Chapter 21
Nigel realized his mistake within two seconds of exiting the shop.
Whereas the man whose elbow he now gripped wore a thick overcoat, Nigel himself was clad only in his shirtsleeves and apron .
. . which were definitely not the garb for the sidewalk on a day like this.
Too late now, however. And he was far too angry to care all that much in any case.
So he dragged that grotesque figure, positively dripping with sorcery, down the sidewalk through drifts of snow. Gods, he’d not even attempted subtlety, had he? Enchanted face creams? What in the hells was he thinking?
But then, Fabian had never been the sorcerer he liked to fancy himself.
Once they were some distance from the shop, Nigel whirled on the strange face before him.
Motes of anti-glitter seemed to dance before his eyes like a veil, but he could just about see his brother’s face underneath.
Fabian—who looked so very much like their father.
Though his brown eyes, supposedly, were like their mother.
A mother whom Fabian remembered vaguely, but whom Nigel never knew.
Fabian would hold that over his little brother for the rest of their lives, and Nigel had every intention of resenting him for it for at least that long. It was a brother thing.
“What in the hells are you doing?” Nigel demanded, ignoring the way his teeth already began to chatter.
He didn’t release his hold on his brother, but pinched the coat sleeve hard, refusing to let him budge.
It was opening time, and regular customers were already lining up outside The Arcane Bouquet for Luna’s teas.
The last thing he needed was for any of them to overhear the coming tirade. “Whose face have you stolen?”
Fabian looked very smug behind his sorcerous mask. “It’s good, isn’t it?” he said, making no attempt whatsoever to disguise his voice. “I’m hiding in plain sight as the Minister Supreme of the Sorcery Suppression Convocation—the last man the SSSD would ever suspect of sorcery!”
Nigel grimaced. “And what have you done with the real Minister Supreme of Sorcery Suppression?”
Fabian shook his arm, trying to liberate himself from Nigel’s hold. “I didn’t unalive him or anything so distasteful, if that’s what’s worrying you. The real Ebenezar Prodigimus has taken an extended vacation to the Phrigidos Isles.”
“The Phrigidos Isles?”
“Yes. A once in a lifetime experience. They say the local diet is made up almost exclusively of whale blubber. No doubt he’ll return a changed man. Broadened horizons and all that.”
“And in the meantime, you’ve just stepped into his shoes?”
“Oh, it’s been easy enough. He’s something of a social pariah, so it’s not as though he’s invited places much. No one would miss him were I not around to play the part. In fact, I think he’s rather more liked under my tender care.”
Nigel shook his head. “What could you possibly intend by this lunacy?”
“Lunacy? I’m the lunatic?” the stranger’s mouth blustered in Fabian’s voice.
“You’re the one who’s lost his marbles! I’ve been searching for you up and down both Plym and Brython for the better part of three years!
They told me the Authorities had released you, but I couldn’t get word of you anywhere.
I thought they’d disposed of you permanently and lied about it to the public.
Only now I find you here. In Ballycastle. With a shop. A shop, Nigey? Really?”
“Yes. What of it?”
“You were a force to be reckoned with. Now look at you: not a force but a farce! Heh heh.”
Ugh. Fabian always fancied himself such a wit. “If the SSSD catches you with that face cream, you’ll be locked away for the better part of the next decade,” Nigel warned.
“Oh, they won’t catch me. They’ve been too wrapped up chasing down old Montesquieu Fairfax. Remember him?”
Nigel did remember him. Monte Fairfax was in his year at Belfany University, where he and Fabian both did their undergrad studies.
Monte, like Fabian, also had pretenses of joining the Nocturnus Institute—but only Nigel was accepted.
His memory of poor Monte consisted of a rodent-faced individual, who always smelled faintly of cheese, and wrote rather gruesome papers on topics like “How to Summon Your Undead Thrall,” or “Practical Applications of the Blood of Nemesis in the Pursuit of Higher Necromantic Ascendancy” or “Skeleton Army: Pros and Cons.”
In retrospect, he would have been just Jastira’s type. Were he basically anyone other than Montesquieu Fairfax, that is.
“You know him,” Fabian said. “Well, he set up shop in an old granary up in northern Brython. Made a bit of a fortune for himself concocting these face-swapping creams. But the wardsmen got a tip and tracked him. They think they’ve cut off the supply forever, but .
. .” Fabian touched a finger to the side of his nose.
Nigel cursed softly. “You turned in poor old Monte, didn’t you?”
