Chapter TWENTY
He woke up. To the sensation of hot liquid on his tongue. Burning.
Nigel’s eyes flew open. He coughed, sputtered, his body spasming from the gut so that he partially sat upright. Liquid spewed from his mouth and down the front of his shirt and waistcoat, and he had the brief thought of, I should probably put some cold water on that, before the stain sets.
Then he collapsed backwards with a groan, panting, eyes closed. He didn’t collapse far—he didn’t seem to have risen all that much. And he was apparently pillowed on something both soft and scratchy, like old wool. A winter coat? Overlaying a pair of slender knees?
His brain was just starting to put these pieces of information together into something akin to coherent thought when he heard Luna’s voice speaking over his head. “Well, now you’ve gone and made a mess of yourself.”
Nigel’s eyelids fluttered open. He found himself gazing up into Luna’s face from quite a severe angle. He blinked once, twice. Only then did it occur to him that he was lying with his head in her lap, a state of things which he could not fully comprehend. Something in his brain seemed to have mis-wired. Possibly due to the remnants of Dire-force still churning in his veins.
“Here now,“
she said in very prim, very matter-of-fact tones, “why don’t you try another sip? It’s not scalding; I tested it. So no need to go making a fuss.”
Feeling pressure from her hand at the back of his head, Nigel tried to lift up a little, straining his neck. He angled his chin out so that she could more easily hold the cup of tea to his lips. He winced. It smelled awful.
“None of that!“
she snapped. “Drink.”
He obeyed, meekly. It tasted unpleasant but also familiar. Like old socks. Familiar old socks. He managed to get a gulp down, and couldn’t deny the almost immediate revivifying effect on his numb body. It felt as though the liquid flowed like soothing balm into all those places that were scoured out by the influx of Dire. “What is it?“
he asked. His voice came out rather slurred, and he wondered if she’d be able to understand him.
“Saint Hylda’s Wort,“
Luna replied. “And stinging nettle. Among other things. You’ve had it before. Auntie Apolonia used to serve it to Sorcerer Biddercombe on those occasions when his spells got out of hand. It works wonders for regeneration. But I’m afraid you’re going to feel rather nasty for a while, regardless.”
Nigel frowned. He didn’t care to hear himself compared to a bumbling country sorcerer like the oft-referenced Biddercombe. Though Biddercombe had never driven the entire kingdom to the brink of famine with Dark Magic. So he had that going for him.
Grimacing, Nigel attempted once more to sit up. But his body seemed to be made up entirely of gelatine, oozing and a little gross. He closed his eyes and let his head fall back into Luna’s lap once more.
“You need to get a bit more Saint Hylda’s in your system,” she said.
Nigel nodded and licked his lips. Then, opening one eye, he peered up at her. “I . . . don’t usually make mistakes like this. With my spellwork, I mean.“
Even as the words crossed his lips, he heard how pathetic they sounded. A true sorcerer didn’t need excuses.
“Oh, no, of course not,“
Luna replied, in a voice which implied she didn’t believe him for a second.
He accepted another sip of Saint Hylda’s Wort tea. Gods, but it was nasty. His throat spasmed with the urge to spit it out again, but Luna looked like she might skin him alive if he dared. So he forced it down, closed his eyes, and allowed himself to breathe for a moment. And tried very hard not to enjoy the peculiar and unexpected sensation of resting on Luna Talbot’s lap. In this, however, he was not especially successful.
“Your breathing sounds better,“
she remarked after a period of silence.
“Does it?”
“Your lungs sounded like a freight train for a while there. They’ve eased up a bit now.”
“Good.”
“Do you feel well enough to sit up?”
While he hated to admit it, he probably did. And though the temptation was strong to go on playing the invalid a little longer, he forced himself to get one elbow propped, then used it as leverage to hoist himself off her lap. He sat up, drawing one knee toward his chest, and leaned his elbow against it, breathing hard. Hair fell across his forehead, and his skull seemed to be stuffed with cottonwool. With a little shake of his head, he turned to look at Luna.
And she slapped him. Hard enough to ring his bell.
