Chapter 18
Luna’s stomach was such a knot of tension by the time she arrived at The Arcane Bouquet the following morning, she didn’t think she could eat a bite of Mrs. Goddard’s beans and toast. Even if she didn’t feel so abjectly guilty about doing so to begin with.
She pushed the door open and called out her usual, “I’m here, Mr. Grimm!” to the tinkling of shop bells.
No answer. Not even a squawk from Debbie.
But this was no surprise. No doubt Mr. Grimm was busy, out in Garden somewhere. They’d left the shop unattended for an entire day, and it was bound to take some going-over to get everything ready for opening.
Or . . . maybe not?
Luna frowned as she hung up her coat. Everywhere she looked, the shop had been scrubbed and straightened within an inch of its life.
Not a stray brown leaf touched the floor, not a single pot stood out of line, not a paperclip littered the desk.
The register was all in order, the floor swept spick and span, and all the flowers had been fed, trimmed, dead-headed, watered, refreshed, arranged.
The thaumatic light bulbs had all been changed, the baseboards had been dusted, even the cobwebs in the very highest, hardest-to-reach corners of the ceiling had been dealt with.
Everything. A handful of quite ornate bouquets stood on display in the window (Mr. Grimm had been practicing his flower arranging skills over the last several weeks).
In fact, Luna realized as she tied on her apron, there was nothing whatsoever for her to do. Other than move a few pots outside for display.
Her mouth quirked to one side, she set to work on this solitary task, selecting hearty blooms that wouldn’t mind the autumnal-morning chill.
She tried not to worry about Mr. Grimm. Had he stayed up all night, scrubbing the shop from top to bottom?
But why? Guilt over abandoning it for a day, no doubt.
But what about that knock he took to the face?
He really ought to have rested after a blow like that.
Was he sleeping even now? Had he, exhausted from his night’s labors, collapsed into bed in the apartment upstairs, leaving her to manage on her own today, unsupervised? Perhaps . . .
“Or perhaps you ought not to speculate so wildly until you’ve got all the facts,” Luna muttered as she turned one of her flower pots to a more fetching angle.
“Ahem!”
The Clearing of the Throat happened just behind her. It was the most polite, most delicate of sounds. Absolutely ladylike in every particular, and yet somehow still managed to convey a certain undercurrent of desperation.
Luna turned, eyebrows raised, and found herself facing quite an eerie-looking figure, all in black, wearing a large hat swathed in gauzy veils.
The costume was obviously meant for discretion, and were they all existing within the pages of a gothic novel, might have done just the trick.
In a modern city like Ballycastle, however, it was a bit outlandish.
“Good morning, Miss Eugenia Lambert,” Luna said politely. “Good morning, Sutton,” she added to the young lady’s personal maid, who stood several paces behind her, un-disguised and determinedly without expression of any kind.
The little veiled creature reached out and grabbed Luna by the wrist. “Oh! Don’t say my name out loud!” she gasped, her voice slightly muffled through gauze. “Who knows who could be listening?”
Luna cast a look up and down the busy sidewalks.
Despite the presence of a veiled apparition in their midst, absolutely no one was paying any attention.
The self-absorption of Ballycastle’s citizens might play in the young lady’s favor.
Still, Luna could feel the poor girl’s hand trembling and chose to take pity.
“Why don’t you come into the shop,” she suggested.
“Are you looking for flowers today? Another soiree perhaps?”
“No, indeed,” Miss Eugenia said as Luna ushered her and Sutton inside.
Once the door was shut and locked, she struggled her way out of her veils, which caught on absolutely every button.
Sutton was obliged to intercede and remove the headpiece entirely, leaving a slightly disheveled, mousy little miss to gaze wide-eyed up at Luna.
“I’ve heard all about you since last I was here, Miss Talbot.
They say you are a powerful seer and can foretell the future! ”
Well, that was certainly stating things boldly. “I am a tea witch with some training,” Luna replied, not liking to dampen the girl’s enthusiasm too much. “I can discern little flashes, but it’s just whatever the tea chooses to share. I don’t control the visions.”
Tears sprang to the young woman’s eyes. She clasped her hands, really leaning into the gothic heroine bit. “Oh, but surely you can help me, Miss Talbot? It’s just . . . I’ve got a choice to make, and I simply must know that it’s going to turn out all right!”
