Chapter 32
There was something about Green Yule decorations the week after Green Yule that was so unbearably drab.
Luna stood on the far side of Addle Street, arms wrapped around her body against the cold, neck and face cocooned in a ragged old scarf, and contemplated the sight of the withered holly wreath hanging from the front door of The Arcane Bouquet.
Limp. Faintly crumpled. Depressing. Why in the world hadn’t Mr. Grimm taken it down already?
One would think, Gronk-spirited man that he was, he’d have yanked it from his door the instant the holiday was over.
But here it was; seven days post-Green Yule. Even if folks were still buying festive florals for the season, that derelict laurel was hardly good advertising for the shop anymore.
It was a good thing she was coming back to work, Luna decided, if this was the state of things.
She ought to cross the street, open the door, haul that wreath in after her, and toss it onto Garden’s compost heap.
Then set to work putting together something vibrant and cheerful to enliven the after-the-holiday doldrums, which always set in this time of year.
Only, for some reason, she couldn’t make her feet move.
There was nothing wrong with her feet, per se.
They were shod in the nice, shiny new boots which the Green Mother had miraculously bestowed upon her (though the card had been written in Mr. Grimm’s distinct handwriting).
It was her first day wearing them, and they needed a bit of breaking in.
She could feel a blister beginning to form after that long, snowy hike from Mrs. Boggs’s Boardinghouse for Young Women of Good Character.
But they were toasty warm, and definitely in fine condition for street-crossing.
And yet, she remained standing where she was. Staring at that door. And that offensive wreath.
Maybe it was too soon for her to come back to work.
Dr. Bucket had urged her to remain in bed for a good two weeks following her bout with pneumonia.
But even as he said it, he’d added, “Now I know you’re a working girl and can’t afford a luxurious convalescence.
So, if you must get back to work, just take care you keep your neck properly wrapped, drink plenty of ginger tea, and if that cough of yours starts nagging again, ring me up. ”
The crux of the matter was this: she had rent to pay.
Also, there was the added fact that lying in bed for the last week had very nearly driven her out of her mind with boredom.
There was nothing to do all day but stare at the sloped and peeling ceiling directly overhead and try as hard as she possibly could not to remember the feeling of Mr. Grimm’s breath against her bare shoulder.
Oh gods.
Luna squeezed her eyes tightly shut, determined to will away that memory.
It, like everything else surrounding her feverish Green Yule holiday, was little more than a confused impression anyway, one she wasn’t fully convinced had really happened.
Yes, for sure, Mr. Grimm had been in her room on Green Yule morning.
And, from what she’d gathered from Dr. Bucket, had stayed through the night before, administering her medicine and changing the poultice on her chest.
She just couldn’t quite believe she’d actually woken up in her bed, cradled in his arms. Wearing nothing but her little nightdress.
Feeling the beat of his heart against her back and the warmth of his breath against her skin where the strap of her nightie had slipped down her arm.
Surely that much she’d imagined in a fit of fever. Right?
“Right,” she whispered firmly and stomped her new boots, as though trying to rev up for a dart across the street.
But though she managed a single step, she stopped again abruptly, grimacing behind the folds of her scarf.
She needed to be certain she was . . . settled in the head.
About all of this. Before she went bumbling in.
Mr. Grimm was her employer. For a job she desperately needed.
Not to mention, he’d made overt inquiries about the romantic availability, as it were, of her roommate!
Her redheaded roommate. Luna knew for a fact he had a preference for redheads; she’d known that since day one, when she scried that stray vision of him in his tea mug.
As to why he would spend his Green Yule’s Eve nursing her through illness?
Well, that was easily explained, wasn’t it?
He was a good man. A kind man. He’d always shown her so much courtesy and concern.
He’d offered her a job, despite her heptagram tattoo, hadn’t he?
No one else in Ballycastle had been willing to give her a chance.
He was just that sort of person. The sort who watched out for those he cared about.
And he definitely cared about Luna. She wasn’t trying to deny that. But what exact shape that caring took . . . ?
She bit her lip hard behind the scarf. This was ridiculous!
If Mr. Grimm cared about her like that, he would have kissed her.
