Chapter TWENTY-TWO
Nigel Grimm stood behind the shop counter, pretending to go over the logbook from yesterday, but in actuality watching the traffic passing to-and-fro outside the front windows of The Arcane Bouquet. Every time someone walked by on the sidewalk, shadow flickering in the morning light, his heart leapt, and he grabbed the edge of the counter. Even when each figure went on its way without so much as a pause or a glance, his heart continued to race for some while, as though he’d just survived a deadly encounter.
Gods spare him, since when had he become so deeply dependent on his sorcery?
He supposed it had come on slowly, many years ago, as his powers increased. The same way a small child slowly comes to depend on the expected use of arms and legs. Eventually, you don’t even think about it anymore. The power is simply there . . . until it isn’t.
One would think three years of (mostly) sorcerous abstinence would prepare him for this sudden sensation of vulnerability. Part of the reason he’d moved to Ballycastle in the first place was the particularly stringent sorcery-suppression laws, which made it both the perfect place to hide a great work of sorcery and to limit the temptation to utilize any superfluous spells. Surely, he’d told himself at the time, he could learn to move and function in the ordinary world without that constant twitch in his spirit, that draw of the Dire on the edge of his very soul.
Only, apparently, he hadn’t.
Nigel ran the tip of his pencil down a line of figures in the logbook. It was his tenth time going over the same set of numbers, still not quite registering anything he read. He’d written a total sum three times, only once he’d added in numbers from the next column over, once he’d left out an entire set of figures, and once he’d brought in an equation of Dire Integers, changing the nature of the sum entirely and partially opening a portal into the Void right there on his line-ruled page. Nigel hastily erased and started over. His head for math was usually much sharper than this. But it was difficult to perform even basic calculations with one’s stomach knotted up with dread.
He glanced at the clock on the wall behind him. 8:23, it read. Seven minutes until the arrival of his Sovereign Lady—the one person in the world who could now command the tremendous power which had, until yesterday, been at his fingertips.
Nigel dropped the pencil, leaned forward, and pinched the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes tightly shut. Did Luna know? Did she even guess the degree of power to which she now had access? Why, with his mastery of the Dire, she could command him to topple the governing bodies of this very city in a single afternoon! By this time tomorrow morning, she might sit enthroned in the governor’s mansion and call herself the new Queen of Ballycastle. And who could oppose her? Sure, they’d send their wardsmen with their anti-sorcery equipment, but nothing they wielded compared to Nigel’s grasp of spellcraft. And he had Garden as a power source—basically an endless fount of energy reserves, if he used it wisely. Which he would, of course. He wouldn’t try to drain it all in one go on a single Great Spell, as Jastira had attempted. No, he would only take in part, as needed, allowing the rest to regenerate after each usage. But each spell he worked would be so tremendous, the SSSD would be powerless to stop him.
A series of quite sorcerous images played out in his head, all the usual grandiose temptations common to any Dark Sorcerer. Nigel liked those images. For once, they did not feature his own ascension, but that of his Sovereign Lady. What a queen she would be! Exalted over all those who had once dared demean her with their ugly tattoos and their petty prejudices! And he, her faithful servant, resplendent in sorcerer’s robes, wreathed in anti-glitter storms. Blasting a contingent of wardsmen (all of whom strongly resembled Officer Ward in his imagination) with bolts of Dire force—
The shop door opened to a tinkle of bells.
Nigel gulped. All grandiosity flooded from his soul like the blood draining from his face. He looked up sharply, wide-eyed and a bit ashamed, and, for just an instant, his imagined vision of a dreadful (and rather scantily clad) Queen of Darkness overlayed the real-life vision of the woman stepping through his door. But fantasy soon flitted away. The crown of burning Dire Matter melted down into a little knit cap, and robes of churning anti-glitter were replaced by a threadbare winter coat, splashed with street snow.
“Hullo, Mr. Grimm,“
Luna said quietly. She kicked ice from her boots before pulling the door shut behind her against the winter chill. There was none of the usual brightness or spark in her voice. Instead, a subdued melancholy clung to her, hunching her shoulders. She did not pause to glance at any of the flowers, which raised their heads to greet her as she crossed the display floor. She certainly did not look at her employer.
