Chapter 22
The bottle was tucked innocuously among the shampoos, soaps, and tonics in his shower caddy.
It had struck Nigel as the best place for it—a hidden-in-plain-sight sort of thing.
One wouldn’t notice it at all if one didn’t have a degree of sorcerous perception, and even those who knew what they were looking for might pass it by altogether.
With the stopper popped open, a strong aroma of sandalwood and cinnamon emanated from the extremely thin neck, a perfectly harmless cologne.
But underneath that scent, lurking in the bottle’s round potbelly, lay a tincture of distilled Dire Matter. Very dangerous, very corrosive.
It probably wasn’t wise to keep distilled Dire Matter in his shower caddy, Nigel considered, as he fished a fresh handkerchief from his pocket.
If some wardsman, on the hunt for contraband sorcery, were to discover it, Nigel would find himself in a bit of a pickle.
But it was much more subtle than summoning fresh Dire Matter directly.
For one thing, the energy tradeoff had been paid ages ago and required no new sacrifice.
The magic wasn’t as fresh, perhaps, but it was potent.
And the use of it wouldn’t set off any wardsman’s sorcery sensors, which were programmed to track energy transfers, not magic itself.
Nigel didn’t want to go into this meeting with Fabian unprepared. His brother was no great and powerful sorcerer. He was barely a sorcerer at all, in fact. But sometimes, men who thought they knew sorcery were more dangerous than those who did.
Nigel wasn’t about to be taken unawares.
So he turned the bottle over his open handkerchief and allowed seven drops of concentrated anti-glitter to spill out onto the white fabric.
No more than seven—he counted them cautiously.
Then he folded the handkerchief up, careful to cradle those drops inside the white cotton folds, and placed them in his front jacket pocket.
Stoppering the bottle, he slid it back into the shower caddy, pulled the rubber shower curtain round, and turned to face himself in the glass.
Quite a put-together reflection looked him in the eye.
In the cold light of the bathroom, he looked older to himself.
Paler, more worn. Harder. He touched his smooth jaw.
Back when last he saw Fabian, Nigel had still had his sorcerer’s beard, which had lent him an air of gravitas, but that was long gone.
Little trace remained in this sad-eyed visage of the powerful figure he once was.
But that was a good thing. He couldn’t be that man anymore.
And if that meant his elder brother despised him, well .
. . what else was new? Fabian despised him as a child, despised him again as an undergrad, and continued to despise him even at the very height of his powers.
Nigel had long since given up trying to win his older brother’s admiration or regard.
He smoothed a stray lock of hair back from his forehead, straightened the set of his tie, and nodded. “Right, Grimm,” he said. “Time to face the wolves.”
The shop was very quiet when he descended the stairs. The flowers weren’t used to him going out at night, and he sensed a faint air of resentment. “Don’t worry,” he reassured them. “I’ll be back soon enough.”
Then his gaze landed on the mistletoe. It hung in a little clumped ball on the end of a vine, dangling right in the center of the shop. Bold as brass.
“What are you doing here?” Nigel growled. “There aren’t any customers and certainly no mustachioed great aunts on the premises. Who exactly do you expect to torment?”
As the mistletoe offered no response, Nigel reached behind the counter for his long-handled pruning shears. Perhaps it was sleeping. Perhaps this was his chance. He crept across the floor, between display tables, opened the shears slowly . . .
The hinge squeaked.
Instantly, the mistletoe sprang awake. Before Nigel could do anything, it rolled up its vine and disappeared among the ceiling beams, leaving nothing but a single leaf drifting down in its wake.
“Never mind!” Debbie called from her skull-pot and proceeded to burst into cackling laughter.
“Laugh all you like,” Nigel said sourly, dropping the shears on the counter with a clatter. “I’ll get the best of that blasted parasite this year. Just wait!”
With that, he stepped from the store, taking care to lock up behind him.
Then he turned to face the street. He felt like a polar explorer about to set out on an expedition into the frigid unknown.
He grimaced into his scarf and tramped up Addle Street to Pembroke, where he hoped to hail a taxi.
Even that little trek was nearly enough to freeze him to the bones.
How did Luna manage her walk to and from work each day?
And with just a few pieces of cardboard between her and the snowy sidewalk too.
