Chapter 20 #3
He turned away and began lurching around the shop.
Luna got the distinct impression he wasn’t used to moving in a body quite this large and hadn’t yet gotten the hang of it.
He drew near to the counter where her list of the day’s teas were written out on a blackboard.
He stopped and perused them, lingering a moment over the little tagline at the bottom of the board, which read: Readings offered with every purchase. Shop while your tea brews!
The man rounded on Luna. “Are you a tea witch then?”
“I am.”
He cringed. “Just when I thought this shop couldn’t possibly get any more tacky. What is Nigey thinking?”
Nigey? Luna’s skin crawled. But her interest quickened as well. Because anyone who would use such an atrocious nickname must know Mr. Grimm. Personally. Very personally.
Suspicion bloomed in her heart.
She smiled sweetly and trotted around to stand behind the counter. “Would you like your fortune read, sir?”
“My fortune?” The man drew himself up, deeply offended. “My fortune? Young lady, have you no idea who I am?”
Luna shook her head and blinked innocently.
“I am Ebenezar Prodigimus, Minister Supreme of the Sorcery Suppressions Convocation. I do not look to magic and devilry or the scrying of futures to learn my fate!”
Luna almost snorted. For as the man spoke, the anti-glitter around his face surged with power, feeding the spell which disguised his features.
What a big, fat phony! But she maintained her cool and plucked up the teapot full of orange llarmi which Mr. Grimm had prepared for her.
It was a bit over-brewed by this time, but it should be fine.
“Green Magic is sanctioned by the Green Mother,” she said simply as she poured steaming dark liquid into a waiting cup.
“As this is Her season, I doubt there is any harm in it.” She pushed the cup across the counter toward the minister.
“Here. On the house. It’s a cold day outside, and Your Grace-ship must need warming. ”
The spell-swathed man narrowed his stolen eyes.
This time, however, she noted a spark of admiration in the gaze he sent running lightly over her figure.
He stepped in closer, took the cup from its saucer, blew on the contents, and downed them in a single gulp.
Then he plunked the cup firmly back into its saucer—Luna winced; it was one of the nice Royal Bastian cups, not the standard Whittlewedge—and pushed both back across the counter to Luna.
“Very well, girl,” he said in his most condescending tone. “Read my fortune for me. If you dare!”
Luna lowered her gaze demurely. It was a risk on his part to let her look into his future, as she might easily see that he wore an enchantment. But he obviously thought his disguise beyond penetration. His arrogance was palpable.
She picked up the teacup and swirled the dregs, clockwise thrice and counter twice.
Then she peered inside. Immediately, a vision took shape.
It was so clear, so obvious, she knew at once that it was a very near future indeed, would probably take place within the next twenty-four hours. Possibly sooner.
Only she did not see the face of the man before her.
No, this was a different man entirely—a man who looked shockingly like Mr. Grimm, only taller, broader, heavier-set.
And was that a glint of cruelty in his eye?
He was seated at a table in . . . yes, that must be a restaurant, for there were other tables within view.
Quite a posh joint, all candlelight and fine porcelain and gleaming utensils.
This must be the restaurant at The King’s Crown Hotel, Luna suspected, judging by the gold crown motifs absolutely everywhere, including subtly embroidered into the tablecloth.
A waiter approached and set down a sumptuous dessert for the man and his dinner guest, who sat opposite him.
Luna’s gaze was immediately attracted to that dessert.
Was it a cake? If so, it wasn’t like any cake she’d seen before!
Layers of sponge and mousse and fruits and ganache, towering in eight layers or more, and topped with a fondant crown glittering with edible gold leaf.
Who knew cake could even look like that?
The man in the vision was speaking to his dinner guest, too absorbed in what he said to even notice the dessert laid before him.
The sneer on his face was so prominent, Luna didn’t have to hear a word; she could feel the waves of condescension and belittlement emanating from his lips. It made her skin crawl.
Then, suddenly, the dinner guest stood. Luna recognized him clearly by the back of his head. He reached down, picked up the plate containing that glorious dessert, and . . .
Luna gasped. Blinked. Shook her head, yanking herself out of the vision.
She stood a long moment, staring into the teacup.
Then she laughed.
“What is it?” the man with the stolen face demanded.
She flicked her gaze up, met those stern, false eyes.
“What?” he said again. “Are you trying to convince me you saw my future in your little puddle of dregs? Is it to be riches beyond my wildest dreams? Beauteous ladies at my beck and call? Or are you going to try to sell me on a grim and grisly fate which can only be forestalled by more tea and readings?”
“None of the above,” Luna replied, and set the cup back down in its saucer. “I saw cake.”
“What?”
“Cake, sir.”
“Cake?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You . . . you’re saying my future is . . . cake?”
“Yes, sir.”
He blinked behind his monocle. “What does that mean?”
“There is cake in your future, sir.”
“Cake?”
“Very nice cake, sir.”
He made a questioning sort of shape with his mouth. “And, erm . . .” The way he enunciated that erm sounded so much like Mr. Grimm, it almost made Luna laugh again. “Erm . . . when will I receive this . . . cake?”
“Tonight, sir.”
“Tonight?”
“Yes.”
“This is the future you predict for me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Ah.” He blinked several times, baffled. So baffled, in fact, that he quite forgot his superciliousness for the moment. He began to turn away.
“But, sir?”
“Yes?” He turned back again, leaning into the counter.
“A word of warning.”
He tilted his head, looking at her through the monocle.
“I should take care you do not wear your face cream tonight.”
The color drained from his cheeks ever so slightly. “My . . . face cream?”
“No, sir.”
“Whyever not?”
“Because of the cake.”
“The cake?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What does cake have to do with my face cream?”
“Well, when the cake hits your face—”
“Hits my face?”
“—it will very likely undo all the sorcery in the cream.”
The man stared at her. A mingling of emotions rushed across his stolen features—shock, horror, rage.
Rage seemed to settle in best, and the color returned to his cheeks in a sudden red rush.
“Why, you brazen chit!” he roared, drawing himself up to his full, probably-not-real height.
“Is that a threat? You dare accuse me of indulging in black market sorcery? Have you no idea who I am?”
“A bit of an idea, sir. Yes,” she replied blandly.
“Insolence!” His cheeks puffed out like a blowfish, and he struck the end of his cane a sharp smack against the floor. “I am not in the habit of being spoken to in this way! I demand to see your employer at once, you wretched little—”
“Fabian!”
The man and Luna both whirled as though in synchronization.
Mr. Grimm stood in the passage doorway, Debbie on his shoulder.
For a moment, he appeared taller, darker, more dangerous.
As though, very briefly, the image of that seven-foot figure of phantasmic dark power Luna had glimpsed weeks ago had returned.
“You may not address members of my staff in that tone,” he said. Echoing rolls of thunder growled in the depths of those words. “Step outside with me. At once.”