Nigel forced words up through his thick throat. “Good morning, Miss Talbot.“
Even that small utterance required positively heroic effort.
Luna approached the counter. Lifted the hinged portion. Stepped back into the small space with him. As though it didn’t matter. As though to share proximity once more wasn’t tantamount to suddenly returning to a breathable atmosphere after drifting through airless vacuums.
Nigel’s jaw locked. He ought to resent her for what she’d demanded of him yesterday. For making him pledge that Sovereign Troth, bestowing on her the right to dispense his magic as she willed. But he couldn’t resent her. Not even if he wanted to. She sidled past him, unaware of what the brush of her coat against the back of his legs did to his equilibrium, and Nigel purposefully did not watch as she hung up her things, as she donned her apron, as she shook her smooshed hat-hair into a more attractive arrangement. But he felt every movement she made so intensely, it hurt.
“Excuse me,“
Luna murmured, sidling by him again as she stepped out from behind the counter. He watched from under his brow as she made her way to the back passage, heading for the storage room. Preparing to go about all the regular opening duties, as though this were just any other morning.
“Miss Talbot?“
he called after her abruptly.
She paused, turned. Looked back over her shoulder. Her face was devoid of all expression.
Nigel swallowed. He found himself briefly trying to recall the look he’d thought he’d seen in her eyes in the dark two nights before. When they’d shared a makeshift bed of piled quilts, and she’d lain in his arms. When she’d brushed her lips against his jaw, sending such an electric storm bursting through every synapsis of his brain, and he’d rolled atop her, struggling to see her face in the shadows, to discern her expression, to understand. To know if what he thought he was sensing from her was in any way true or even likely. Did she want him to kiss her? Not just a brotherly salute on the cheek, chaste and sexless. A true kiss. A lover’s kiss. Passionate. Whole-hearted. The sort of kiss which rocked foundations and irrevocably altered the shape of worlds.
But in the moment, he couldn’t see her face well enough to know. And now, looking at those cold features, schooled into such emotionless lines, he wondered if he’d very nearly let wishful thinking make him into a fool. Again.
“The, erm.“
He cleared his throat and said the first thing which sprang to mind. “The snapdragons. They require deadheading this morning.”
Luna’s lips thinned ever so slightly. Deadheading the snapdragons was a singularly unpleasant (not to mention mildly dangerous) task, one Nigel had only asked her to perform on rare occasions. He could kick himself for doing so now, but the words were spoken, and he refused to back down, refused to break her gaze.
She nodded. Once. Short. “Of course, Mr. Grimm.”
Turning, she continued on to the storage room. Nigel listened to the sounds of her footsteps, the opening and closing of the door.
Then he readdressed his gaze to the logbook page where the numbers once more danced and whirled and made no sense to his brain. Debbie hopped down from her skull-pot and fluttered across the counter to peck at his necktie. “Never mind?“
she suggested with some sympathy.
“No,“
Nigel growled. “I’m not running away to Garden this morning. We . . . we’ve got to figure out a way to work together. Like two reasonable people.”
But he couldn’t help wincing when the storage room door banged open once more, heralding Luna’s return. She appeared, toting a bag of Mama Morgana’s Miracle Manure, her hands clad in rubber gloves, and a bucket slung from one elbow. Nigel made a valiant effort not to watch her as she moved about the display floor, feeding the potted plants, trimming withered leaves, plucking browned petals, and rearranging the ready-made bouquets. She tackled the snapdragons last of all, her face set in stern lines, for they were crotchety and eager for bloodsport this morning. One snapping blossom caught the end of her rubber-gloved finger and bit down hard. When she recoiled, it came up by the roots, dangling from her fingertip, the other flower heads puffing smoke and uttering tiny, furious roars.
The urge to leap from behind the counter and rush to her assistance was strong. Instead, Nigel chose the coward’s course, abandoning his logbook and fleeing for the kitchen. He simply did not trust himself around her. He couldn’t even say what it was he did not trust himself to do, or say, or be. Only that, where Luna Talbot was concerned, his impulses were entirely treacherous and, for the moment at least, he needed a little distance.