“Wow. Jump to conclusions much, Nigey-boy?”
“You bastard.”
“I’m the bastard?” Fabian puffed out his chest, drawing his stolen frame up to an indignant height. “Last I checked, I’m not the one who killed Dad.”
Blood drained from Nigel’s face. “I didn’t . . . I wasn’t . . .” A harsh wind blew down Addle Street, nearly knocking him over in a blast of snow and ice. “I wasn’t there. I didn’t . . . I tried to stop her.”
Fabian waved a dismissive hand. “Yes, I’ve heard various versions of the story. All I can say is, it’s convenient, your showing up when you did. Just in time to take her down while she was vulnerable, but too late to save the old man—”
Nigel caught his brother by the lapels of his coat and, despite the disparity of their heights, threw him against the brick wall. His breath puffed like white smoke through his clenched teeth. “I will live with my guilt to my dying day. I don’t need you rubbing it in my face!”
“Guilt over what?” Fabian scoffed. “How you failed Dad? Or what you did to Jastira?”
“Don’t speak her name. Not to me. Not ever.”
Fabian blew a huff of air through his stolen lips.
“All right, all right.” He pushed ineffectually at Nigel’s grasp until Nigel finally released him.
Then they stood on the wintry street, both breathing rather hard and glaring at one another.
“So . . .” Fabian said at last, “did you ever manage to find Garden?”
If it were possible for Nigel’s blood to go any colder, it would have dropped by a few degrees.
Even with a steady application of both bribery and blackmail, Fabian had not been able to wrest the secret of Garden’s location out of him while he was still imprisoned in Plym.
Now he was free, he wasn’t about to let anything slip. “No,” he said.
Fabian shot him a wry look. “The lush display of flowers inside would imply otherwise.”
Damn.
“We can’t talk here on the street, Fabian. And no, you may not come back in! I won’t have this sorcery of yours on the premises. We are a sorcery-free environment.”
“Oh, really?”
“Yes.”
“What about that tea witch of yours?”
Something in Nigel’s chest tightened. “She’s none of your concern.”
Fabian’s teeth—or rather, Ebenezar Prodigimus’s teeth—flashed in a harsh smile. “She’s not just a tea witch, is she? She recognized the face-swapping spell. No mere witch could do that; such perception requires sorcerous inclination, and—”
“I told you. We are not discussing these matters here. You have to go. Now.”
Fabian held up both hands. “Fine, fine. Meet me at The King’s Crown Hotel tonight.
I’m staying there—as Minister Supreme Prodigimus, of course.
He keeps rooms when he’s in town. Everything’s on tab.
My treat. We can meet at the hotel restaurant, have a few laughs, catch up on each other’s lives.
And you can tell me all about how you source that floral bounty of yours. ”
“All right,” Nigel snarled. “The King’s Crown. Tonight.”
“Eight o’clock.”
“I’ll be there.”
Fabian gave him a once-over. “Wear something decent, man. They don’t let shopkeepers into The King’s Crown. Try to remember something of your bygone days.”
Nigel stepped back several paces, crossing his arms. “Go,” he said. “I’ll see you tonight.”
Fabian tapped his fur-lined hat and glided away, not even trying to make his movements match with the height and breadth of his disguise.
He just lurched along without any concern for subterfuge, trusting in that face-cream enchantment to make up for his deficiencies.
Nigel shook his head, uttering a derisive huff.
There were many reasons why Fabian was never invited to join the Nocturnus Institute.
Mostly because he was a damned idiot. But a damned idiot who thought himself very clever indeed.
Which, everyone knew, made for the damnedest of all idiots.
Nigel returned inside to find something of a crowd. But though Luna was speaking to customers by the holly wreaths, she murmured a hasty “Excuse me,” before rushing to his side. She wore her tattered old boots again, he noticed, stuffed with as much cardboard as she could manage.
“Mr. Grimm!” she whispered, drawing close.
“Quick, back to the stove with you!” She motioned him behind the counter and, once ensconced there, pulled the curtain closed so that it was just the two of them.
Then, to Nigel’s complete and utter shock, she took his hands between hers and began to rub them vigorously.
“Oh, Mr. Grimm! You’ll catch your death running around out there in this cold. ”
She bent and blew on his fingers, her breath warm against his frozen skin. Nigel thought he might faint. Right there. Right then.
Instead, he somehow managed to take a seat in the cane chair. He would have caught and held onto her hands if he was fast enough, but his fingers were still too numb for dexterity. So she slipped away from him, leaving him bereft, only to return a minute later and press a cup of tea upon him.
