a good time, I think. Maybe it will help her not miss home too much?”
Debbie shook her head swiftly, ruffling her feathers. “Never mind?”
“Of course, I’ll bring you a piece of cake. Though be forewarned—it’s a Mrs. Goddard special.”
The raven clacked her beak.
“My sentiments exactly.”
He did return to the shop eventually, though he did not return to the counter. Bryony had taken up residence there and begun mixing up cocktails from the various offerings brought by party-goers. Instead, Nigel slipped around to the edge of the room, half-hidden behind the double-delight rose. She bobbed her blooms in time with the music, and he smiled at her. “Having a nice time?”
She brushed a cane against his trousers, taking care not to catch him with a thorn.
“Good.“
Nigel took a seat at one of the half-buried tables and tried to tell himself that he was only there to keep an eye on the crowd. But in truth, he had eyes only for Luna.
The fiddler shifted suddenly to playing, “A Rose in the Rain.“
Everyone shouted and began to sing together in loud voices, which did not suit the melancholy tune or lyrics at all, but certainly enlivened the insipid tune.
“We shared secrets in the dark,
Every glance igniting sparks,
But now you’re lost in another's gaze,
While I’m drowning in this haze.
Oh, love! Like a rose in the rain,
Each petal a sigh, each thorn a sweet pain.”
Nigel blew a slow sigh through his lips, watching Ward draw Luna closer and closer. A slow song like this provided more opportunities than those faster melodies. Ward’s hands were both clasped at the small of her back, pressing her near. Her palms rested flat against his chest, and she was looking up at him, saying something that made him toss back his head and laugh.
Sickness twisted Nigel’s gut. He looked away.
“As long as she’s happy,“
he whispered for the hundredth time that night. Something dark and Dire tried to rear its head deep inside him, but he quashed it firmly. After all, he’d given up the fight, hadn’t he? He’d surrendered on Green Yule’s Eve, while holding her fevered body in his arms, and admitted the truth at last. He loved her. With all his warped, twisted, Dire-burnt soul. With everything that he was—whatever good and all that was wicked—he loved her.
If that meant he must stand by and watch her love someone else? So be it.
You don’t deserve her, he reminded himself. She’s so warm, so open. So full of life. While you . . .
How could he claim to truly love her and simultaneously wish her to be his? She deserved better than to trade her tender heart for the bent and battered heart of a dried-up former-sorcerer. No, she was where she belonged. In the arms of a handsome and heroic figure like Ward the Wardsman.
“Listen up, you blokes!“
someone piped up suddenly. “It’s eleven fifty-eight!”
“Two minute warning!“
someone else added, followed by more whoops and shouts. The fiddler began to play, “Alls Well at Year’s End,“
the traditional ballad which counted down to the strokes of midnight.
Bryony clambered up onto the counter, cupped her hands around her mouth. “Don’t forget!“
she called out over the music, “someone’s got to give the birthday girl her good-luck kiss!”
Lots of laughter and cheers at this. Ward looked very pleased with himself, standing there with his arm around Luna. She blushed and ducked her chin, then covered her face with her hands and shook her head.
Everyone started singing along with the fiddler’s strings. Just as the music swelled to a crescendo, the partiers broke out into loud cheers of, “Happy New Year!“
and “Happy Birthday!“
all blended in together. There was a great deal of leaping and grabbing and kissing. The mouse-ish miss with her two doting swains kissed both of them soundly on the lips, one after the other, while Mrs. Goddard collared her son and planted a soppy, wet one on his cheek while he struggled to escape. Nigel watched Ward swoop down to claim Luna’s mouth, only . . .
. . . only she turned her head at the last moment.
And his kiss landed on her cheek.
Ward drew back, looking chagrined. Luna merely laughed and pulled away from him, saying something Nigel could not hear, and moved toward the counter, where someone handed her a flute of sparkling wine. Ward followed, hands in his pockets, his expression not quite as pleased as it had been up until now.
Nigel remained where he was. His fingers curled into fists.
A series of toasts followed. Then the eating of cake. Nigel continued to sit quietly in his corner. Someone pressed cake into his hands at some point—Mrs. Whimsley, who shot him a very knowing and very purple gaze, before wafting off into the crowd.
He ate. But didn’t taste a thing.
Not long after, Bryony shouted, “All right, Boggs’s Girls! It’s time we took ourselves and all our Good Character home, before the old dragon makes life difficult!”
Boos and shouts followed this proclamation, but Nigel heard Luna’s voice pipe up, “Yes, it’s time we all got out of poor Mr. Grimm’s hair as well. Let the man close up!”
There was a great deal of hemming and hawing and mayhem. Slowly but surely, however, the crowd began to disperse, spilling out from The Arcane Bouquet into Addle Street. The off-duty wardsmen loudly proclaimed their intention of escorting the young ladies home, which proclamation was immediately poo-pooed by the young ladies themselves. “We know what you’re up to!“
they declared with much mocking laughter. “Remember, we’re Young Women of Good Character!”
At some point, Mr. Surley, the shoemaker next door, stuck his head out of his window and shouted down at them to, “Shut up, will ya?”
“Don’t you be shutting me up, Mr. Surley!“
Mrs. Goddard clapped back with a trilling giggle. “I’ll triple your rent, don’t think I won’t!”
This inspired peals of laughter from the Rowdy House Girls and the Silly Young Things, but by this time, at least, the floor was clear. Nigel made his way to the door, prepared to lock up behind them. He flicked off light switches as he went, preferring to shield from his own eyes the absolute disaster that his floor had become. He’d be up most of the night getting it back in order. But he’d do it. He’d want something to occupy his hands and mind and energies through the long, lonely hours ahead.
Anything would be better than lying in bed, thinking about Luna dancing in Ward’s arms. And turning her cheek to his lips at the last possible moment.