He had cause to regret his cowardice a few moments later, however, when he stepped through the kitchen door to discover, not the solitary space of reprieve he’d expected. No, for his gaze was met by the rotund little figure of Mrs. Goddard, his landlady, come to deliver his daily breakfast platter. Said platter sat on the kitchen table, and the good woman stood with her back to Nigel, gathering last night’s dishes from the draining board. The not-so-subtle sounds of “boo-hooing“
issued from beneath the old-fashioned lace cap adorning her gray head.
Nigel stopped cold, grimacing. He liked Mrs. Goddard. He truly did. She was a kindly soul, and she’d come through for him with that spice cake in a pinch. She never up-charged anything, and while he could possibly do with fewer mushroom-embroidered handkerchiefs in his life, he couldn’t fault her generous nature.
That didn’t mean he wanted to play the role of comforter in her hour of need.
He made a slow, backwards step of retreat. Just then, however, the good woman uttered a despairing sigh, followed by an, “Oh, dear, oh, dear, oh, dearie dear!“
Even the coldest heart could not help but be moved. And Nigel’s heart was no longer quite so cold as it had once been. More’s the pity.
Closing his eyes and bracing himself for what was to come, he said, “Is something the matter, Mrs. Goddard?”
“Oh!“
She turned from the sink in a flutter of lace and ribbons and pressed a wrinkled hand to her careworn bosom. Tears glistened in her eyes. “I wouldn’t want to burden you with me troubles, Mr. Grimm.”
Good, Nigel thought. Please, don’t burden me, that would be excellent.
With another sigh, he fetched his handkerchief from his pocket and offered it to Mrs. Goddard. She accepted and, upon noting that it was one of her own dancing-mushroom hankies, her face brightened in a momentary smile. She blew her nose loudly. “All right,“
Nigel said, backing away. “Well, I hope all will be—”
“It’s my boy!“
she declared in the tones of one settling in for a long telling.
“Oh gods,“
Nigel whispered.
“I just know he’s gone and got himself mixed up with that bad crowd down by the harbor. You know the ones, don’t you?”
Nigel shook his head. He made a point of not knowing basically anything that went on in Ballycastle beyond the boundaries of his own little shop.
“The Brute Boys,“
Mrs. Goddard continued, wiping tears from her faded cheeks with a corner of Nigel’s handkerchief. “Them’s the ones what got themselves mixed up with that sorcerous business up north at Gliphaven. A bunch of them was nicked for it, or so me sister’s husband’s brother-in-law tells me. He’s a detention officer in the correctional branch of the SSSD, and he said they got the worst of the lot in the chokey now, but the remainders have been recruiting since then. I know for a fact my sweet boy’s best mate, Rodeny Rookshanks, joined up, and he’s been pestering my Tobias . . .”
She continued in this vein for some while. Apparently, she’d tried to send her youngest son up north to work for his elder brother—Yes, please, go up north, posthaste, Nigel thought uncharitably, though, with valiant effort, he maintained a sympathetic expression—but Tobias and the brother in question fought like tomcats, and Tobias was packed up for home again before you could say “kippered herrings,” and—
At some point, his landlady paused for breath. Sensing what might be his only opportunity, Nigel managed to insert a calming, “Now, Mrs. Goddard, I’m sure it will all work out. You’ve planted the seeds of good principles in his mind, and when the grindstone begins to turn, he’ll remember the cloth from which he is cut, and fly back to the bosom of his . . .”
His voice trailed away. Exactly how many metaphors had he just blended in one go?
Mrs. Goddard, however, sniffled into her borrowed handkerchief, smiling through tears. “Oh, thank you ever so for the wise words, Mr. Grimm. You are a great comfort to me poor heart!“
She reached out then and patted his cheek, and Nigel congratulated himself on managing not to flinch. “Now tell me,“
she continued in cooing tones, “did your Luna enjoy her little birthday surprise? Did she thank you for it properly?”
