Chapter 33
Nigel kept waking to the sound of tinkling bells.
It would be better if there were any sort of a rhythm to it.
Then, at least, it might blend into the mild dissonance of his dreams. But the intermittence of the tinkling startled him awake again every time.
It was enough to drive him mad. Tinkle-tinkle—followed by ten minutes of silence.
Then tinkle-tinkle, breath, tinkle-tinkle, pause. Another two minutes. Tinkle-tinkle.
He was going to break something. The bells. The door. His own head against the wall.
His drowsy mind slowly rose through layers of groggy unconsciousness to a space of semi-lucidity.
On this plane, anxiety set it. He became more and more convinced that each ring of the bells announced the arrival of some new intruder come to steal his wares.
After they raided the cash register, they’d strip the copper from the pipes, and when that was through, they’d make off with the daisies and petunias.
Or something. It was all a bit vague, but strangely potent in his sleep-addled imagination.
More than anything, he wished to go back to sleep. For another ten hours at least. Violent coughing had prevented any real rest for days on end, but the cough seemed to have subsided, and if it weren’t for those damnable bells, he could get some real, revivifying rest in the works.
With extreme reluctance, he managed to pry one eye open. His narrow range of vision was taken up almost entirely by the sight of Debbie perched on his bedpost. She, catching his gaze, ruffled her feathers and uttered an enthusiastic, “Never mind!”
“Urrrgh,” Nigel replied. Not his most eloquent moment. He pushed the heels of his hands into his eye sockets before forcing his aching body upright. “What is going on downstairs?” he demanded in a rough, scratchy voice he hardly recognized. “I thought I told you to watch over things?”
The raven flapped her wings at him, but otherwise refused to comment.
Nigel growled inarticulately. It occurred to him, quite suddenly, that there was, indeed, something downstairs that was worth far more than the black market price for copper piping.
Garden.
Garden was alone down there. Unprotected. Without even Debbie to stand watch.
A vivid mental picture of his brother loomed large in Nigel’s brain.
He could almost see Fabian Grimm, still bristling with wrath after the humiliation he’d suffered at The King’s Crown Hotel, bursting through the doors while Nigel was too sick to defend his territory, bringing with him the shadowy figures of the Brotherhood.
They were searching for Garden, after all.
And, while Nigel was fairly certain it would take a few months, at least, for Fabian to return from where Nigel had banished him, well .
. . that would depend on how much help he was able to solicit from the Brotherhood.
Some of those fellows were quite good at transmatterportation spells.
Galvanized to action, Nigel threw back the covers, swung his legs out over the edge of his bed, and promptly fell in a tumble of limbs onto the rag rug-covered floor.
There he remained for a full minute, cursing.
At length, however, he pulled himself to his feet, snatched the dressing gown from his wardrobe—wouldn’t want to face invaders in his pajamas; a man must have his standards—then stormed down the stairs, his hands already in the act of forming dire sigils.
He would blast the Brotherhood into oblivion if they dared infiltrate the sanctuary of his—
Nigel staggered out of the stairwell. And came to an abrupt halt. He found himself facing, not an ominous congregation of Dark Sorcerers, but a gaggle of Silly Young Things.
The Silly Young Things were society misses, one and all.
Having taken it into their pretty heads that the tea witch of Addle Street was “just it,” as they declared in their modish vernacular, these well-dressed, well-manicured, and ever-so daring ladies ventured weekly to The Arcane Bouquet to have their fortunes read.
Otherwise, they risked losing standing among their peers.
It was a bit of nonsense which had greatly benefited the shop in every particular, but Nigel had come to dread the Silly Young Things.
They were terribly demanding creatures who, every morning since Green Yule, had arrived on his doorstep, pounding at the door, demanding to know when he would reopen for business.
With absolutely no consideration for his poor, throbbing head and aching body, languishing upstairs.
This particular trio looked like an advertisement straight from a fashion magazine, with their sleek bobs framed under stylish slouch hats, their lips very red, their thinly-penciled eyebrows expressing mild scorn.
