Chapter THREE
It shouldn’t count as eavesdropping if one was actively trying not to listen in, should it?
While lying in bed, staring up at his ceiling, Nigel couldn’t help but overhear the distinct rumble of Ward the Wardsman’s voice, even pick up a few words here and there. With a little straining of the ears—and possibly an application of magic that was not quite on this side of legal—he could have heard everything.
But he didn’t.
Instead, he got out of bed, his dressing gown still wrapped rather limply around him, and stalked to the window on the other side of the apartment. There he stood, gazing through the glass at the street below. It wasn’t busy, but there was enough noise from passing automagic mobiles to drown out whatever was being said downstairs. Giving Luna and her handsome beau the privacy they deserved.
Nigel leaned his fevered forehead against the cold glass. Then he grimaced, actively resisting the urge to start hitting his head repeatedly in place. Were he to shatter a pane, that might bring Luna running upstairs. And that was unacceptable. Because he’d solemnly vowed to be the brother she needed. And a good brother wouldn’t do anything to interfere with . . . with whatever was going on down there.
No doubt they were making up over the misunderstanding.
Maybe he was taking her in his arms, kissing away all the hurt, and—
Nope! Nope, no way, not going to think about that! Though he knew it was much too cold for his recently-blighted lungs, Nigel turned the catch, pushed the window open, and stuck his head out into the winter air. He closed his eyes, breathed in deep, and tried to let the sounds of Addle Street batter away any other thoughts in his head.
Down below, the shop bells tinkled.
He lowered his gaze in time to see the top of Officer Ward’s hat appear from under the awning. The big wardsman strolled on down the sidewalk, and for a moment, Nigel’s heart lifted. He was going. Would soon be gone. And maybe, for a little while at least, Nigel could pretend John Ward wasn’t in the picture at all, that life really was just made up of him and his shop assistant and the flowers and Debbie and—
More tinkling bells.
Nigel’s heart sank.
Luna appeared on the sidewalk, not even wearing her coat and scarf. He almost barked down at her, heedless of the hypocrisy inherent in his own position. But she cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted, “Ward!”
The wardsman at the far end of the sidewalk paused.
Nigel did not make it a practice to frequent moving pictures very often. He found the screwball antics exhausting and the melodramas a bit much for his refined tastes. All that mooching for the camera, the exaggerated makeup, the swelling soundtrack intended to manipulate the senses.
But he could almost swear he heard the strains of sighing violins now, as Luna hastened up the sidewalk, slipping and sliding in her new boots, covering the distance between her and her handsome hunk of a hero. In fact . . . Nigel scowled and peered across the road. Sure enough, the street fiddler lounged in the doorway of the opposite shop, picking out an appropriately romantic soundtrack for the moment observed.
Nigel resisted the urge to form an icy snowball and hurl it across Addle Street, straight at that damn-blasted fiddler. He turned his gaze back to Luna and her wardsman, half expecting to see them fall into each other’s arms and embrace, just as the music swelled to a poignant crescendo. Then they would pull apart and declare all hurts forgiven, all misunderstandings forgotten, and nothing but eternal devotion from here on out.
Only they didn’t.
They remained a good few yards apart. Ward tipped back his hat, and Luna was saying something with some animation, gesticulating with one hand in that expressive manner of hers. Whatever she said made the wardsman smile broadly, and . . .
Nigel pulled back inside, shut the window fast, blocking out the sight and the fiddler and everything. Breathing hard, not just from the lingering effects of pneumonia, he turned and looked somewhat wildly around the room.
Debbie, perched on the bedpost, met his eye. “Never mind?“
she suggested, shrugging her wings.
“Yeah.“
Nigel nodded and rubbed a hand across the growth of beard on his face. “I think . . . I think that’s about the long and short of it.”
He crossed the room and sat on the edge of his bed, hands on his knees. He stared at the rag rug on the floor in front of him, seeking a pattern in the chaos of indiscriminately-chosen colors and discovering none.
Then he sank his head into his hands, leaned forward, and breathed out a long sigh, followed by a curse. “Damn it, Debbie! What am I supposed to do?”
She fluttered from the bedpost to his shoulder and pecked at his hair sympathetically. It wasn’t particularly comforting.
Nigel didn’t sleep that afternoon. Every so often, he made himself lie down, firmly closed his eyes, and willed unconsciousness to come. It wouldn’t. And he always ended up staring up at the ceiling once more.
In his mind’s eye, he kept seeing Luna’s smile as she gazed up at John-blasted Ward. Over and over again.
The day lengthened. Darkness fell early this time of year, and five o’clock drew on. Closing time. Apparently, Luna hadn’t felt tired enough to close up early as she promised. Maybe her visit with Ward had invigorated her. Maybe they had made plans for a make-up date.
