Chapter FIFTEEN
Nigel lunged for her, catching hold of her arms just in time so that she did not fall completely. But the sudden weight pulled him off-balance, and he sank to his knees behind the counter, helping ease her down with him. For a moment, Luna grasped his forearms tight, her eyes staring wildly into his.
“Don’t touch me!“
she cried out then and jerked away from him. She turned instead to the wall, squeezing her eyes tight. Nigel watched her helplessly, uncertain what to do. Every instinct told him to reach for her, to hold her. To keep her from breaking into tiny pieces. But she recoiled from him, pressing against the wall, and drew her knees up to her chest, holding them tight like a barrier. Her eyes were wild. She didn’t make a sound other than a series of short, choking gasps, not unlike what he’d heard when she was having a panic attack in the undercroft of Bruxley Hall.
Then she buried her head in the tops of her knees and let out a gut-wrenching moan.
Helplessness flooded Nigel’s limbs. He looked again at that card—pink, with a border of hand-painted watercolor flowers—lying where it had fallen on the floor. In his mind’s eye, he saw that scratchy, old-lady handwriting:
Luna, sweetness, I’m so sorry to have to tell you this. She didn’t want you to worry, so she wouldn’t let me write you sooner, but your Auntie Apolonia has been very poorly for much of the last year. She passed away just before Green Yule. It was peaceful in the end—
Nigel settled onto the ground, breathing hard. He watched Luna as she rocked back and forth, holding her knees tight. She was alone in her pain, in her grief, and if she would not let him in, he could not join her there. But that didn’t mean he would abandon her.
Shifting his seat, Nigel moved quietly, gently, making as little sound as possible. He positioned himself beside her, his back against the wall, and drew one leg up, resting his elbow on his knee. The other leg he stretched out in front of him, while his hand came to rest on the floor between them. Present. But unintrusive. He drew a slow breath. Held it for a count of six—released it for a count of six. In and out, steady and calm, though he wasn’t altogether certain she could hear him.
Luna looked up suddenly. Her face was red and blotchy with tears, and her nose was shiny. “The shop!“
she gasped.
“It doesn’t matter.“
Nigel leaned to one side so that he could access his trouser pocket and fished out a handkerchief. He handed it to her and watched her mop her face rather aggressively. It didn’t do any good. The tears were falling hard and fast now, and the handkerchief couldn’t stop them, only catch them. She had already wept a damp patch into the knees of her skirt.
“I should go,“
she choked.
Nigel’s jaw hardened. “You’re in no condition to go anywhere,“
he said, his voice gentle but firm.
Thankfully, she didn’t argue. She simply buried her face again, one hand still clutching his handkerchief so hard, her knuckles stood out white. When she spoke again, her voice was muffled. “I used to tell myself that . . . that it only affected me. My leaving home. That no matter where I went, no matter what happened, everything continued on as it always had back at Tealeaf Cottage. An unchangeable fixture, a safe haven in my mind. The aunties. Their garden, their animals. The sun rising over Maidbury Bluff and setting over the Bromptons. Greater Snoring, stretched along its narrow, winding road in the little valley below, and Lesser Snoring just beyond the river. Nothing altered.“
She dragged in a ragged breath. “All waiting for me to someday . . . somehow . . . make my way home again.”
She went silent. And Nigel could do nothing but continue to breathe. Slowly, steadily. Even as his heart wrung tight in his chest.
Luna lifted her face again at last. She didn’t look at him. She propped her chin on her knees and stared across the narrow space behind the counter to where the trash bin sat unobtrusively, tucked out of sight. There were shelves down there as well, stuffed with tissue paper and empty vases and floral string and other shop-related detritus. She studied those shelves as though they contained the secret to life and existence.
Then she wiped his handkerchief across her face again. “It all goes on without me, doesn’t it? Time. Age. Sickness. And one day, there is no going back anymore. Because the life I knew isn’t there. Auntie Apolonia . . .“
Her voice broke, and more tears spilled over onto her cheeks. She squeezed her knees tight and shook her head, chin crumpling, teeth grinding.
“Mr. Grimm,“
she said abruptly, “would you mind very much putting your arm around me?”
Nigel released a breath he’d not realized he was holding. It escaped his lungs in a great gust. Immediately, he leaned toward her, slipped his arm around her shoulders, and experienced the pure relief of finally, finally being able to do something. Even something as small, as ineffectual as this.