“Ouch!“
Nigel said, placing a hand over his smarting cheek.
Luna’s furious eyes blazed into his. She was so rarely angry, it was a bit like being spat at by a fluffy kitten. But even kittens have claws. “Why didn’t you tell me?“
she demanded.
“Tell you what?”
“That you’re a Dark Sorcerer!”
His stomach plunged. But then, he did transmorph a man into a spider right in front of her eyes. She was bound to leap to a few conclusions. “I am . . .“
He hesitated. “. . . not. Anymore.”
“Uh huh.“
Luna got to her feet and backed away from him, then pointed to the vase on the counter. Nigel peered blearily into it and saw the spider running around in circles at the base. “Lord Bruxley might beg to differ!”
Nigel set his jaw. “He was threatening you—”
“He’s threatened me before!”
“He was manhandling you.”
“He’s manhandled me before too!“
She threw up her hands then, body, face, and voice all working together to express her exasperation. “How many times have I told you, Mr. Grimm? I do not want you practicing sorcery. Not around me. Not for me. Not in any capacity. And this?“
She looked at the spider and shuddered viciously. “This is Dark sorcery. Not just illegal-but-we’ll-turn-a-blind-eye-as-long-as-it-doesn’t-bother-anyone sort of sorcery. Actual throw-you-in-the-dungeon-and-lose-the-key sort of sorcery.“
She drew a shivering breath, her lip quivering even as her eyes sought his once more. “You could hang for this, Mr. Grimm.”
Nigel wanted more than anything to get up, to put his arms around her. To tell her that the entire SSSD of Ballycastle wasn’t strong enough to haul him away to prison unless he allowed them to. But, somehow, he didn’t think she would find that particularly comforting. Besides, she’d just seen a single spell—a single, foolishly wrought and irresponsible spell—knock him flat on his face. Which didn’t credit his sorcery skills very highly.
He tried to stand, but his legs wouldn’t obey, and he ended up in an awkward tumble back on the quilt-pile. Gods! He’d not felt like this since undergrad. How could he have let himself get this rusty?
“I’m sorry,“
he said. At least his voice was a little clearer than it had been. “I heard what Lord Bruxley said to you. About bringing the SSSD with him next time. I know how they treat those who bear the sorcerer’s mark: arrest first and ask questions later. Much later. If it’s convenient.“
He forced himself to meet her stern gaze. “I don’t want anything to happen to you.”
“Oh, and you don’t think the SSSD will come sniffing around when Lord Bruxley just disappears?“
Luna folded her arms, her fingers gripping tight to her own sleeves. “They will figure it out eventually. They’ll interview his ex-fiancée, and she’ll mention me. They’ll be at this very door before the week is out!”
Truth be told, Nigel hadn’t really thought that far ahead. He’d been more concentrated on rescuing Luna and also on not giving in to the initial impulse to absolutely blow Lord Bruxley into tiny particles of flaming anti-glitter. Which, all things considered, was fairly magnanimous of him, wasn’t it?
But that was the thinking of a Dark Sorcerer. Not a florist.
“I’ll handle it,“
he said, his voice gruff.
“How?”
“I’ll . . . transform him back. Once I’ve got the energy for it.”
“Right. Then he’ll run crying straight away to the Special Sorcery Suppression Office with tales of his archnidious adventures. Great plan. Just super.”
“I’ll . . .“
Nigel paused. But he didn’t really see another option. “I’ll remove his memories. Of this event. Of seeing you at the engagement party.“
He swallowed with some difficulty, still tasting Saint Hylda’s Wort coating his tongue. “I’ll remove all memory of you entirely from his mind. He’ll never think of you or The Arcane Bouquet again.”
Luna stared at him. Color drained from her face, leaving her ghastly pale. “You can . . . do that?“
Pure horror limned each word.
Nigel dropped his eyes. His jaw clenched, biting back the defensive words which sprang immediately to his tongue.
“You . . .“
Luna swallowed. One of her hands moved to grip the edge of the counter, as though uncertain of her balance. “You are not who I thought you were, Mr. Grimm.”
