A Spot of Tea and Sorcery, Vol. 2

Beginning

Three little tables stood under the awning of The Arcane Bouquet, complete with matching chairs.

Luna did not notice them at first as she made the turn from Nettleton Lane.

Her gaze was distracted by activity down by the harbor.

She paused for a moment at the top of the street to watch the goings-on.

Sunlight sparkled on water, and the whole of Lower Eastside felt bright in the crisp, early light.

Garlands and bunting abounded everywhere she looked.

She spied little booths, halfway assembled, and even a couple of striped tents tucked here and there.

From a doorway nearby, the street fiddler began to play, scraping away at a jolly tune in keeping with the festive atmosphere.

Hugging herself a little tighter, Luna smiled, despite the chill creeping through her too-thin coat and the gaps in the seams of her shoes.

Something felt altogether good about this morning, full of promise and potential she couldn’t quite name.

But this was often the way with autumn. She’d felt it frequently enough back in the Crimble countryside, when the mountain slopes burst into fiery colors.

Apparently, that feeling crept through to the city as well, despite all the sidewalks and pavements and bustle of automagic mobiles.

It was still a bewitching season, full of gold-filtered light and subtle spice, which tricked one into ignoring the looming struggle of coming winter.

While she knew better than to let herself grow complacent, Luna allowed the spirit of the season to wrap her up in its embrace that morning.

She breathed in deep of the excitement humming up and down Lower Eastside.

Then, turning up the collar of her coat, she nodded to the fiddler in his doorway (who winked and went on playing), crossed the busy street during a lull in traffic, and hastened on to The Arcane Bouquet.

The music seemed to carry her down the sidewalk, her footsteps hitting in time with the beat, almost like a dance.

She would have danced all the way to work, only she spotted the three tables under the awning and stopped short, her breath caught on a puff of frost.

They were cute little things: wrought-iron and all curlicues and floral motifs.

Not terribly comfortable-looking, but undeniably precious.

One couldn’t bear to find fault. And so unexpected!

Luna wondered if she’d taken a wrong turn somewhere.

But no, there was the familiar yellow sign above the door, declaring the freshest flowers in Eastside.

“So. He caved on the tables,” Luna murmured.

A grin broke across her face.

Hastening to the door, she let herself in, calling out a cheery, “Good morning!” as she wiped her feet on the mat.

No answer followed; her employer was nowhere to be seen.

What could be seen, however, were three more tables, the exact match of those outside.

Just big enough to seat two at a time, scattered around the shop in various nooks.

One stood close to the double-delight rose (fully recovered from mottle-spot), who looked vaguely affronted at the proximity.

A glow of satisfaction warmed Luna’s breast as she peeled off her jacket and removed her hat. After two weeks, she’d thought Mr. Grimm had completely dismissed her suggestion. He must have been working on it all this while and never breathed a word.

She set her purse down behind the counter.

No sign of Debbie; the raven and Mr. Grimm must both be in Garden.

Usually Mr. Grimm refreshed his stock the night before, directly after closing, but sometimes he got up early to wander Garden’s paths.

It didn’t matter. Luna could open the shop on her own.

Fetching her green apron from its peg (Mr. Grimm had added aprons last week, at her suggestion; he was particularly keen when she pointed out how they would keep his waistcoats clean), she tied it around her waist, then headed to the storage room to fetch a bag of Mama Morgana’s Miracle Manure.

Sounds of clatter in the kitchen arrested her attention, however, and she poked her head through the doorway. “Good morning, Mrs. Goddard.”

“Ah, good morning to you, sweetling!” Mrs. Goddard replied, grinning at her from under her lace cap. She set a covered platter on the counter. “I’ve got your breakfast for you.”

A telltale flush crept up Luna’s neck. “You mean, Mr. Grimm’s breakfast. I’ll let him know it’s here.”

But Mrs. Goddard gave her a look, one faded brow lifting.

“Now, my dear, there’s no use pretending like I don’t see what goes on right under me nose.

I know perfectly well that boy doesn’t eat a bite of any breakfast I bring him.

No siree! Why, me own sister, what works over at The Egg ‘n Spoon, told me he’s there every morning, ‘bout six o’clock, eating a sad porridge and coffee, all on his lonesome, just so’s he can leave you what I brings.

” She winked then, coming round the counter.