She turned and pressed her face into his chest. A terrible sob ripped from her throat. He wrapped his other arm around her, pressing her to him as she soaked the front of his green bib apron with her tears. Turning his face, he rested his cheek on top of her head, closed his eyes, and held her together. He wished he could tell her the truth: that he would never change. That he would always be here for her. That, as long as she wanted him, his arms would hold her, his heart would beat for her. But that’s not what she needed from him. Not now. Possibly not ever. What she needed was simply someone—anyone—to let her know she wasn’t wholly alone. That she needn’t walk through this dark forest of grief unseen, unheard, unknown.
So he held her, making soft “shhh, shhhh,“
noises. Not in any effort to hush her, simply as a calming sound to remind her of his presence. He stroked her hair, rubbed small circles on her back, and silently thanked the Green Mother for placing him here to provide whatever small service he could.
Luna wept until she had nothing left inside her. Then she continued to rest against his chest, slumped, exhausted, her face buried in his apron. Nigel breathed—counted his breaths. At some point, he felt her matching her breath to his rhythm. And so they remained for a long time.
Then Luna said, “Your tie pin is digging into my cheek.”
“Oh, sorry.“
Nigel’s voice came out hoarse and rough. He hadn’t used it in a while. He shifted, tried to slip both tie and pin out from under her face without dislodging her, but it was too late. She pushed away, leaning against the wall once more. He felt bereft without the weight of her against him and silently cursed his tie pin for existing.
“Do you want to open up the shop again?“
Luna asked after a little while.
“No.”
“I can leave now. I’m . . . I’m all right.”
“You’re not going anywhere.“
Nigel stopped, dropped his head, clenching his jaw. Then, in a softer voice, he said, “Please, Miss Talbot. I . . . I don’t think you should be alone right now.”
She bit her lower lip. After a little while, she admitted, “Bryony’s working tonight.”
Even were the invigorating Bryony home, hers was probably not, in Nigel’s humble opinion, the presence Luna needed at this grave hour. He wondered briefly if he should offer to call up Ward the Wardsman. Perhaps he could comfort her where Nigel could not. But though he opened his mouth to voice the question, it simply wouldn’t come.
Instead, he said, “I’ll make you tea.”
“Tea?”
“Yes.“
Nigel swallowed before adding, “A wise woman once told me there’s a tea for every situation in life.”
“Did she?”
“She did.”
“Sounds like a right nincompoop to me.“
Luna stretched her legs out in front of her, hands limp in her lap, still holding his handkerchief. “And what tea would she suggest for devastating loss, do you think?”
Nigel considered. “Dark taerel?”
“Too robust.”
“Chamomile lavender?”
“Insipid.”
He nodded. Then: “Orange llarmi?”
The corner of Luna’s mouth quirked in the very faintest of smiles. “That was Auntie Apolonia’s favorite,“
she said softly. “She’d blend it with absolutely everything. Lilac. Cardamom. Even turnip greens, once, just to explore the potential health benefits. Some of her concoctions were downright atrocious, but you’d never get her to admit it! She would drink it down, declare it a fine experiment, while the rest of us were sputtering into our saucers.“
She breathed out a shivering little sigh and leaned her head back against the wall. “I think she would have liked my vanilla-honeysuckle llarmi.”
“I’ll get it,“
Nigel said, unfolding his legs and drawing his feet under him. “Wait here.”
He’d become very stiff without realizing it. A quick glance at the clock, and he saw that he and Luna had been sitting down there on the shop floor for the better part of two hours. It was already growing dark outside. On the sidewalk, he could see regular customers lined up for the last rush before closing. They were pointing at the CLOSED sign and talking together, looking quite perturbed to be shut out in the cold.
Nigel ignored them. He slipped back to the kitchen and set to work fixing tea. He put on the kettle, fetched the tin of Luna’s “auspicious“
tea blend, and set out the Royal Bastian set on the tea tray. When the water was hot, he primed the pot, as Luna had showed him how to do weeks ago, pouring in a measure of hot water and swirling, before adding several carefully-measured spoonfuls of tea leaves. Here he tried to remember what she’d taught him about llarmi in general.
“It’s the same measurement with any llarmi, no matter what else it’s blended with,“
she’d said. “One level spoonful per cup, plus a dibble-dab.“
So saying, she’d added the barest little bit extra from the very tip of the spoon.
“Is that one dibble-dab per cup?“
Nigel had inquired.
“Nope. One per pot. Nothing more.”
“And, erm, what is the dibble-dab for, exactly?”
“For luck,“
she’d answered promptly. “Orange llarmi is a very lucky tea, if you treat it right.”
“Nonsensical girl,“
Nigel whispered to himself now. But he added the dibble-dab, nonetheless. Then he poured the rest of the hot water into the primed pot, taking care to keep an eye on the level. Too much water would weaken the brew. Snugging on the whimsical dancing-mushroom tea cozy, he considered how many rules there were to remember in brewing a proper pot of tea. Not unlike sorcery.