He wasn’t. He’d misrepresented himself to her entirely. He’d wanted so badly for her to see him as a man worthy of friendship with a woman like her. But the truth was there all along, lurking beneath the surface of every polite encounter. From the beginning—from the moment he entered this world at the cost of another person’s life—he was only ever destined for darkness. For evil. For the Dire. His was a polluted soul, and from the cradle that pollution had spread through him, until no part was left unstained.
And now she knew it. And she would go. And he could not stop her.
But when she was gone, she would be beyond his protection. Then a new crop of simulacrums would close in on her, and the Brotherhood would hound her down, and Jastira—
“Have you done it to me?”
Nigel’s head shot up, his eyes widening. “No!“
he protested. “I wouldn’t! I would never . . . I could never violate you in such a way.”
The muscles in her jaw ticked. “How can I know you’re telling me the truth? How can I trust you? How can I even trust my own mind when I’m around you?”
He exhaled slowly, feeling all the air leaving his body. His head hung heavily from his limp neck. “You can’t,“
he admitted. “I see that. You can’t trust me. You shouldn’t.”
He listened to the shuddering of her breath and forced himself to look at her again, forced himself to meet the disappointment and fear in her gaze. To see those things which he richly deserved, but which he had desperately hoped he would never provoke in her. He had wanted so badly to protect her from the worst parts of himself. But the truth was always going to come out.
Even so, he must find a way to protect her again. From him, yes. But also from the evils of the world which had stalked her footsteps since childhood.
“I made a vow,“
he said. “A solemn vow on my father’s gravestone. I swore that, as long as you work for me and The Arcane Bouquet, I would craft no spells to bring about your harm in any manner. This vow I have honored to the best of my ability.“
Emotion threatened to clog his voice, but he forced it back and continued. “The truth is, Miss Talbot, when I saw you in danger like that, the only thing that mattered to me was your protection. And . . . and that’s not going to change.”
“I don’t need protection.“
She spoke viciously through clenched teeth. “How many times do I have to tell you?”
Nigel swiped a hand across his face. He seemed to be sweating rather hard, and his fingers shook. “Please, Miss Talbot,“
he said, “I will do anything. Anything to prove myself to you. Anything to enable you to . . . to trust me again.”
She bit her lip. He could feel the words she meant to say, the angry declarations of, “There’s nothing you can say or do“
or “I will never trust you again.“
They were there, right on the tip of her tongue, as good as spoken already.
But then she narrowed her eyes. “I want you to make a Sovereign Troth,” she said.
She could not have surprised him more had she suddenly whipped a battleaxe from her coat pocket and taken a swing at his head.
“What?“
Nigel blurted.
“A Sovereign Troth,“
she repeated. “Those are real, right?”
“Yes.“
His chin jerked slightly to one side. “But how do you know about such things?”
Luna rolled her eyes. “Well, I read, don’t I? I’ve read the legends of King Cuthbert of Plymbriland, who commanded sorcerers to pledge their Sovereign Troth to him and, with their powers, established the kingdom of Plym. If it’s a real thing, this . . . this trothing . . . I don’t see why you couldn’t do it.”
Nigel gaped at her, his jaw hanging ajar. Because it was a real thing. A much older magic than King Cuthbert, a magic of ancient days. But very real. Too real.
And yes, he absolutely could do it. He could swear the troth, bestowing upon her the right to control the dispensation of his power. So long as he lived under that troth, he could not summon or work an original spell without her express permission.
It was also an extremely vulnerable act for a sorcerer to commit, much less for anyone to demand of him. More vulnerable than stripping bare before her, more vulnerable than anything he could possibly imagine. He would not have given Jastira his Sovereign Troth. What’s more, she would not have asked it. Not even Jastira had that kind of gall.
But it wasn’t Jastira asking. It was Luna. Luna, who didn’t understand what she asked. Not really. She couldn’t comprehend what it meant, because she was not a sorceress.
Nigel clenched and unclenched his fists. “Any spells enacted before the troth will remain unaffected,“
he said slowly. “Garden’s portal and the wards.”
