Chapter 29
Luna woke to the realization that she was snoring. Loudly.
She jolted out of sleep on the last climactic blaring of a particularly loud snort, embarrassed, though uncertain why.
She blinked a few times, trying to make sense of rather blurry surroundings.
Her throat felt like it had been used to sharpen knives, and her chest ached, and every part of her body was sore, all the way down to the soles of her feet.
And yet, she felt unexpectedly . . . comfortable. A great deal more comfortable than she could remember having felt in a long, long time. So comfortable, in fact, that she half-wondered if she’d been miraculously transported home to Tealeaf Cottage and tucked into her warm childhood bed.
But no. When she blinked again to clear her foggy vision, the view that met her eyes was the same it had been for months now: the footboard of her narrow, metal bed.
The little table with the thaumatic kettle on its heating plate.
The racks on which she and Bryony hung their clothes.
The dirty splash of light falling though the grimy window square.
The pink unicorn stuffie, won in a festival game.
Only . . .
She frowned.
Only there was also a foot.
Clad in a gentleman’s shoe.
Attached to a tweed-trousered leg.
A leg which rested alongside her body, and . . . oh. There was another one. In fact, she seemed to be propped in between them. And there were arms wrapped around her middle, holding her securely in place.
She looked down. Blankets were tucked around her, but had fallen away from her torso, revealing her thin, pink nightgown. One shoulder strap had slipped down her arm, baring a great deal of her chest, which seemed to be stained with some black substance.
Simultaneously too baffled and too woolly-headed to feel alarm, she let her gaze sink farther. Down to those arms looped across her stomach. Rolled-up shirtsleeves to the elbow. Unexpectedly hairy and masculine forearms. Long-fingered, elegant hands, limp in repose.
Luna blinked. Then blinked again.
Then felt the rise and fall of a chest behind her. The exhale of breath against her temple.
Her eyes widened.
She turned her head slightly, only for her nose to bump the stubbly cheek of an all-too familiar face.
“Mr. Grimm?” she whispered. Her voice emerged in a rough little rasp, hardly strong enough to make a sound.
She cast about the room again, uncertain what she ought to do under these highly unusual circumstances.
Her eye caught on the pink unicorn, which stared accusingly at her from the foot of the bed.
She made a face at it—a Yes, but what am I supposed to do about it?
sort of face. Her gaze returned to the table, where she spied a medicine bottle and what looked like the remains of several old poultices.
Also her chipped little teacup and box of chamomile tea.
It was only then that it finally occurred to her how very warm the room was.
Actually warm. Almost too warm, particularly with these arms holding her close, and her back pressed up against a fellow human body.
Luna swallowed. It hurt. Her throat was absolutely raw, but when she drew breath, it came much more easily than it had in some while.
How long of a while, she couldn’t begin to guess.
“Mr. Grimm?” she tried again and managed a croak of sound this time.
She heard a hitch in his breath. Followed by a grunt.
She wriggled a little, seeking to loosen his grasp without being too obvious about it. Her sleeve strap fell lower, and she moved to pull it back into place. This, in turn, dislodged one of his arms, which upset his balance, and brought his face tilting forward to press against her bare shoulder.
She froze. Her mouth formed an open little O.
She heard the snort, the inhale. The sudden shift in his body.
His head lifted—she felt his breath against her skin, causing all the fine hairs to prickle.
She held absolutely still.
Should she say something? Should she do something?
Should she pretend to be asleep? What in the Green Mother’s name had happened?
What was Mr. Grimm doing here? In her bed?
Why was she so very undressed, while he, apparently, was still fully clad?
Which, granted, was a relief, but a confusing relief, nonetheless!
Luna wracked her brain, trying to recall something, anything.
She remembered coming home from work, struggling to breathe, coughing, and frozen to the bone.
She remembered thinking, as she changed into her nightgown, that she would just rest a little while before getting up to prepare for .
. . for . . . for something. Some engagement. She couldn’t remember what.
After that, it was all a blur of impressions.
A bitter taste on her tongue.
The feel of icy metal under her bare feet.
Arms lifting her when her strength gave out.
And a voice. Low and a bit uncertain, singing a Green Yule hymn in the darkness.
Luna bit her chapped lips. “Um,” she tried one more time, and felt his arms tighten around her. “Mr. Grimm—”
After the fact, she realized that she’d heard the footsteps coming up the stairs. Only the throb of her own heartbeat had seemed so loud, she rather mistook the one for the other.
