Beginning #2
“We are indeed, Miss Talbot,” he said, and pointed to a small, framed, official-looking document hung on the wall behind the counter. “Certified and signed by the Senior Officer of the Food and Beverages Department of Ballycastle.”
Luna’s heart warmed. So, it had actually happened.
After the last two years of loneliness, fear, and scampering from one town to the next, she had landed in an establishment where her gifts could be properly used.
Serving her teas, her blends. Officially licensed and everything!
It might not last—in fact, she knew it couldn’t.
But for a little while at least, she could feel as though she truly belonged somewhere.
And all because Mr. Grimm was willing to give her a chance.
She paused a moment in the midst of arranging gladiolas, peering through their colorful blooms to observe her employer.
Having finished at the sink, he’d turned to the perilous business of deadheading snapdragons, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows to reveal the nice shape and tone of his forearms. He wore his shop apron, which emphasized the trimness of his waist while simultaneously contriving to make his shoulders a bit squarer.
His face was set in stern lines of concentration.
He looked older like that, with those deep furrows in his brow.
Almost dangerous. It was easier to imagine him as a proper sorcerer, the kind of man who could conjure strange powers from perilous realms.
Luna chewed her lower lip contemplatively. Then she called out, “And did you have a good breakfast this morning, Mr. Grimm?”
“Thank you, yes, I . . .” He froze. The furrows of his brow shifted from concentration to alarm.
He shot her a swift glance. In that moment of distraction, a hungry snapdragon made a nab for his finger, and he yanked his hand back only just in time.
“That is,” he said, meeting her gaze once more, “no. No, I don’t eat breakfast.”
Luna narrowed her eyes but let it go.
Mr. Grimm finished his deadheading with minimal blood loss.
Minutes later, he unrolled his sleeves, straightened his cuffs, and turned the shop sign to OPEN.
The Arcane Bouquet was soon abustle with activity.
Quite a few regulars now stopped by multiple mornings every week.
Luna greeted them all by name, smiling at their exclamations of delight over the little tables and chairs.
It was nice having places to seat people while they waited for their turn behind the counter curtain.
The brewing process was easier now as well, for last week, Mr. Grimm had added two large teapots to their collection, along with a dozen cups and saucers.
Not the pricy Royal Bastian brand, but a serviceable white Whittlewedge.
He still hadn’t replaced the dilapidated kettle, but Luna was satisfied.
She watched Mr. Grimm covertly as they moved through their busy morning, taking note of all the little ways he .
. . made things easier for her. When customers lined up too quickly, he shifted them around to give her breathing space.
He kept the kettle hot on the stove and somehow managed to wash and dry all the cups between uses, so they were always at the ready.
Since when did dishwashing become his responsibility? Luna thought, oddly perturbed.
He'd taken time to learn the various names of all her teas as well, and kept track of which ones were ready to serve, which were not. When a particular customer asked for a certain blend, he always knew where it was to be found. “I’ve got it, Miss Talbot,” he would say quietly, before darting back to the kitchen.
Luna chewed the inside of her cheek. Why had it taken her so long to notice?
She noticed now. Along with how, every time there was a lull, he’d sidle up to her and murmur, “You must sit, Miss Talbot. Get off your feet and catch your breath. The next wave will be upon us soon.” And she would realize she’d been going a mile-a-minute without pause for rather a long while, and enjoy a few moments ease.
All this, and he’d been feeding her as well?
A warm little knot of something burned in her breast. Luna hastily smothered it. Gratitude. Yes. She was grateful. Nothing more.
She definitely could not, should not, would not feel anything else.
Besides, she reminded herself during a lull, as she watched her employer clear teacups and wipe the surface of the table in the corner, he likes redheads. With gimlet eyes.
An image flashed through her brain—memory of that teacup vision she’d glimpsed of Mr. Grimm, grabbing that strange, floating woman, his mouth closing over hers in a heart-pounding, blood-thumping, desperate sort of kiss. Her heart gave a little thump.
“Miss Talbot?”
Luna jumped. “What? I wasn’t . . . That is . . . Yes, Mr. Grimm?”
Hands full of carefully stacked teacups, he nodded to the clock behind the counter. “The time,” he said.