He fetched the milk from the icebox and spoons for the sugar bowl. Then, certain he’d remembered everything, bore the tray back to the shop counter. People outside on the sidewalk were cupping their hands to peer through the glass. Some of them signaled to him, eager to be let in. Nigel averted his gaze, flipped open the hinged portion of the counter, and slipped back behind it.
Luna remained seated on the floor, her back against the wall, her legs outstretched in front of her. Her entire posture sagged, and slow tears coursed down her cheeks. She didn’t seem to be particularly aware of his presence. Nigel carefully got down on the floor and set the tea tray between them. “Five minutes to brew,” he said.
She nodded.
“Did you remember the dibble-dab?“
she asked after a moment.
“Always.”
She nodded again.
Then: “Are they lining up outside?”
“No,” he lied.
She cast him a sideways glance.
“They’ll be all right,“
he amended.
“I’m ruining your business,” she said.
“Never.”
“Here you just added ‘and teas’ to the sign and everything!”
“There will be teas tomorrow.”
Luna looked down at the tea tray, studying it silently. She reached out and touched one of the silver spoons. “You’re becoming quite the whiz at tea-prep yourself, Mr. Grimm.”
“I had a good teacher.”
“Do you think . . . ?”
“Yes?”
“Do you think, when I am gone, you’ll continue to serve tea?”
Nigel’s stomach sank through the floor. For a moment, he couldn’t seem to see straight. The whole room pitched around him, and the floor wobbled like a Wacky House. He planted his hands on either side of him, fingers spread to steady himself. “Are you . . . going somewhere, Miss Talbot?“
he asked quietly.
She didn’t answer. And she continued to not answer. The minutes ticked by, and Nigel looked up at the clock, noting the time. The tea should be brewed by now. He poured and prepared her cup the way he knew she liked it: a splash of milk, a whisper of sugar. “Tea?“
he offered.
She took it. But her hands trembled so hard, the cup clattered in the saucer. “Oh, here!“
Nigel said hastily and reclaimed both cup and saucer. He lifted the cup then and held it in front of her face. “Blow,“
he said. “It’s hot.”
She obeyed absently, not really paying attention to what she did. His eyes fixed on her lips—bow-shaped, the upper a little fuller than the lower. Soft, sweet, and delicately pink, even with all her rosy lipstick cried away. He held the cup carefully to her mouth, willing himself not to shake, not to spill a drop.
She sipped. Closed her eyes. Held the mouthful on her tongue. Swallowed.
Then abruptly she said, “I should have been there for her. For Auntie. In the end.“
She pushed away the teacup and twisted the handkerchief in her hands. “She was poorly for a while, Auntie Arabella says. And I didn’t know. And I wasn’t there. I could have helped her. Maybe. I could have made it better, could have . . .“
Her voice wandered off down unknowable paths of speculation, while slow tears continued to fall.
Nigel rested the teacup in his lap, watching how the liquid moved and shivered. Then, very softly, he said, “What you did, Miss Talbot, leaving them. It was a noble thing.”
She flashed a sharp glance his way, and he realized his mistake. Because she’d never told him why she’d left; he had only his guesses. And while he was quite certain his guesses were correct, they were not based on shared confidences.
He could feel her withdrawing from him in sudden fear and quickly rushed on to say, “You did it for their sakes. Because of . . . because of the sorcerer’s mark. The, erm, social stigma. It must have been difficult for them as well.”
“Oh.“
Luna released a little breath. Looking down, she pulled at her left cuff, tugging it over the tattoo on her wrist. “Yes. Yes, the mark.“
She closed her eyes and inhaled uneasily. “It was hard on them.”
Nigel’s heart thudded in his throat. But he seemed to have covered his mistake. If only she trusted him enough to tell him the truth! As she didn’t, he would have to meet her where she was.
He lifted her teacup to his own mouth and took a sip before remembering that it was hers. He blinked and pulled back—he didn’t usually take his tea with sugar, and the sweetness surprised him.
“Oh, here,“
Luna said, huffing out a little sound that was akin to a laugh. “Give it to me. You’d better pour your own tea too, Mr. Grimm, or it’ll get over-brewed.”
Nigel nodded and obeyed, going through the motions on autopilot. Then he sat back, took a sip. It was over-brewed. By quite a lot, actually. There was a time when he wouldn’t have been able to tell the difference, but the influence of a tea witch in his life had wrought many changes. He grimaced, but took another sip anyway and swallowed.