“Yes, thank you, good night,“
he said to the mouse-ish girl and her two beaus, nodded politely to Mrs. Whimsley, then narrowed his eyes sternly at the street fiddler. That seemed to be the last of them, vanishing out into the night. He cast a last glance around the shop. Empty. He began to close the door.
“Mr. Grimm!”
Luna was there. Appearing out of nowhere under the awning. Out of breath. She was wrapped in her hat and coat and scarf, but she pulled the scarf down to reveal a face flushed in the streetlight.
Nigel’s heart performed a painful little somersault. “Miss Talbot,“
he said quietly, his voice raw. He possibly wasn’t fully over the after-effects of pneumonia, after all.
“Mr. Grimm,“
she said, panting slightly, “I can’t even . . . I can’t begin to . . . What you did for me tonight, it’s . . .“
She bit her lip. Then, reaching out, she grabbed hold of his forearm. He felt the pressure of her fingers through his linen sleeve. “Thank you,” she said.
Her eyes were soft and shining as she looked up at him. He tried to speak, but couldn’t at first. With an effort, he cleared his throat and tried again, managing a simple, “You’re welcome.”
“Come on, Luna!“
Bryony called from down the street. “Are you going to hold us up?”
But Luna didn’t release his arm. And she was still looking at him, wordless. Waiting.
Nigel cleared his throat again. “I have a birthday gift for you.”
Luna blinked, her mouth rounding. “But, Mr. Grimm, you’ve already—”
“It’s nothing really,“
he cut her off. “But I hope . . . I hope you’ll like it.”
Her brow knotted. “Yes?“
She bit her chapped lips and glanced from side to side, then smiled nervously. “What is it?”
“Look up.”
She did.
At first she didn’t see, didn’t understand. But he watched the moment when realization dawned. She released his arm, backed up a few paces, and took in the yellow shop sign over the door. “The Arcane Bouquet”—it read—“freshest flowers in Eastside Ballycastle.”
And now, in a diagonal of purple script, written in his most careful and precise handwriting, squeezed in above the word flowers and in, it read: “and teas.”
Nigel watched her face. Watched how her lips moved, silently sounding out the words. Then she drew a little shuddering breath and dropped her gaze back down to him. Her eyes looked like two dark moons, luminous in her pale face.
“I thought it was time,“
Nigel said, shoving his hands into his pockets. “It’s been time,“
he added with a rueful shrug. “Everyone comes for the teas anyway.”
“Lunaloo!“
Bryony called.
“Coming!“
Luna cast over her shoulder and took a step down the street. Then, setting her chin, she turned, lunged back to the awning, and put out her hand to stop Nigel from shutting the shop door. He looked at her, silently. In that lighting, she looked more angelic than ever.
“You didn’t kiss me, Mr. Grimm.”
“What?“
The word whispered from his lips, a little white-vapored whisp.
“It’s tradition, you know,“
she said. “For . . . for members of the household to kiss me on my birthday night. Otherwise, how can I have good luck in the coming year?“
She swallowed and took another little step toward him. “This is your household. So I fear the burden of tradition falls to you.”
“Really?”
She nodded.
He drew a slow, steadying breath, trying to calm the racing of his heart. “One cannot argue with tradition,“
he said, carefully. “Can one?”
“Certainly not, Mr. Grimm.”
Then she turned, presenting her cheek.
Just her cheek. Nothing more. Nothing life-altering or world-shattering, or anything more than she’d offered to Ward the Wardsman. A simple salute was all she sought. A gesture of goodwill, perfectly proper between employer and employee, given the circumstances. Appropriate. Brotherly.
And yet, it took all the courage Nigel could summon to take a step forward. To lean down. To let his lips draw near to her soft skin. He closed his eyes. He had every intention of planting a quick peck, followed by an even quicker retreat. But . . .
Gods, the smell of her.
Chamomile and lavender.
It filled his nostrils, filled his senses, wrapped around his limbs and bound him in place. He stood there, so close to her but not touching. His face lingering beside her cheek, his eyes closed. Breathing her in. A slight tilt of his head, and the tip of his nose brushed against the fine hairs at the shell of her ear. He felt dizzy, intoxicated, as though he’d imbibed far too much sparkling wine, though, in truth, he never sampled a drop.
And she didn’t move away. Her breath exhaled in a soft sigh.
How fragile this moment was. Like a pendant of frost balanced on the tip of his finger.
Nigel turned his head. Pressed his lips to her cheek. One brief brush of connection, nothing more. That’s all he meant to offer. A chaste salute.
Instead, the instant his mouth touched her skin, he found he could not withdraw. Not right away. He lingered. One heartbeat. Two. Three. No other part of their bodies touched, just that tiny point of contact.
And yet, somehow, it was the most erotic moment of his entire life.
Finally, with a short gasp, he stepped back. Heart racing, blood pounding. Part of him wanted to flee, to slam the shop door, lock it, and bolt for Garden, never to return. But he forced himself to look. At her. Into those doe-brown eyes of hers, upturned to his. He saw the light shining in their depths, the expression so open, so hungry, so . . . so . . .
“Lunaloo!“
Bryony’s voice burst from down the street. “Move that birthday-girl arse of yours, or we’ll leave you behind to the street wolves!”
Luna jumped back, eyelashes fluttering fast. “Coming, Bryony!“
she called out in a high, thin sort of voice. Then she looked up at Nigel, a quick flash of a glance. “Good night, Mr. Grimm.”
With that, she turned, bolted down the street, her new boots kicking up clumps of snow in her wake. And Nigel stood on the doorstep and watched her go, until she and all the Young Women of Good Character disappeared around the turn onto Nettleton Lane.
He continued to stand there in the freezing cold for a long while after.