So when the door burst open in that moment, and Bryony stepped through, all bouncing red curls and vibrant yellow coat and stomping, snow-coated boots, it took Luna so much by surprise, she would have screamed had she the lung-strength for it.
“Green Mother love me, it’s warm as blazes in here!” Bryony declared, throwing off her hat and scarf. She was just unbuttoning her coat when she turned. Looked across the room to the little bed under the sloped ceiling.
Stopped short.
To give her credit, it was a shocking sight. Luna. In her bed. In her nightgown. The strap of which had fallen indecently far down her upper arm. Wrapped in the arms of Mr. Grimm.
Bryony’s mouth dropped open. She shook her head. Looked again. Her gaze flicked to the dark smear on Luna’s breast, then around at the disheveled state of the room, before darting back to the two of them.
“What in the name of all green-loving hecks is going on here?”
As though her voice liberated him abruptly from a spell, Mr. Grimm sprang up from the bed.
Only his legs were still wrapped around Luna, and, as a result, he fell sideways to the floor, while she nearly tumbled out on top of him.
He landed with a thud, and even then, his voice sounded inexplicably posh when he exclaimed, “It’s not what it looks like, Miss Braithwait! ”
“Oh, really?” Bryony tossed aside her yellow coat. She wore scarlet holiday duds underneath, quite fitted and not terribly practical against winter chill, but festive in their own way. “And what exactly does it look like, d’you think?” she demanded, crossing her arms and cocking a hip.
“I thought—I was told—” Mr. Grimm pulled himself upright.
Luna, pushing onto her elbows, took a peek at him from behind a veil of straggly hair.
She’d never seen him so disheveled. His jaw was covered in morning shadow, his hair tumbled every which way.
His tie and waistcoat were both missing, his suspenders drooping, his shirt unbuttoned rather more than was decent, so that she could just about catch a glimpse of his sorcerer’s mark.
Luna blushed and looked away, but couldn’t help glancing up at him again when he finally finished, “Mrs. Boggs said you were home for the holiday, Miss Braithwait.”
“Oh, did she now?” Bryony’s brows rose. “And so you two thought you’d make a little Green Yule magic of your own, eh? Roommate’s away, so the mice may play, is that it?”
“No! No, it’s just, Miss Talbot is . . . was . . . She had, or has, rather—”
“Bryony,” Luna croaked.
That one word did it. Bryony turned to Luna sharply, her eyes widening at the horrible sound of her voice. She leapt forward, exclaiming, “Mother love me, are you sick, Lunaloo?”
Her concern was both unexpected and gratifying. Luna pushed hair out of her eyes and tried to smile. “I’m much better, actually. But I believe I was rather ill, yes.”
“You have pneumonia,” Mr. Grimm said quietly.
Luna glanced at him, but he was pointedly not looking at her. She realized her strap had fallen again and hastily pulled it back into place. Then, despite feeling more than a little overheated in that moment, she pulled the blanket up to her chin as well.
“Pneumonia?” Bryony exclaimed. “Has Doctor Bucket been here?”
“Yes,” Mr. Grimm replied and pointed to the empty medicine bottle on the table. “He promised he’d be back sometime today to check on her.”
Bryony scoffed. “Fat chance of that! The old bulldog will be halfway drowned in eggnog by now. It is Green Yule, after all.” She placed the back of her hand against Luna’s forehead. “You don’t feel feverish at the moment.”
“I think I’m over the worst of it,” Luna rasped.
“Well, you sound dreadful.” Bryony turned to Nigel, eyes narrowed in a contemplative scowl.
Then she grabbed his elbow, yanked him across the room, and proceeded to bundle his waistcoat, tie, jacket, scarf, and hat into his hands.
“A lady’s sick room is no place for a fellow to be mucking about.
You can just take yourself off now, Mr. Grimm!
I’ll look after Luna and send her back to the shop when she’s good and ready. ”
Mr. Grimm didn’t protest but allowed himself to be hustled out the door.
He cast a last look back at Luna, just catching her eye, then leaned forward and spoke in a low voice to Bryony, no doubt thinking Luna could not hear him.
“You’re to order whatever she needs,” he said.
“On me. I’ve opened a tab, as it were, with Mrs. Boggs. Don’t worry about the expense.”
Bryony’s brows shot way up. “Got it, Mr. Grimm,” she said, mouth twisting in something close to a smile. “Loud and clear.”