Luna sipped her own tea thoughtfully, before speaking again. “That was nice of you to say. About the aunties, I mean. I . . . They didn’t want me to go, you know.“
She sniffed and hastily wiped a tear from her cheek, though why she should bother following the deluge she’d just wept, Nigel couldn’t say. “Auntie Apolonia was so determined that I shouldn’t go,“
she continued, “she set up Green Magic wards all around the cottage. If I stepped anywhere near one of them, without an auntie directly beside me, they’d go off in Auntie Apolonia’s voice, blaring from every which-way, ‘What do you think you are doing, Luna Talbot? Get back inside at once!’”
She warped her own voice into that of a tough, old, Crimble spinster. Nigel suspected it was quite a good mimicry. He snorted and said, “That sounds terrifying.”
“It was, rather!“
Luna chuckled then took another sip of her tea. “It took me weeks to figure out how to get past them. By then, though, things were getting . . . bad.”
There was something more. Something to do with simulacrums, unless Nigel missed his guess, and her aunties’ attempts to keep them at bay. A dark period in Luna’s life that she did not care to revisit and certainly did not intend to share. Nigel looked down into his own teacup. He knew how horrific simulacrums could be. The ill-made ones in particular, but the realistic creations Jastira used to turn out were deeply unsettling to look upon. So uncanny, so not quite right. To have those apparitions combing through the countryside all around you, converging on your childhood home . . . he could imagine few scenarios more horrifying.
“When I finally managed it,“
Luna continued, “I was so proud of myself! No one gets past Auntie Apolonia. Certainly not her little niece, who was only ever so-so at Green Magic.“
She shivered then, her brow tightening. “I’ve sometimes wondered in retrospect if . . . if Auntie let me go. If she realized it was the only hope any of us had.“
She dropped her head then, biting her lip, as though realizing she was on the verge of betraying too much.
Nigel took another sip of tea. It was just as bad as before. Only now it was tepid as well. “I know they miss you,“
he said to Luna, setting the cup back in the saucer. “I know they . . . they would have moved heaven and earth to keep you with them. If they could. But they understood.“
He swallowed hard and continued with confidence. Confidence was what she needed right now. “They understood, and they must honor you for . . . for the sacrifice you’ve made. In giving them up.”
Luna snorted. “I don’t know that Auntie Apolonia saw things that way.”
“She did.”
She lifted her gaze to his. How tired she looked, so hollowed-out. So indescribably sad. Nigel wanted more than anything to put his arms around her again, to draw her back to his chest and cradle her gently. He tightened his fingers around the rim of his saucer.
“How do you know?“
she whispered.
“Because I know you,“
he replied, his voice thick. “Anyone who knows you, anyone who spends even a minute in your company, knows you are . . . you are . . .“
He swallowed. He must tread carefully now. The truth wanted so much to be spoken, but it must be a moderated truth. “You are a life-giver. You spread warmth and delight to all who are lucky enough to fall under your influence. You seek good for others, without regard for your own benefit. You . . . you . . .”
If he said anything more, it would be too much. A confession, spilling forth at the absolute most inappropriate time. So he bit his tongue. Looked down at his tea. “They know,“
he finished at last. “Even if it hurts them, they know.”
Luna bit her trembling lip hard. She tried a few times to speak, but stopped, not able to trust her own voice. “Auntie Apolonia once told me,“
she managed at length, “that she’d never known a fool child more ready to give away the good shoes off her feet if asked, even if it meant walking barefoot all winter.“
She smirked sadly and sniffled. “I don’t think she meant it as a compliment. It was more to do with my lack of forethought and disregard for consequences.”
Nigel shrugged one shoulder. “Sometimes our elders don’t see us as we wish they would. But sometimes they simply see a different side. A side, perhaps, no one else can see. And it can be uncomfortable. But also a relief in its way. Knowing someone out there recognizes that secret, hidden part. That we are not truly unknown.”
Luna’s dark eyes swiveled in their sockets. “Are you talking about your father?”
He hadn’t thought he was. Only, now that she asked it, Nigel realized it was probably true. In light of her loss, his own losses felt more present. It had been three years now since the old man’s death, but in many ways, it still felt like yesterday.
He didn’t answer her. He swirled the last of the tea in his cup instead. But then Luna’s hand reached out, came to rest on his arm. And he was exquisitely aware of the place where her fingertips lay against his exposed wrist. Could she feel the way his pulse throbbed in response to that gentle touch?
“Were you with him?“
she whispered. “At the end?”
“Yes.“
Nigel nodded uncomfortably. “A bitter end, but . . . I was there. And I like to think Dad . . . knew.”