At thought of Luna, Nigel’s blood warmed, despite the freezing air and the crunch of snow underfoot. He found himself thinking of the way she’d taken hold of his frozen hands and blown softly on his fingers. The shape her lips made. The pressure of her grip . . .
She’d not touched him—not once—in the weeks since Saint Jollify.
Which wasn’t something he should have noticed.
But he did. Because, up until then, she wasn’t so very careful not to touch him.
There were always little brushes, tiny moments of connection.
Not to mention that time she’d literally hiked up her skirts and clambered onto his shoulders!
Something had changed at Saint Jollify, however.
Some barrier had gone up between them, though he couldn’t specify exactly what.
She was still her genuine, friendly self with him.
Still laughing and quick-witted and warm.
Everything was so almost the same, he could nearly convince himself it was the same.
But it wasn’t. And he didn’t know why.
Had he frightened her? That moment in the nurse’s pavilion, when he’d . . . leaned?
He’d thought about kissing her then.
Well, no. There hadn’t been much thought in the matter. He’d simply, without thinking, nearly done it. In another second, if she’d not turned away, he would have caught her lips with his, and . . .
But she did turn away.
And he hadn’t kissed her.
And it was a damned good thing, too. Because if he had, no doubt she would have turned in her notice that very instant, and he never would have seen her again.
But did she know what he’d almost done? Did she guess? Did she realize that, when her dark-eyed gaze dropped to his mouth, it had very nearly undone all the careful self-control with which he’d been restraining himself all those weeks?
He’d redoubled that self-control in the weeks following, honoring her unstated wish to keep a touch-free barrier between them. But it hadn’t made him any less aware of all the touches which never happened.
And when she took his hands today . . .
“Damn,” he breathed into the frigid air. The word seemed to ice over and drop to the sidewalk at his feet.
He shook his head roughly inside the wrapped protection of his scarf.
Stepping under the lamppost on the corner of Addle and Pembroke, he raised an arm to signal a passing automagic cab.
It pulled up to the sidewalk, and he clambered inside.
The cab interior wasn’t much warmer than the sidewalk, but at least he’d reach his destination faster.
“The King’s Crown Hotel,” he said, and sank into his seat. Time to drive thoughts of Miss Luna Talbot firmly from his mind and concentrate on whatever the evening ahead might hold.
“Ah, Nigey! Good to see you, old boy!”
Fabian rose from his seat, hand extended, as the host guided Nigel through the maze of candlelit tables to where his brother waited.
Nigel almost didn’t accept the offered hand, irked to see his brother still swathed in sorcery, right there in the middle of the restaurant.
It was so gauche. Not to mention risky. He allowed only the briefest contact of fingers before taking his seat opposite the anti-glittered face of Ebenezar Prodigimus.
“I’ve taken the liberty of ordering you an absinthe,” Fabian’s voice spoke through the Minister Supreme’s mouth, warm with hospitality. “That’s your poison of choice, right?”
Nigel turned to the host and said shortly. “Water, please. And do you have any teas?”
“I’ll bring you a selection, sir,” the host replied and glided away.
“Teas?” Fabian’s brow wrinkled. “At least drink coffee like a man. Or has that little tea witch gotten under your skin?”
Nigel, however, had no intention of discussing Luna with Fabian. He turned to his brother and asked coldly, “How long have you been in Ballycastle?”
“Oh, a few months.”
“And before that?”
Fabian shrugged. “We don’t need to get into all the backs and forths, do we? Let’s have a good meal, share a few laughs. Let the evening be whatever it is. What do you say?”
Though Nigel strongly suspected the evening would not play out as stated, he was game enough to go along for now.
Their waiter arrived, and they placed their orders.
The hotel’s tea selection was certainly nothing on Luna’s, but they did offer the Twiglings brand, of which Luna approved.
Nigel lingered for a moment over the chamomile-lavender, but ended up ordering the dark taerel.
Fabian toyed with a sprig of holly from the centerpiece. All The King’s Crown Hotel was festooned for the season, each table a mound of festive greenery. Whoever supplied them with their florals was probably making a small fortune. Worth noting for next year, perhaps.
“So,” Fabian said, “do you remember old Alban Allbones?”
Nigel considered. “From undergrad, right? Manyweather’s class. Conjuring 101?”
“The very same. Well, he quit sorcery after uni, you know, but kept up the practice on the sly. After the change in the law, it would seem he wasn’t willing to give it up, and . . .”