Chapter 3
He could see everything taking place outside the shop window.
Every grin.
Every lean.
Every blush and moment of fluster.
He could tell, even without hearing a word, when Officer Ward made his invitation. Saw the way Luna’s eyes widened, her breath caught, and her eyelashes fluttered.
At that point, Nigel had enough wherewithal to turn away and drag a deep breath into his lungs.
Three customers lined up behind the register at the counter, but though one said, “Excuse me? Can I get a little service here?” and another offered a more concerned, “Are you all right there, sir?” he didn’t really hear any of them.
Not through the sudden throb of blood in his ears.
His stomach knotted. Probably that damnable hibiscus tea. Hibiscus and raspberry. Why? Just why? Tea was such a nonsensical thing, with all its flavors and combinations, and you never knew what you were going to get, and why didn’t people just drink coffee like rational creatures?
The door bells rang.
Nigel’s head whipped around.
Luna entered the shop, a dazed expression on her face, Officer Ward’s empty teacup in her hand. She paused a moment, frowned into the cup, shook her head . . .
And suddenly Nigel needed space.
A trio of voices called after him from the register, but he ignored them all.
Slipping from behind the counter into the passage, he all but fled to the boiler room door.
He fished the key from where he’d stashed it in his pocket that morning and, heedless of the potential surge of sorcerous energy—which might alert the wardsman, if he was still near—plunged the key into the lock, yanked the door open, stumbled out into the dawn-soft light, and slammed the door shut behind him.
He stood a moment, back pressed against the slats. Staring out at the rolling stretches of green lawns and bountiful blossoms. Breathing hard.
Then he growled, “Damn it all.”
Reacting to his mood, heavy clouds rolled in, darkening the perpetual dawnlight to deep, gloomy gray. A chill breeze picked up, tossing leaves and petals, and suddenly all that was bounteous and glorious became a bit jagged on the edges.
Nigel stuck his hands deep into his pockets, pushed away from the door, and stomped down the path before him.
Garden’s paths twisted, taking him away from the finer grounds and into more desolate tangles as yet unrestored.
His feet crunched on withered leaves and broken twigs and tripped over half-buried chunks of dead Dire Matter, but Nigel didn’t care.
As long as he was moving, as long as he wasn’t back in the shop, looking at Luna’s flushed face, all giddy with delight.
“I should never have taken those wards down,” he muttered, passing under a flowering cherry tree.
It dumped all its petals on him in a single gust.
“Yes, well, I know!” Nigel growled and roughly shook cherry blossoms from his hair. “But I only want to keep her safe, don’t I? It’s most unwise for her to go about fraternizing with SSSD officers! She should know better.”
The cherry tree’s leaves all turned brown overhead, and its branches creaked in the cold breeze. Nigel glared at it and walked on swiftly, shoulders hunched. “Of course, Miss Talbot is capable of making her own decisions. But that doesn’t mean she doesn’t need someone looking out for her!”
The wind blew directly in his face, a harsh blast.
“I’m perfectly aware she never asked for my help!” he snarled. “It’s none of my business what she does or with whom she spends her time. But in my own shop, surely I should have some say? Shouldn’t I?”
He was passing the tangled mess that had once been his father’s rose garden.
The twisted, choked canes seemed to mock him, and the thorns ground together like teeth.
No blossoms to be seen, only the ragged edges of half-buried Dire boulders, sunk into the soil.
The only rose he’d managed to pull from the wreckage after Jastira’s assault was the double-delight.
The rest . . . well, that would require Green Magic on a level Nigel wasn’t certain he’d ever be able to muster.
He stood in front of the snarled mess, not really seeing it.
His mind’s eye played over the sigils one might use if one were to transform certain officers into fine, fat toads.
It would be easy enough, what with the green uniform and all.
A toad could live a long, happy, enchanted life in Garden.
There were numerous little ponds and swampy patches, plenty of bugs.
It would soon lose itself in these wild depths, never to be found by its fellow wardsmen, and—
“Damn it all,” Nigel snarled again and ran his hands aggressively through his hair, knocking a lock loose to fall across his forehead. “You aren’t a Dark Sorcerer anymore, Grimm. You can’t just toad people who get in your way.”
And it’s not as though Officer Ward had gotten in his way, had he? He’d shown no further interest in the shop since that first day. Just the shop girl.
Nigel drew a long breath through clenched teeth. Then, removing his jacket and unfastening his cufflinks, he rolled up his sleeves, tore off his tie, and shouted, “Wheelbarrow!”
The rusty old contraption appeared at his side, along with mean-looking pruning shears and a pair of stout, much-weathered gloves.
His father’s gloves. Nigel always felt a bit of an imposter when he put them on, but they were deeply infused with Green Magic, and he couldn’t tackle the daunting restoration of Garden without them.
He slid his hands into them now, like a knight donning gauntlets before battle.
Then, brandishing the shears, he dove into the wild tangle of roses, cutting, pruning, liberating, and occasionally yelping when a vicious cane reached out to smack some vulnerable part of his anatomy.