“And don’t think I begrudge what he does with his own meals.

The lease says I bring him two square a day, and that’s what I bring him.

He can certainly pick for himself who gets to eat ‘em!” She pinched Luna’s cheeks rather hard, her cheery face wrinkling up with smiles.

“I’m just glad to see you putting a little meat on your poor bones, my dear!

Now, tell me, have you got a batch of that lovely tea packaged up nice for me? ”

Somewhat subdued, Luna fetched a tin of slow-dried orange llarmi for Mrs. Goddard. The old lady, prize in hand, bustled out the alleyway door, calling over her shoulder, “I’ll be back with Mr. Grimm’s dinner. Ta, darling!”

And Luna was left alone.

She turned a suspicious gaze on the covered platter, eyes narrowing.

When had she become so comfortable eating Mr. Grimm’s breakfast every day?

He’d adamantly insisted that he simply wasn’t hungry early in the mornings.

He always made up for it at lunch, ordering in bread, cheese, and fruit from Huck ‘n Clover’s, or sometimes a quart of soup from Simmer Down Deli, over on Pembroke.

Always more than he could eat, of course, always plenty of leftovers, which he invited Luna to enjoy.

“Wouldn’t want them to go to waste, after all,” he would say.

Luna didn’t protest. With her shoes on the ragged verge of collapse, she still didn’t have spare coin for dinner most evenings. She wasn’t about to turn up her nose at free food, and yet . . . and yet . . .

She’d not stopped to consider that Mr. Grimm might be buying himself a separate breakfast just so she could have his.

Conflicted, Luna contemplated the silver cover before her.

On the one hand, it was really, really nice.

Having someone to watch over her, concerned with her welfare, making certain she ate regular meals.

On the other hand, it wasn’t an appropriate role for her employer.

He paid her to do good work, and she did it.

She’d been conscientious and innovative, finding creative means to bring new customers to his shop.

She’d offered suggestions, some of which he’d even implemented (she smiled a little, thinking of those tables).

She felt good about the wage she earned.

She didn’t feel so good about this charity.

But was it charity, exactly?

A small voice whispered in the back of her head: It could simply be that he cares about you.

Luna’s face heated. Abruptly determined she was not hungry, she stashed the covered tray in the icebox, moving around a few of her cold-brew teas to make room for it.

Then she slammed the door hard and stood there for a breath, hand still resting on the handle.

She wasn’t in a position for someone to care about her.

Not when her life was so unstable. Not when she was likely to have to pull up roots and scamper out of Ballycastle without a trace in the middle of some not-so-distant night.

It wasn’t fair. To anyone. It hadn’t been fair to her aunties, had it?

Of course, Mr. Grimm didn’t care about her the way her aunties did. He was just her employer. Her quiet, serious, shy, rarely-smiling employer. Who bought her tea sets. And tables. And let her make a veritable laboratory out of his nice, clean kitchen.

Who gave her his breakfast every morning.

“I’m grateful,” Luna whispered. She removed her hand from the icebox door and tugged at the cuff of her left sleeve. “I’m grateful for everything he’s done. Of course I am.” Gratitude was a safe enough feeling, wasn’t it? Perfectly permissible under the circumstances.

In a thoughtful frame of mind, she returned to the storage room, grabbed the Mama Morgana’s, and set to work feeding the potted plants before refreshing water for the cuttings.

Then she put a few buckets of hearty, cold-resistant blooms out between the tables under the awning.

She had everything just about situated by the time she heard Garden’s door creak open in the passage.

Debbie’s ominous croak heralded her master’s arrival.

Mr. Grimm emerged a moment later, raven on one shoulder, a bunch of gladiolas in his arms. The brilliant, multi-colored flowers were so wildly out of season, Luna giggled at the sight.

But she hurried to help him, fetching glass vases from storage, while he carried the blossoms to the trimming sink.

“I like the new additions, Mr. Grimm,” Luna said as she lined up vases on the counter.

He shot her a halfway-glance, followed by a nod. And a whisper of a smile.

“They’re nice, sturdy-looking tables,” she continued. “Should stand against the elements rather well.”

“Yes. I thought so.”

Luna fetched a bundle of trimmed gladiolas and began arranging them in vases. “Are we licensed then?” she asked. “Approved and whatnot to serve tea in an official capacity?”