“Naturally,“
Luna acknowledged.
“And if I . . .“
He licked his dry lips. “If I give you my troth, you will remain in Ballycastle? You will continue to work at The Arcane Bouquet?”
Her expression was solemn as she considered his words. As though what he asked of her was in any way comparable to the vulnerability she’d just demanded of him. “Yes,“
she said at last. “If you pledge me your Sovereign Troth, I will remain at Ballycastle. And I will, in turn, pledge that the troth is broken the minute I step foot outside of Ballycastle.“
She blinked then, her brow puckering. “We can do that, right? Include caveats?”
“Yes.“
Nigel nodded shortly. “Yes, we can.”
“Very well.“
She drew a steadying breath of her own and set her chin. “Very well, let’s do it then. You will swear your troth. Then I will give you leave to put Lord Bruxley right again and to . . . and to . . .“
She shivered. “And to remove his memories of me and this shop. Then it’s on me too. The guilt. Not you alone.”
This idea Nigel did not care for. He didn’t want her sullied by Dark Magic, even indirectly. “I can do it first,“
he said. “Before the troth.”
Luna shook her head, however, even as she looked as though she might throw up. “No. I am responsible for what’s happened with Lord Bruxley. I should bear equal responsibility for the magic you use to fix it.“
When he opened his mouth to protest further, she held up a swift hand. “I am quite determined, Mr. Grimm. You won’t talk me out of it. These are my conditions. Take them or leave them.”
In the end, he could not refuse her. There was simply too much at stake.
“Very well, Miss Talbot,” he said.
“Good.“
She thinned her lips, nodding. Then: “Um, how is the Sovereign Troth performed exactly?”
Nigel put out one hand, grabbed hold of the counter’s edge, and managed to pull himself to his feet at last. His legs wobbled, but he locked his knees, leaning hard, and contrived to stay upright. “You must anoint my head with oil,“
he said. “And I must kiss your feet and speak the words of troth-binding.”
Luna considered. “Will sesame oil work? We’ve got some back in the kitchen I think.”
“Yes.”
“All right. Wait here.“
Lifting the hinged portion of the counter, she slipped out and vanished into the back passage. Nigel listened to the sound of her retreating footsteps. The kitchen door opened and closed.
“Never mind.”
He turned sharply to meet Debbie’s stern gaze. She perched on her skull-pot, observing all and casting her own judgments.
“I’ve got to do it, Debbie,“
Nigel said. “I can’t let her go.”
The raven flapped her wings vehemently.
“This isn’t about me!“
he protested. “It has nothing to do with . . . with anything I . . . might feel. For her.“
He shook his head and ran a trembling hand down his face, pulling at the skin under his eyes. “Jastira is hunting her down. She’s not safe out there on her own. It’s best if she remains close, where I can protect her.”
“Never mind!”
Nigel shrugged. “If worst comes to worst, she’ll let me do what I must. She doesn’t want Jastira to return. Why else would she leave her aunties? Why else would she live this life of self-exile? No, she will do what is necessary to protect the world from the Shadowbane Lady’s return. I trust her. Completely.”
Debbie turned around on her pot, fluttering and croaking and otherwise communicating the firm opinion that he had, in fact, lost his mind.
“Yes, well, possibly.“
Nigel rubbed the back of his neck. “Also . . . I hate to ask it, but I’m going to need a little something from you to work this spell.”
“Never mind!”
“I know. But I can’t use my own life-force just now, and Miss Talbot would not approve of me draining the life out of any shop flowers.“
He reached out and scritched the raven in that place she liked on the back of her head. “I’ll be careful. You won’t feel a thing, I promise. And you know I wouldn’t ask you if it weren’t important.”
The bird muttered and swore in raven-tongue, but ultimately relented. There was a time her Dark Master wouldn’t have asked first; she really couldn’t complain.
Luna returned a moment later with the little bottle of sesame oil from the pantry. It had the Huck ‘n Clover’s logo printed on the label, complete with a little humanoid clover leaf. Hardly the mystic implement for so ancient and arcane a ceremony. But it would do.