Heat roared up Nigel’s neck at the words “your Luna.“
He abruptly turned to the stove and, more out of habit than anything, grabbed the kettle and began to fill it. “Tea, Mrs. Goddard?“
he offered. Then silently cursed himself. The last thing he needed was to sit and share a pot of tea with his landlady right then.
Thankfully, she shook her head, laces dancing. “No, no, dear boy, I have other deliveries to make this morning.“
She tapped the lid of the covered platter on the counter. “Tell sweet Luna to enjoy the breakfast.”
With that and a last wink, she bustled from the kitchen, cheerier than she was upon entering. Which only goes to show one should never underestimate the value of a good metaphor. Or several.
In the wake of her departure, Nigel leaned heavily against the kitchen table and closed his eyes. A single word eked through his grinding teeth: “Damn.“
Then, because he didn’t know what else to do, he went about preparing that pot of tea. He fetched Luna’s vanilla-honeysuckle blend from the cupboard, primed the pot, then measured out level spoonfuls. With a willful set of his chin, he refused to add the dibble-dab. One small act of defiance against this woman who had so undone the orderliness of his life.
The kitchen door opened.
Luna entered, took one look at Nigel, and turned her face away quickly. She began to retreat, but Nigel stepped back from the teapot and straightened his jacket. “Are the, erm, snapdragons tended?” he asked.
“Yes, Mr. Grimm,“
she said quietly.
“Good.”
She was most likely here for breakfast. A breakfast she would not eat if he was present to see it. It was all part of their odd little unspoken agreement, one of the silent rules by which he must abide if he wanted her to accept the meals he offered.
“Tea’s brewing,“
Nigel said, circling the long way around the kitchen table to maintain as much distance as possible between them on his way to the door. “Five minutes.”
Luna nodded a silent acknowledgement. He was beginning to think he would escape this encounter with no further words exchanged, but just as he pushed the door open and took a step into the passage, she spoke: “Mr. Grimm?”
His heart leapt to his throat. “Yes?“
he said, looking back.
“About Lord Bruxley . . .”
And there his heart went again. Tumbling right back down to the pit of his stomach.
“Handled,“
he answered abruptly.
It hadn’t been easy. It had taken most of yesterday for his strength to return enough to manage the complex transmutation spell. Then he’d had to figure out the tricky balance of returning the offensive Bruxley to his original human shape before subduing him enough to remove certain memories from his mind. He’d almost attempted the memory-removal while Lord Bruxley was still in spider form, but spider brains were notoriously tricky to navigate. Nigel didn’t have practical experience with them and risked magically lobotomizing the lord. Which wouldn’t have bothered Nigel all that much, but definitely would not have met with Luna’s approval.
In the end, Bruxley had solved one problem for Nigel all on his own. The instant his human shape was restored, he made a beeline for the wall and tried to climb it with limbs he no longer possessed. This resulted in a crash, a bruised skull, and a temporary unconsciousness, which Nigel was quick to exploit. He deftly removed the memories, draining the life force from an entire hydrangea to source the necessary sorcerous energy. He’d then dug up a bottle of cooking wine from the depths of the pantry and poured it all over Bruxley’s shirt and vest, figuring a boozy bender was as good an explanation for the lord’s addled state of being as any.
Finally, after slapping Bruxley back into a state of semi-lucidity, Nigel had assisted him, stumbling and weaving down the sidewalk and around to Pembroke Street. There he’d hailed a taxi. “Delivery for Bruxley Hall, Northside,“
he’d told the driver, bundling his tipsy nemesis into the back seat.
And that was the last he hoped ever to see of Lord Archibald and his striped trousers.
Luna studied Nigel’s face for a moment, trying to read more information than was expressed in his one-worded answer. For a moment, she looked as though she might question him further. Then, with a short shake of her head, she turned to the teapot on the counter. “Five minutes, you said?”
“Four now,“
Nigel answered. Then he slipped from the kitchen and let the door shut behind him. His gaze flitted longingly down the passage to where Garden’s door stood. The temptation was strong to make his escape, to lose himself in those twisting paths and secret green depths, as far from all this excruciating awkwardness as he could get. But no. Was he a man or a maggot? He would face his problems head-on with . . . with manly courage. And all that.