“Hold that,” she said. “Drink it too, if you can! You need warming all the way through.”
He obeyed in silence, while she slipped back out to the shop.
Nigel listened to her ringing up customers and making excuses for not serving tea and readings this morning, inviting folks to come back in the afternoon.
There were some protests, but she handled it all with her easy, breezy, friendly confidence. No one left the shop unduly perturbed.
By the time she returned to the alcove behind the curtain, Nigel had finished his tea and was relatively reheated. Nevertheless, Luna filled his cup again. “Here,” she said, pressing it back into his hands. “We want to make certain we fill every nook and cranny.”
This time she didn’t leave, but stood by and watched him take a sip. “So,” she said after a few moments, “that man was your brother, was he?”
Nigel paused, looking at her over the rim of the cup. Then he nodded.
“Wow.” Luna shook her head slowly. “Wow, I never would have expected it. He’s a right pompous ass, isn’t he?” Then she gulped and covered her mouth. Nigel could swear he heard her murmur a quick prayer of penance to the Green Mother.
“Some might say,” Nigel offered, “that pompous ass-ery runs in the family, as it were.”
Luna snorted. “Well, anyone who says so can take it up with me if they like. I’ll defend your honor, Mr. Grimm! Pompous you may be, but certainly not a . . . a donkey.”
Though in his heart of hearts, Nigel knew he was possibly the donkey-est of asses ever bred, it was nice to know this wasn’t Miss Talbot’s impression of him.
No, he reminded himself bitterly, she just thinks you’re a curmudgeon.
He took another gulp of tea.
“So what did he want? Your brother, I mean.”
“I don’t know.”
Luna narrowed her eyes. “He’s after Garden, isn’t he.”
Nigel raised a brow. She was a bit too quick for her own good sometimes. But he answered only, “Maybe.”
“Of course,” she continued, “it’s a great work of magic, even if it’s Green Magic. And he’s obviously keen on sorcerous things and not unwilling to dabble outside the law. Enchanted face creams! The cheek!”
“You won’t breathe a word about it to anyone?” Nigel said suddenly, lowering his cup to the saucer. “To any, erm, wardsmen, I mean?”
Luna sniffed and crossed her arms. “I haven’t seen any wardsmen in weeks. So you needn’t worry about that.”
Nigel couldn’t quite suppress the little warm glow that burst to life in his chest. He’d noticed the distinct lack of Officer Ward about the premises and couldn’t claim to be sorry for it. But he tried to assume a regretful sort of face. For her sake.
“You won’t let your brother find Garden, will you?” Luna continued, earnestly. “Something tells me it wouldn’t be best if he discovered it. I’m sorry, Mr. Grimm, I realize he’s your family and all. But I know trouble when I smell it.”
“Fabian is one great stinking pile of . . . trouble,” Nigel acknowledged.
Luna snickered and Nigel offered a not-quite mirthless grin in response.
He rose from his seat then and handed her his empty teacup.
“Don’t worry, Miss Talbot,” he said. “I won’t let him anywhere near Garden.
Or Debbie. Or you either, for that matter. ”
“Me?” Luna blinked at him, her eyes rounding slightly. “Why should he be concerned with me?”
“Oh, I . . . I don’t know that he is,” Nigel hastened to assure her.
“I only meant that . . . that I’ll take care of you.
That is, everything I care about . . . That is, you are always under my .
. .” He stopped, drew a breath, and tried again.
“You needn’t worry about a thing, Miss Talbot. That’s all.”
She bit her lips, her brow tightening softly. “Of course, Mr. Grimm,” she said at last. “Of course.” Taking his teacup, she pulled back the curtain and began to step away. She paused a moment, however, looking back at him. “And thank you.”
The next moment, she was gone. Slipped back to the kitchen to wash up before the next wave of customers arrived.
Leaving Nigel to squeeze his mostly un-numbed fingers, trying to recall the sensation of her hands gripping his.
A sensation he’d not enjoyed since the day of the Saint Jollify festival, weeks ago.
“I’ll take care of you, Miss Talbot,” he whispered.
Even as he said it, his jaw hardened. Fabian’s presence in Ballycastle could only mean trouble. What form that trouble would take, he couldn’t begin to guess. But trouble was coming, that much he knew for sure.
Which meant, before he kept his appointment at The King’s Crown Hotel tonight, he had better take precautions.