Luna could already tell where this was going, but felt she owed it to the young woman to ask anyway. “And what sort of choice is this?”
“I need to know if I ought to marry Tom.”
“Who is Tom?”
Sutton let out the teensiest, wheensiest, almost-non-existent sigh. Just enough to draw Luna’s attention in time to see her roll her eyes to the ceiling before reassuming her completely blank expression.
But Miss Eugenia, her inexpressibly ordinary face worked up into a paroxysm of passion, pressed her clasped hands to her bosom and declared, “Tom is only the most wonderful man in all the world! But he’s poor as a church mouse, and I’m afraid he might just want to marry me for my money. I’m a steel heiress now, you know.”
“Yes, so I heard.” Luna had read in the society papers about Eugenia’s sudden stroke of fortune, which had brought an unexpected influx of male attention her way. She’d heard rumors of proposals from dukes and other titled gentry. None of the names listed in the society papers had been a Tom.
“Here, you’d best come back behind the counter,” Luna said kindly. “I’ll put on the kettle, and we’ll see about that cup of tea.”
The young lady allowed herself to be guided to the cane chair in the nook.
Luna filled the old kettle at the trimming sink, lit the stove, then hastened back to the kitchen to fetch just the right blend.
A sweet orange-spice tea, perhaps. She gathered the white pot, cups, strainer, spoons, sugar bowl, and milk, assembling them all on a sturdy wooden tray.
Just as she was about to step out of the kitchen, she heard Garden’s door open, followed by a flutter of wings.
Her heart jumped.
Standing frozen for a moment, hands full of tea things, Luna eased her breath out slowly. “Get a grip,” she whispered. “The holiday is over. Real life, remember? Time for real life again.”
And there was nothing more real than a Silly Young Thing back in the counter nook, looking for a spot of tea and insight.
This was a day like any other, and it was important that it continued to be nothing more than any other day.
Because it simply couldn’t be more. Luna didn’t have space for holidays that carried over into everyday life.
She drew another slow breath, steadying the bump of her heart against her breastbone.
Then, lifting her chin, she strode into the passage.
Mr. Grimm was out on the shop floor already, arranging a display of fresh alstroemeria, which he’d carried in from Garden.
“Good morning, Mr. Grimm!” Luna called out brightly in her most usual tone of voice.
Because nothing was changed. Nothing was different.
Mr. Grimm met her eye over the trumpet-shaped pink blossoms. He looked particularly put-together this morning.
His hair was pomaded, not a strand out of place.
His cheeks were scraped so clean, they practically shone.
His collar was straight, his tie neatly pinned.
Even his apron, worn over his waistcoat, boasted not a single smear or smudge, despite his trek into Garden.
The only difference to mark this day as unique from any other was the ugly purple bruise under his left eye.
Well . . . no. There was something else as well. A sort of hollowness about his expression. As though he’d not slept much, if at all. It reminded Luna of the time she’d found him despairing over the double-delight rose, when it had fallen ill with mottle-spot.
“Good morning, Miss Talbot,” he answered, his inflection perfectly cool. He turned to his work again without another word.
Luna’s lips parted to say something more, but she pinched them in a hard line. Asking about his sleep would be much too personal. What business was it of hers how he spent his nights?
The kettle was boiling when she returned to the nook.
Luna set down her tea tray and went about the business of pouring hot liquid into the prepared pot.
She slid the cozy in place, checked the shop clock—still twenty minutes to opening—then sat across from Miss Eugenia.
“Now,” she said, folding her hands neatly, “tell me everything.”
And everything is exactly what Miss Eugenia told.
Luna found herself regaled with a series of names, characters, dates, dances, delights, and deceptions, enough to fill the pen of the most ravenous gossip columnist for weeks on end.
Throughout all, the names Bertrum, Duke of Woolfwood and Tom Doorhandler featured most prominently.
“What was that name again?” Luna asked, even as she pressed a steaming teacup into the young lady’s hands.
“Doorhandler,” Miss Eugenia repeated. “Of the East-Hartlepool Doorhandlers, you know. Quite an old and prominent family, but fallen on Hard Times.”