“All right, Mr. Grimm,“
Luna said, stepping back behind the counter. “What next?”
“First, I abase myself. On my face. At your feet.”
She grimaced. “Can we dispense with some of that, um, formality?”
“No.“
Nigel drew a bracing breath. “You need to remove your shoes and stockings.”
Here she began to look really alarmed. “You’re serious?”
“I am.”
“Surely the feet-kissing element is more symbolic than anything, isn’t it?”
“It is absolutely symbolic. It is also imperative that the symbol be executed precisely.“
He gave her a stern look. “This is sorcery, Miss Talbot. Not Green Magic.”
She bit down on both lips, her mouth forming a straight line. Then, setting aside the oil, she bent over to remove both shoes and stockings. She placed these to one side and stood before him, still clad in her winter coat, but barefoot.
“Stand on the quilts,“
Nigel said.
“Why?”
“So your feet don’t get cold.”
“Oh.“
She picked up the oil bottle and shuffled onto the quilt, then flashed him a nervous glance. “Is there anything I’m supposed to say?”
“No. I say it all. And when I am done, and I have kissed your feet, I will look up at you, and you are to pour the oil on my forehead.”
“How much?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“I thought you said sorcery was precise?”
He couldn’t help a slight quirk of his mouth at that. “The traditional unit of measurement indicated in the Doomguard Lexicon of Zareth Nightshade is a tynthe.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“Nobody does. Zareth Nightshade is reviled throughout academia for his obscurity. Make your best guess.”
Luna twisted the bottle nervously in her grasp. “And do I need to, like, trace a sigil or anything?”
“You’re the sovereign, not the sorcerer, in this instance, Miss Talbot. No sigils necessary. You need only receive my troth and pour the oil. Nothing more.”
“All right.“
She closed her eyes then and seemed to murmur something like a prayer. Thus fortified, she looked at him again, her expression very solemn. And more than a little frightened. “Very well, Mr. Grimm. I am ready when you are.”
He nodded. Very slowly, he sank down to the floor once more. It was a relief at first, no longer needing to prop himself up. But then he had to get on his hands and knees, and all sense of relief vanished. This was humiliating. And terrifying. Not to mention uncomfortable. His arms shook with Dire-sickness, and his skeleton felt sore, possibly from spending the night on the floor.
But he crawled across the little space between them, until his knees rested on the crumpled quilts, and his head bowed before her like the slave he was about to become. Gods! None of the mortifications Jastira had put him through had been quite like this! He’d given Jastira his body, his heart, his mind, his loyalty. He never gave her his magic.
But the truth was, he would give everything to Luna if she asked it. And if this was all she ever wanted from him? Then it was hers. He would offer his power up to her along with his trust that she would never abuse what he placed in her hands.
Her feet seemed to fill his vision, toes twitching nervously in the patchwork folds of the quilt. He’d never had opportunity to study her feet up close before—the fine lines, the gentle arches, the lovely anklebones. He closed his eyes. This wasn’t the time for admiration of her physical attributes, no matter how lovely.
Words formed on his lips, spilled out into the chilly air, warming it strangely until the atmosphere sizzled. Words from a dead language, forgotten by all save the sorcerers who depended on its arcane structures and strictures. He felt the evil in that language, like a bitter coating on his tongue. The Sovereign Troth was Dark Magic, after all.
Stretching out his hands, he took hold of one of her feet. Luna gasped, tensed. But when he pulled, she shifted her weight and allowed him to lift her foot, to draw it toward him. He concentrated on the words he spoke, which roughly translated to:
“By blood, by bone, by basalt and bane.
By soul, by spirit, both sound and insane.”
It went on in this vein for some while. The Old Kings liked their troths good and wordy. When he came at last to the halfway point, Nigel drew her foot to his mouth and, very softly, planted his lips against the delicate veins of her instep.