He didn’t expand on this. He couldn’t. He couldn’t bear that she should know about those final moments. About the chaos and horror surrounding his father’s last breaths. About the dark rage which overcame him as he held Old Mister Grimm’s body, the blackness which obscured his vision. The wrath, the fury. The power beyond anything meant for this world. Everything he’d hurled at Jastira. Everything she, in turn, had hurled back at him.
But Luna’s eyes were on him. And he suspected she read more in his profile than he wanted to reveal. He closed his eyes, breathed out slowly.
“Fate’s my bitch,“
Luna declared.
“What?“
Nigel’s eyes flared open. She could not have shocked him worse if she’d stuck a cattle prod up his trousers. Not once in the months that he’d known her had Nigel heard a single, unsavory word cross Luna Talbot’s lips. Her language was always so pristine! He turned to her sharply.
Luna laughed, a weak sound, but genuine. She put her empty teacup on the tray, then sat back, folding her hands, as demure as ever. “It’s something Auntie Apolonia used to say upon occasion.”
Nigel blinked. “That’s . . . not what I would expect from one of your aunties.”
“No, indeed. And it’s certainly not the common philosophy shared among tea witches, either.“
Luna picked at a pulled thread in her skirt then smoothed out the wrinkles. “I think she meant that . . . even fate couldn’t stop a person from doing what they knew they must. Not if they were really gods-dratted determined to see it through.“
She glanced up at Nigel. “It wasn’t an Apolonia original saying. It actually came from Extremely Great Aunt Amelia. Near the end of her life, you see, when she was beginning to fade, she would make Auntie Apolonia read her fortune every morning. ‘Just to see if today’s the day!’ she would say.”
“That’s grim,“
Nigel said.
Luna snorted. “It was. But I think that’s how Extremely Great Aunt Amelia prolonged her life. Whatever fortune Auntie Apolonia would read, the old woman would move heaven and earth to see that it did not happen. If she was destined to lose a button off her jacket, she’d snip them all off in advance and tuck them into a tin. If she was bound to trip on the back steps, she’d simply plant her boney posterior in the rocker and refuse to move the rest of the day. And at the end of each day, she would retire to bed, declaring as she went, ‘Fate’s my bitch!’”
“She, erm, sounds like a formidable woman,“
Nigel ventured.
“She was a stubborn old battleaxe!“
Luna laughed again. A real laugh, bright and warm, even if still underscored by sorrow. It was so good to hear, Nigel sent up a silent prayer of thanks for all irascible old ladies and their willfulness.
“But one morning,“
Luna continued, “the long awaited prediction came. Auntie Apolonia saw it in Extremely Great Aunt Amelia’s cup: she would die that very day. Apolonia was really cut up about it, even though we all knew it was coming. But Extremely Great Aunt Amelia said, ‘Don’t you know me at all by now, girl?’
“She then proceeded to brew and drink and brew and drink cup after cup of Wolf Brittlebum tea. She harvested all of Auntie Apolonia’s tenderly-nurtured bulbils, and made up great vats of the noxious stuff, mixed with dandelion greens. It’s a stimulant, you understand, not meant to be drunk by the cauldron-full. Certainly not by ninety-six year old women! Her daughters all hovered around her, pecking and pleading for her to stop. But the more she drank, the more energetic Extremely Great Aunt Amelia became, and the more energetic she became, the more tea she brewed. The whole house stank of Brittlebum!
“In this way, she kept herself going through the day and into the night. We all stayed up, watching the goings on with mingled fascination and horror. Finally, just at the stroke of midnight, Extremely Great Aunt Amelia rose from her rocker, held up one finger and, with a loud ‘Ha!’ pointed at Auntie Apolonia. ‘I told you—fate’s my bitch!’ she said. Then she keeled over and died on the spot.”
Nigel took this in with a solemn nod. “Not, then, on the day of prediction.”
“Nope.“
Luna laughed again, a delightful bubble of sound that burst in his chest like magic. “Mind you, I don’t think many folks are strong enough to outrun their own destiny. Not like Extremely Great Aunt Amelia! But Auntie Apolonia always urged me to remember: it is possible.”
Nigel’s mouth relaxed into something rather like a smile. It felt unfamiliar on his face, and yet . . . and yet not as unfamiliar as it had once been. “What else did Auntie Apolonia used to say?“
he asked quietly.
Luna was silent for a moment. Then she pointed to the tea tray. “If you make me another pot of tea, Mr. Grimm, I’ll tell you.”
“Orange llarmi?”
“As long you don’t forget the dibble-dab.”
“On my honor, Miss Talbot. On my honor.”