He returned to the shop counter and his waiting logbook. Debbie, back on her skull, shot him a knowing look. “Never mind,” she said.
“Shut up,“
he growled back and, brandishing his pencil, prepared to attempt the tally once more. Before he’d made any progress, however, there was a knock at the door. “We open at nine!“
Nigel called, without looking up.
Another knock.
Nigel lifted his head, scowling. And his stomach dropped to the pit of his very soul.
Ward. The Wardsman. Standing there under the awning. Grinning and waving, like the two of them were great chums.
The spider spell was still fresh in Nigel’s brain. His fingers twitched with temptation . . .
Slamming the logbook shut, he pushed open the hinged portion of the counter with enough violence to make Debbie squawk and flutter, and stormed across the display floor. He glared at Ward through the glass. “We’re closed,“
he growled, not quite loud enough that Luna should hear from the kitchen.
Ward nodded. “I know.“
His voice came a little muffled through the glass. “My shift starts in fifteen anyway. But I’ve got to speak to Luna for a quick sec.”
Nigel set his teeth. “Can I take a message?”
Here the handsome wardsman actually looked embarrassed. “Erh, no. Not about this.“
He grimaced then. “Open up, won’t you? I don’t want half of Addle Street knowing my business.”
Nigel released a long sigh. With a series of muttered curses, he unlocked the door and opened it a fraction. “What?“
he demanded again, keeping an arm in place to block the wardsman’s entrance.
Ward peered over his shoulder, but looked disappointed. “I’ll give it to you straight, Grimm,“
he said, meeting Nigel’s less-than-encouraging gaze. “I’m here to take my last shot with Luna. I’m off on assignment tonight and won’t be back for a month maybe. I want to know if there’s any point in looking her up when I get back. Gotta make some progress, you know? Or it’s time to cut my losses.”
Something about the way this was spoken put Nigel’s hackles up. Like Luna was some sort of project to be accomplished, not a person to be known and understood and appreciated. He didn’t say anything, however, merely looked at the wardsman. Silently. Sternly.
“Anyway,“
Ward continued, “I mean to ask her to dinner. This evening. Make up for that date we didn’t go on before Green Yule. It’s all or nothing, so wish me luck!“
He grinned and drew his shoulders back. “Will you send her up to see me? It’s still a few minutes before opening, right?”
“Right,“
Nigel admitted. He felt a simultaneously burning and freezing sensation pulse in his veins. The Dark Sorcerer in him, who had reared his foul head so violently just yesterday, clamored once more at the barriers in his mind, still very much alive and kicking. Come on, that insidious voice whispered in the back of his brain. Just one little spell. This hulking beefcake will never see it coming—
“Step inside,“
Nigel said and backed away, allowing Ward to enter. “Wait here. And don’t touch anything!”
Looking oddly chastened, Ward put his hands behind his back and stood, feet shoulder-width apart, simultaneously militant and like an overlarge schoolboy about to recite his lessons. In that moment, Nigel wasn’t certain he’d ever truly loathed anyone before. Not as he loathed this man. Which, he realized, was grossly unfair, but nonetheless . . .
He marched back across the shop floor, raising a silent finger of warning to Debbie as he passed her on her skull-pot. Then he stepped into the back passage, pushed the kitchen door partially open, and barked, “John Ward is here to see you.”
“Oh!“
he heard from inside. But didn’t wait to hear more. Leaping for the storage room, he pushed inside, grabbed the key from the polka-dot flowerpot. He didn’t pause to wonder if Ward the Wardsman had a sorcery sensor on him or if there was any chance that the spells around the portal might set it off. He jammed the key into the lock and flung the boiler room door open at the exact same moment the kitchen door creaked behind him.
He didn’t look back. He stepped through into Garden, slammed the door shut, and fell back heavily against it.
“Damn,“
he cursed and hit his head against the slats a few times, eyes squeezed shut.
Time to spend a couple of hours hauling Dire Matter. Until his body ached, and his brain was numb, and he no longer had the strength to think. About Luna. About Ward. About troths pledged, about magic expended, and certainly not about kisses which had never happened.