Luna gasped. And he knew then that she felt it—the sudden influx of Dire Energy moving in the aether. As he spoke the vows, he’d been subtly drawing the barest thread of life-force from Debbie and exchanging it. Now he wove the Dire with his words in the Old Ways of druid sorcerers from medieval ages long gone. It was simple magic, as many of the Old Ways were—so simple, a wardsman’s sorcery sensor wouldn’t be able to detect it. And yet, its very simplicity made it dangerous.
At the moment his lips touched Luna’s skin, magic flowed from him to her. Something sharp. Something binding. Something felt, not with the body, but with the soul.
Nigel set her foot back down, then reached for the other. She was better prepared this time, shifting her weight and allowing him to take it. It was very cold. He wished he dared massage it, let his fingers play over those lovely curves and bones, easing warmth back into her skin and comfort into her muscles. But he maintained his solemn stance—the enslaved sorcerer, kneeling before his mistress.
He murmured the next set of words, felt the troth winding through him. Then he pressed another kiss, chaste and respectful. But the effect was violent. That second kiss formed up the spell, nearly but not quite sealing it. Nigel felt it shoot like a bolt through his body, and he gasped with the shock of it. Debbie croaked and fluttered on her skull-pot, aware of his pain but unable to offer help.
“Oh, Mr. Grimm!“
Luna gasped. He felt her hand touching the top of his head. “Are you all right?”
He nodded, squeezing his eyes tight. Then, lifting his face, he gazed up at her. “Anoint me,“
he said, grimacing through another shock as it coursed through his veins. “It’s not done until then.”
She studied his face, her dark eyes very wide and still swollen after a night of weeping. Her perceptions for sorcery were strong. Did she sense the whirling magic in the aether around them? The dangerous unpredictability of a spell not quite bound?
Her fingers twisted off the cap of the Huck ‘n Clover’s-brand bottle. She tilted it over his forehead, splashing several drops. Then, though he’d told her she didn’t need to do anything else, she placed the palm of her hand against his brow and closed her eyes. He felt the acceptance of his troth—the passing of power from him to her.
“Oh!“
A little cry burst from her lips. Luna retracted her hand swiftly, as though from a fire. Her knees buckled. Nigel reached up and caught her by the forearms. She gripped his elbows, stared down at him, eyes spinning slightly in her skull. “Oh!“
she managed again after a moment. “That was . . . that was . . .“
She shook her head, breathing out hard. “Is it done?”
“Yes,“
Nigel answered softly. “My magic is in your keeping now. I can work no new spells save at your permission.”
“I feel sick,” she said.
He nodded. “Sit down.”
In response to that short command, she simply collapsed onto the pile of quilts in front of him, leaning heavily to one side, her knees curved, her weight resting on one arm. Her other hand continued to cling to him, fingers digging through his shirtsleeve into his flesh.
Nigel cast about, spotted the teapot on the counter, along with his discarded cup of Saint Hylda’s Wort tea. He fetched both, poured a fresh measure of tea into the cup, and offered it to Luna. She accepted without protest, sipping down the nasty brew. After a few gulps, her eyes brightened. She looked up at him then, and her expression was gentler than it had been. “Thank you, Mr. Grimm,“
she said a bit tremulously. “It . . . it means a lot to me that you would do that.”
Nigel looked at her in silence. How little she understood what had just happened between them! What she had taken. What he had given. He felt like a callow youth, lying in the bed of the experienced woman who had just taught him the ways of manhood, so intense was the vulnerability rattling him to his core.
But he said only, “At your service, Miss Talbot.”
Luna nodded. Much revived by the Saint Hylda’s Wort, she set the cup aside and got back to her feet. Her gaze swiveled to Lord Bruxley in his vase. “I . . . would prefer not to be here when it is done,“
she said, and flashed Nigel an embarrassed look. “Is that cowardly of me?”
“No,“
he answered at once. “It’s best if you’re not in proximity when I work a spell of that magnitude.”
She winced but nodded. “And you’ll see that Lord Bruxley gets safely home, won’t you? When it’s all over?”
Nigel ground his teeth. “Yes,“
he acknowledged. “But it might not happen until later in the day. I’m still a bit sapped.”
“I understand.”