To Nigel’s gaze, they were indistinguishable from one another as they stood before him at his counter, staring at him with frank amusement over the rims of steaming teacups.
Teacups.
Teacups.
They were drinking tea.
Tea which he certainly did not make. Tea which certainly did not make itself.
Which meant . . . which meant . . .
“Oh! Mr. Grimm. You’re up and about then, are you?”
Nigel whirled, his dressing gown flaring, to find Miss Luna Talbot emerging from the back passage, the white Whittlewedge teapot in her hands.
With a short intake of breath, he grabbed his dressing gown and pulled it shut, shielding her eyes from the sight of his blue-and-white striped pajamas.
“Miss Talbot!” he gasped, and promptly ran out of breath.
When he tried to speak again, his voice choked on his poor, raw throat.
He’d not seen her in a week. Not since Green Yule morning, when she’d lain in his arms, wearing her little pink nightgown, her hair all stringy and limp, her face pale with sickness, the stench of fever clinging beneath her gentle perfume of chamomile and lavender.
And he had thought her then the most beautiful creature he’d ever seen.
Now she was much more put-together. Still pale, and she’d lost most of the plumpness she’d gained over the last few months.
She looked once more like the pinched and underfed creature he’d first met at the end of summer.
There were hollows under her eyes, but she seemed to have rubbed some rouge into her cheeks to brighten them up, and her hair bounced with pin curls.
She wore one of her neat blouse-and-skirt combos and her green shop apron.
His gaze lingered for a moment on the new boots peeking out from under her skirts.
A little muddy from sloshing across snow-choked streets, but sturdy, and they would keep her feet dry.
Nigel dragged his gaze back up to her face to find her studying him in return. He must look an absolute sight! His hand flew to his unshaven chin, then to his hair, which stood all askew, like a lunatic escaped from the asylum.
The Silly Young Things at the counter twittered to themselves from behind their teacups.
Luna recovered herself first and took a step toward him, beckoning. “Do come back to the nook, Mr. Grimm,” she said, “and have a seat. You shouldn’t be on your feet just yet! I’ll finish up at the counter and bring you a nice cup of ginger tea, all right?”
Nigel opened his mouth, ready to protest that Luna was the one who shouldn’t be up and about already. He could not reconcile this image of her with the languishing figure he’d last seen. What if she relapsed? That was a thing that happened, wasn’t it?
But though his mouth opened and closed on a series of half-started protests, he couldn’t quite manage to give voice to any of them.
Instead, he found himself ushered back behind the counter and safely into the nook.
“Sit now,” Luna urged him. “I’ll be with you in two ticks.
” Then she pulled the privacy curtain closed with a brisk flick of her wrist.
Nigel sank into the cane chair in front of the stove.
Looking down, he realized he was barefoot.
He blinked in some surprise, shocked at the sight of his own un-shod feet.
How scandalized Miss Talbot must be, seeing him in such an indecent state!
He ran both hands down his face, horrified by the growth of beard gone unchecked for days.
Perhaps he should escape. Slip back up to his room, bury his head under his covers, and wait for her to leave.
But . . . Luna was just beyond the curtain, talking to her Silly Young Things. Reading their fortunes in tea leaves, no doubt. He could hear more twittering and giggles, and once even Luna’s golden laugh. That sound made his throat swell up, and he was forced to smother another coughing fit.
At last, the shop bells sounded again, announcing the departure of the Silly Young Things. Apparently, business was open. Which is why those bells kept tinkling. It was the sound of customers coming and going. Because Luna was back to work. Right where she belonged.
Nigel listened to the sound of her footsteps, retreating to the kitchen, possibly to make the promised ginger tea.
He’d not realized, during the last few days of fever and delirium, how much he’d missed the familiar rhythm of her tread, the warmth of her atmosphere.
Now, though the tightness in his lungs wasn’t fully relinquished yet, he felt as though he could breathe easier for the first time in days.
But he still didn’t want her seeing him like this.