So what if he’d abandoned the shop in the middle of a busy day?
So what if he’d left customers standing at the counter and his wares unattended?
They could all just help themselves for all he cared!
It was a somewhat wild, disheveled, thorn-pricked and dirt-smeared version of himself who finally lifted his head from the task some hours later, ears caught by the sound of a voice calling from the top of Garden. “Mr. Grimm? Mr. Grimm, are you out here?”
Nigel straightened. The day was still quite overcast and gloomy, and a breeze chilled the sweat accumulated on his brow. He rubbed the back of his father’s glove across his forehead and turned his gaze to the door, which stood in incongruous isolation at the top of the hill.
Luna peered through the doorway. Even from this distance, he could discern the anxious expression on her face. “It’s half-past six, Mr. Grimm,” she called. “Shall I be off then?”
Part of him was tempted not to answer. She’d not spotted him down in the rose bed as of yet. If he held his tongue, she might just go away on her own.
Instead, however, he pushed and pried his way out from among the thorny canes, deposited gloves and shears into the waiting wheelbarrow, and reclaimed his coat and tie.
Draping these over his arm, he trudged back up through Garden, painfully conscious of the moment when Luna spotted him.
She watched him in a silence which brimmed with unspoken questions.
He was a bit embarrassed, truth be told, that she should see him mussed up like this.
He’d lost his cufflinks entirely, somewhere along the way.
Reaching the top of the hill, he rolled his head to one side, reluctantly meeting her gaze.
She stood with one hand resting on the doorknob and chewed her lower lip. “I’ve fed the potted plants,” she said at last. “And refreshed all the buckets and vases. Dishes are done and stacked, and the register is in order. Would you like me to restock anything before I go?”
“No.” He shook his head. The escaped lock of hair wafted across his eye. “I’ll take care of it, Miss Talbot. Thank you.”
She pressed her lips into a line and nodded.
He felt her gaze running up and down his less-than-impressive figure, no doubt noting all the little tugs and snares from the thorns.
Did she expect an explanation for his sudden abandonment of the shop?
He kept his mouth firmly shut. She looked at him; he looked at her. And neither spoke a word.
Finally, Luna cleared her throat, turned on heel, and disappeared into the dark shop passage.
Nigel had no choice but to follow. He shut Garden’s door behind him and locked it tight, before progressing out to the shop floor.
All was quiet; a hush seemed to have settled over the flowers, who watched him covertly from behind their leaves.
Even Debbie, on her skull-pot, was uncharacteristically subdued.
Luna plucked her coat down from its peg in the nook and slung it around her shoulders.
Her back arched delightfully as she slipped her arms into the sleeves, and Nigel noticed .
. . but quickly redirected his gaze. He moved to the register, pretending to check the logbook.
The words and numbers swam before his vision.
“Mr. Grimm?”
He swallowed. Looked up. “Hmm?”
Her gaze was downcast, focused on her own fingers as she did up the buttons of her coat. “About tomorrow. Was there something you wanted to . . . ask me?”
His stomach knotted.
There was.
There was something he wanted to ask her.
Something completely, foolishly, stupidly inappropriate, which he had no business asking, but which he had almost let slip, despite all dictates of good sense and decorum.
“Yes.” Nigel closed the logbook with a quick snap.
“Would you be so good as to come in at seven tomorrow morning? I intend to stock up on chrysanthemums. Those seem to be selling fast this season. It may take a little time to bring in the stock, and I’ll need you to manage the rest of the opening routine. ”
She froze, her fingers still on the final button. Her dark eyes flicked to meet his. For just an instant, he saw hurt flash across her features. She said nothing, however. Simply stood there, looking at him, her lips slightly parted as though in surprise.
Then, dropping her lashes, she murmured, “Sure thing, Mr. Grimm.” Snatching her hat from its peg on the wall, she set it on her head. “Good night.”
Nigel didn’t bother to respond. She slipped from the store in a tinkle of bells, and he hastened to lock the door in her wake. For a moment he stood, breathing in the lingering chamomile scent of her, even as he refused to look out through the window and watch her cross the street.
Gods. When had he become such an ass?
Of course, she had plans with Officer Ward. Of course, he’d already halfway promised her the day off. Of course, she merely wanted a confirmation, and . . . and . . .
He turned abruptly and stepped back behind the counter to check the register.
It dinged open, and he compared the day’s profits with the written log, pretending for all he was worth to be completely absorbed in this task.
All the while acutely aware of the flowers. All of whom had turned to watch him.
At last, with a sigh, he looked up and scowled around the display floor. “What?” he demanded, roughly pushing that recalcitrant lock of hair back from his forehead.
The double-delight rose stared at him in ruffly disdain. The tiger lilies growled softly. Little puffs of smoke rose from the snapdragon tray, and even the violets, usually so demure, wore expressions of distinct disgust.
He turned to Debbie on her skull-pot. She tilted her head sharply, staring at him through one beady eye. “Never mind,” she said.
“Yes, I know,” Nigel snarled and slammed the register shut.