Nigel sighed and ran his hands down his face again. If she thought he was asleep, there was no way she’d come upstairs and remind him of his promise to call her a cab. She’d simply sweep up, feed the plants, cash out the register, tally the books, and leave without disturbing him. But he didn’t want her walking back to Mrs. Boggs’s in that cold. Not if he could help it.
Slugging his way out of bed, Nigel staggered to the wardrobe. He wished now that he’d taken the time to shave at some point during the interminable afternoon, but . . . alas. Though he very much needed a shower, he simply applied a little cologne, tamed his hair into something less lunatic, and donned a fresh linen suit. He felt a bit like a corpse dressed for his own funeral, but this was the best he could manage.
He made his way downstairs—just in time, apparently. Luna had closed up everything, switched off half the lights, and was now removing her apron. “Oh, Mr. Grimm!“
she said, seeing him emerge from the stairwell. “Mrs. Goddard was just here. Your dinner’s in the kitchen, still warm. I think it’s what she calls a ‘healing broth,’ so be careful! That could mean just about anything.“
She hung up her apron and fetched her coat from its peg.
Though he knew he’d regret it even before it slipped from his mouth, Nigel said anyway, “Do you want to stay? Share dinner with me? You . . . you must be hungry yourself.”
She flashed him a quick sideways glance but didn’t hold his gaze. “No, thank you,“
she said. “I’d best be getting home. I’m a little tired.”
Nigel nodded. He wanted to press her, to ask if she had supper at home. But it wasn’t his business. So he said instead, “Let me walk out with you, then. Call you that taxi.”
She focused on doing up her front buttons. “Are you sure? It’s really no trouble for me to walk. I’m quite used to it.”
But now he knew how very long that walk of hers was—how very dark the streets were, how cold, how full of half-seen, lingering individuals—Nigel wondered if he could ever bear to let her walk home alone again.
“I insist,“
he said firmly. A little too firmly, perhaps.
Luna blinked with some surprise. But she nodded, put on her hat, slipped on her gloves, and wrapped her scarf around her neck and face. Nigel, similarly bundled, accompanied her out onto the sidewalk. The air was biting, and the ground treacherous. Luna’s feet slipped, and Nigel hastily offered a hand for support. She either didn’t see it or chose to ignore it, but righted herself swiftly and started walking. Nigel put both hands in his pockets, trudging beside her up the sidewalk toward Pembroke. It was generally easier to catch a taxi there.
“Oh,“
Luna said suddenly, her voice a little muffled from behind her scarf, “did you take your dose this afternoon? Mrs. Goddard asked me to remind you.”
“Don’t worry about it, Miss Talbot,“
Nigel replied, neither a lie nor an admission of forgetfulness. He caught her swift, sideways glance, but she didn’t press the issue. They reached the intersection of Pembroke and Addle, and Nigel held up his arm to signal a passing taxi. It drove on by without pausing. He put his arm back down, and they both stomped their feet and swayed, trying to keep their blood moving.
“Mr. Grimm,“
Luna said abruptly, turning toward him and pulling down her scarf. The light from the near streetlamp lit up her face, revealing an earnest expression that was almost . . . fearful. Nigel returned her gaze, blood pooling strangely in his gut. He found himself bracing for something, but couldn’t begin to say what.
“Mr. Grimm,“
she said again, speaking all in a rush as though the words had been trying to get out all day, “I can’t go any longer without . . . without thanking you.“
Her eyes darted away from his, suddenly fascinated by something on the ground between them.
“Thanking me?“
Nigel repeated, pulling down his own scarf. The cold hit his face like a slap. “For what?”
“Oh, you know!“
She waved a vague hand. “For everything you did for me. On Green Yule’s Eve, I mean.”
“Ah!“
Nigel turned back to the street. Another taxi approached, but though he lifted his arm, it also passed by without pausing.
“You went so far beyond any . . . anything I could have expected,“
Luna continued. Was that chiding in her voice? Was she angry at him for overstepping?
Nigel swallowed, glanced her way, then down at his feet. “When you didn’t show at work,“
he said, “I was concerned, and—”
“Yes, I’m sure. I should have tried to call or something—”
“No, that’s not what I’m saying, I—”
“I will try very hard not to forget next time. Mrs. Boggs is a bit of a dragon over the phone, and—”
“Miss Talbot.“
Nigel looked up. Caught her eye and held it. Firmly this time. “You were ill. Extremely ill. Dangerously so, I believe. You have nothing for which to apologize. Do you understand?”
Her dark eyes shimmered in the glow of the streetlight. Were those tears he saw? Or merely a reflection off the snow? Her lashes lowered gently, fanning her frozen cheeks. “I feel so guilty. That you, um, had to play nursemaid all night. What a beastly way to spend your holiday! It was too good of you, Mr. Grimm, and you really shouldn’t have. Didn’t need to, I mean. Are under no obligation to . . . to care for me like that . . .“
Her voice trailed away.