Under the mistletoe. Right then, when the chance was clearly presented to him.
And he would have followed it up by asking her on a date, rather than inquiring whether or not Bryony was seeing someone.
“Also,” Luna muttered firmly to herself, “you couldn’t go on a date with him even if he did ask.
Because he’s your boss. And you need this job.
Because you need to save money for a train ticket out of here at a moment’s notice.
Because you’re not staying. You can’t stay.
You never planned or could plan to stay. ”
Sometimes she found it necessary to remind herself of this fact most firmly.
She did so now, along with the injunction to keep her head on straight and her heart in order. She must face Mr. Grimm with the same cheerful politeness with which she’d greeted him every morning these last few months, and nothing would change between them.
An automagic mobile lumbered by, swerving a little on the icy road.
Luna waited, looked both ways, then trotted across Addle Street to the far sidewalk.
The snow was piled high under the awning.
Ordinarily, Mr. Grimm would shovel it out first thing, but it didn’t look as though it had been shoveled in days.
Odd. Up close, the wreath looked worse than ever.
Luna dug for her key in her little purse. As she did so, one of her regular customers trotted by—Mrs. Whimsley, a vision in a long purple coat, purple scarf, and fat, knitted purple hat.
“Hullo, Mrs. Whimsley,” Luna greeted her, lifting her own face out from behind her scarf to smile at the little old lady.
“Oh, hullo, luv.” Mrs. Whimsley paused and looked her over, her bright eyes twinkling curiously. “Is the shop opening this morning? I could do with a cuppa.”
“Why, yes. Nine o’clock as usual,” Luna replied. “Why wouldn’t it?”
“Well,” Mrs. Whimsley said, with the faintest trace of disapproval in her lilac-colored voice, “it hasn’t been open since Green Yule. I thought Mr. Grimm must have gone on holiday. I don’t approve of holidays as a rule. They disrupt the natural rhythms of life.”
Luna’s stomach plunged. She scarcely heard the rest of the old lady’s vague sermon on maintaining a well-ordered schedule for the good of the humors.
There was no chance—absolutely no chance—Mr. Grimm had gone on holiday.
Why, in all the time she’d worked for him, she’d only ever known him to take a day off once, and that was for the Saint Jollify fair, weeks ago.
And even if he did decide he needed a break, surely he would have told her. Wouldn’t he?
“I expect we’ll be open at nine this morning, Mrs. Whimsley,” Luna said, locating her key at last and jamming it into the lock. “I hope I’ll see you then!”
“You might, luv, you might.” Mrs. Whimsley patted her cheek and floated away in a dreamy purple haze, leaving Luna to face whatever she might find within The Arcane Bouquet on her own.
Tension knotting in her chest, Luna hitched the wreath off its hook and slung it over her shoulder, then pushed the door open.
The sound of tinkling bells was a familiar welcome.
“Hullooo, Mr. Grimm!” Luna called out, pleased with how perfectly business-as-usual her voice sounded.
She stepped inside, shut and locked the door behind her, and faced into the shop.
It was very still. And silent. There were still flowers aplenty, but nowhere near as many as usual. Many of the cuttings looked quite limp, and even the potted plants were unexpectedly shriveled, not at all like their usual, lively selves.
Luna dropped the wreath and rushed to the pot of the double-delight rose.
“Oh, sweetheart!” she exclaimed. “What’s wrong with you?
” She felt its canes, turned over leaves.
No sign of mottle-spot—that was something, at least. But the blooms were all brown-edged, and the plant was obviously dehydrated. And hungry.
Now Luna began to feel truly worried. Mr. Grimm would never leave the double-delight rose in this state!
He loved that plant, with the sort of terrified love one feels for an extremely crotchety and mildly dangerous old family matriarch.
She cast about the shop again, squiggly worms of uncertainty gnawing in her gut. “Mr. Grimm?” she called. “Debbie?”
No sound from either master or bird. Perhaps they were out in Garden.
But no, he wouldn’t have left the shop flowers untended like this.
Something must have happened. Perhaps he’d had another altercation with a flower fairy?
Fairies were known to inhabit those magical grounds, despite Mr. Grimm’s best efforts to drive them out.