Luna looked. It was two o’clock. Just after the lunch-rush hour, when Mr. Grimm always turned the sign to CLOSED for fifteen minutes, and the two of them enjoyed an afternoon cup of tea.
It was a little ritual which had developed over the last several weeks, without either of them saying or doing anything to make it happen. Part of the rhythm of their day.
Shaking away any residual images of floating redheads and amorous embraces, Luna ducked behind the counter and put on the kettle, glad to have such a homey task on which to focus her attention.
She’d been slowly introducing Mr. Grimm to a variety of new teas, and selected one at random now from her stash.
She scooped leaves and spices into the roses-and-violets pot Mr. Grimm had purchased her second day on the job.
She never used that pot or the two matching teacups for customers anymore.
Customers got the white Whittlewedge, but she thought of the pretty Royal Bastian set as theirs. Hers and Mr. Grimm’s.
And since when had she gotten into this way of thinking?
Her brow formed a knot as she poured the tea and slid Mr. Grimm’s cup toward him.
He stood at the counter, looking over the daily log, but closed the logbook at once and lifted the cup from its saucer.
Holding it under his nose, he sniffed delicately.
“What have you brewed for us today?” he asked, looking at Luna through the steam.
“I’m not sure.” She picked up the tin and peered at the ingredients inside. “Looks like red taerel with raspberries, hibiscus, and lemongrass, with”—she sniffed delicately—“a touch of ground maca root. Ah, that’s right! It’s one of Auntie Aurora’s blends. She calls it Tea for a Time of Prayer.”
Mr. Grimm raised an eyebrow. “And are you feeling particularly prayerful this afternoon, Miss Talbot?”
“Not yet.” Luna smirked. “But I haven’t finished my tea, have I?”
Mr. Grimm saluted her with a raised cup and took a tentative sip.
He swallowed, frowned, pursed his lips. “Wait a second. I feel a . . . a certain holiness overwhelming me.” He looked down into his cup and shook his head.
“This is powerful stuff. I might just have to close down the shop for the rest of the afternoon and spend the day on my knees in the chantry house. Your aunties really are miracle workers.”
Luna snorted and rolled her eyes. As far as she could tell, Mr. Grimm had never prayed a day in his life!
It would take a miracle beyond her aunties’ abilities to get him into a chantry house.
Still, that impish look in his eye warmed her right down to her toes.
“They have their skills, Mr. Grimm,” she answered dryly. “They have their skills.”
He took another thoughtful sip. “I don’t believe you’ve ever told me how it was you came to live with them. The aunties, I mean.” The momentary merriment slipped from his gaze, replaced by solemn curiosity. “Your parents . . . ?”
“Dead,” Luna said simply. She swirled the pinkish liquid in her cup, watched how little flecks of leaves moved and swayed in a tiny maelstrom.
“I’m sorry.”
She shrugged. “I was quite young when it happened.”
“It?” he queried softly.
But Luna didn’t care to tell that part of the story.
“I was passed around to various families in the parish for a little while,” she hurried on, as though she’d not heard him, “until it was discovered my mother was distantly related to the aunties. They’re really more like my third cousins once removed, you see.
And they lived all the way across Plym from where I grew up! ”
“And where was that?”
“The Crimble Mountains. I told you.”
“No, I meant where did you grow—”
“One of my earliest memories,” she continued breezily, talking over any further questions she did not wish to answer, “is of being bundled onto the train one cold, winter morning, with an address and stamps pinned to my brown jacket. Just like a brown paper parcel! It was a smoky, crowded, miserable journey, and I believe I cried the entire way. But then, two days later, I stepped out onto the platform at the village of Greater Snoring, and there they were. Four of them back then: Extremely Great Aunt Amelia and her three daughters, Apolonia, Arabella, and Aurora. A trio of witches and a great witch queen, or so I thought at the time. And I wasn’t half-wrong either!
Tealeaf Cottage was their palace, the tea gardens their kingdom, and they presided over Greater Snoring with great dignity.
I was their pint-sized princess.” Tears pricked on the edges of her eyes.
Luna blinked quickly, refusing to let them fall.
“So you see, it isn’t a Sad Little Orphan Tale after all. I had quite a happy childhood.”
Mr. Grimm was silent for some moments. “You must miss them,” he said at last, his voice low.