Nigel stood there, feeling as though every coherent thought had been frozen inside his skull. Everything he might say sounded wrong, somehow. Incriminating. Foolish. Forlorn. But he must say something.
“It was my pleasure.”
Luna’s eyes flashed to meet his.
So much quiet truth rang in those words. Could she hear it? Did she understand? Because it was his pleasure: a painful, agonizing, terrifying pleasure, and yet a pleasure, nonetheless. To help her. To serve her. To be there with her and comfort her. To feel, even just for a moment, as though his arms were strong enough to hold her together. An illicit feeling, in retrospect, far too intimate for the employer-and-employee relationship that existed between them. A crossing of boundaries into a space of extreme vulnerability where he had not been consciously invited. She had every right to scold him. To firmly reject any further intrusions of that nature. And he would accept it. Gracefully, if he could.
Luna’s cold lips moved, little puffs of white vapors streaming out in place of unspoken words.
Then, very softly, she said, “I don’t know what I would do without you.”
A rush of heat burned through his chest. Nigel wanted to answer, to shout and let his voice ring across the busy intersection of Pembroke and Addle Street: “You don’t have to know. Because I’ll always be there for you. As long as you’ll let me.“
The confessions were right there on the tip of his tongue, waiting to be uttered, and in that moment, he really didn’t care if they were the sort of thing a brother should say. They were simply the truth, and the truth wanted out, and—
A taxi approached, it’s “unoccupied” light on.
Nigel wrenched away from Luna, waving his arm with far more vigor than he had used before. The taxi swerved and, churning up muck from the gutter, pulled to a stop alongside them at the sidewalk. Nigel moved swiftly, opening the door for her. “Get in quick,“
he said as traffic stalled out behind them, unable to maneuver in the snow-clogged street.
Luna ducked inside, took a seat. She turned to look up at him, her wide eyes once more lit by the streetlight. “Thank you, Mr. Grimm,“
she said in the instant just before he slammed the car door shut.
Nigel leaned over to speak to the driver, slipping payment into his hand. “Number twenty-seven, Bootblack Alley,“
he said, then stepped back, hands in his pockets, and did not meet Luna’s gaze as she peered out at him through the foggy window. The taxi pulled back into the flow of traffic. It only made it a short way, however, before coming to a stop at the intersection, caught in the red light.
Nigel cursed softly. He knew how cold it was inside that cab. It might get Luna home more swiftly and spare her unnecessary exercise, but he still didn’t want to see her trapped in an icebox any longer than necessary. He ought to turn and make all haste home himself, and yet he went on standing there, waiting to see that she was properly on her way.
Something caught his eye on the far side of the street.
Nigel turned, brow tightening.
A shadowy form which, at first glance, looked like nothing but a pile of rags, began to unfold itself. It kept on unfolding, until it stood quite tall in the shadows, just beyond the gleam of the nearest streetlamp.
The traffic light turned; the taxi’s thaumatic engine revved. With a lurch and a spew of muddy snow, it got back into motion, passing over the intersection and away.
And the thing on the far sidewalk flitted across the street in pursuit, passing before the paused traffic like a bundle of wind-blown garbage, then away out of sight. All in the blink of an eye.
Nigel couldn’t say for certain that it was chasing the taxi.
Neither could he say for certain that it wasn’t.
What he could say, with absolute certainty, was that this was the third time he’d seen one of those ragged phantoms. And, if he’d learned nothing else in all his born days, it was never to ignore the Rule of Three. It was one of the basic tenants of magic.
He leaped forward, right out into the street, waving his arms in front of another approaching taxi. It screeched to a halt, the bumper just shy of hitting him in the hip. The driver stuck his head out the window, shouting, “Are you nuts?”
Nigel hastened around the hood, his hand already reaching into the front of his overcoat. He withdrew a wad of bills and shoved them through the window. “Number twenty-seven, Bootblack Alley!“
he shouted, yanking open the back door and climbing inside. “Fast as you can!”
“I’m on my way for a pick-up—”
“I’ll pay you double!”
The driver looked at the bills in his hand. “Mister, this is a lot more than double—”
“Call it a tip,“
Nigel snarled. “Quick, man!”
The driver shrugged and shoved the wad of bills into his box. He had the appearance of a man who’d carted his share of lunatics all over Ballycastle, and Nigel looked harmless enough. The taxi lurched into motion. They skimmed over the intersection right before the light turned again.
Nigel, perched as far forward in his seat as he could, straining his eyes after the other taxi. He could just see it up ahead, through the traffic patterns. Of the phantom thing he saw no sign. Not through foggy windows and flashing streetlights and automagic headlamps.
But it was there. He was certain of it.
And it was following Luna.