Luna fetched her boots and stockings, then took a seat in the cane chair to put them on. Nigel averted his gaze, suddenly very aware of the memory of those feet, cradled in his hands. Yet another moment he would find himself trying hard not to recall in exquisite detail through the dark of the night. He studied the ceiling pipes instead, his fists tightly knotted.
Luna rose, stomped her feet a few times. Then looked at him. “I . . . I suppose I’ll be going now. I’ll be back tomorrow, though.”
And if she changed her mind and skipped town today after all, well . . . Nigel would know. When this newly-established troth broke suddenly, according to the strictures of the binding. Then he would go in search of her. Because there was no way in any hell that he was letting her run off into danger on her own.
“I’ll see you then, Miss Talbot.”
“I better not be reading in tomorrow’s paper about Lord Bruxley’s mysterious disappearance.”
“You won’t.”
“Good.”
She pulled her coat a little tighter, turned up the collar, and strode swiftly across the display floor, through quiet, watchful flowers. At the door, she paused, however, her hand on the latch. “Mr. Grimm?”
Nigel leaned heavily onto his elbows against the countertop, his head low as he peered at Bruxley in the vase. He looked up at her, brow crinkled. “Yes?”
“Who is Janet?”
A sudden wash of cold rushed through his veins.
“Only,“
Luna continued into the silence of his non-answer, “you mentioned her. While you were sort-of unconscious. You . . . you seemed to think I was her, actually.”
His throat was very dry, very tight. “Wh-what did I say exactly?”
“You said, ‘Janet, I’m sorry.’ You said it several times, in fact.”
“Oh.“
He swallowed painfully. “Nothing else?”
Luna shook her head.
He had to tell her something. He could see it in her eyes, her need for an answer, an honest answer. But it wasn’t as though that was a truth he could just go blurting out. She had his troth—she now controlled his magic.
That didn’t mean he couldn’t keep his secrets.
“Janet was the woman I loved,“
he said, careful to keep any superfluous emotion absent from his voice. “But she died. A long time ago. The Shadowbane Lady . . .”
Luna waited. Then, very softly, she asked, “Did she kill her? Did she kill your Janet?”
“The Shadowbane Lady destroyed her. Utterly.“
Nigel looked Luna in the eye across the shop, refusing to blink. “And I will never forgive her for it.”
Luna did not turn away for a long moment. She looked frightened, but also . . . something else. Something Nigel couldn’t quite name. He gazed into her eyes from across the shop, and felt as though, if he could just discern the secret hidden in their depths, then perhaps the mysteries of the very universe would be his to unravel. But though, in his day, he had once delved deep into the Dire, learning more about the enigmas of those fell dimensions than any man before him in history, they were nothing compared to the mystery that was this woman. He suspected that he could devote a lifetime to her study and never fully fathom her depths.
Finally, without another word, Luna broke his gaze. Pushed open the door. Stepped out into the street and vanished. Leaving the shop bells singing softly in her wake.
“Damn.“
Closing his eyes, Nigel let his forehead sink to the countertop. After a while, he turned his head sideways and glared at the spider. It had gotten its two pedipalps up on the glass and seemed to be watching him very intently from its eight bright eyes. “What are you looking at?“
Nigel snarled.
The spider scurried away to the far side of the vase and crouched there, abdomen trembling.
Sighing, Nigel pushed back from the counter and drew himself up straight. Straight and tall as the Grimshade Lord he once was. That figure of grandiosity and evil, of sorcerous malice. That self from whom he could never truly escape.
Jastira’s voice echoed in the back of his head: You cannot run from destiny, Nigel Grimm! We are fated to be together, one way or another!
“But not today,“
Nigel whispered.
Then he looked around at the flowers. All those bright little faces turned to watch him with such concern. “Right,“
he said, rubbing his hands. “How about breakfast? I’ve got a bag of Mama Morgana’s back there that smells positively vile.”
“Never mind!“
Debbie declared and fluttered to his shoulder, riding along as her Dark Master set to work, preparing to open The Arcane Bouquet for business as usual.