Beginning #2
The urge to leap from behind the counter and rush to her assistance was strong.
Instead, Nigel chose the coward’s course, abandoning his logbook and fleeing for the kitchen.
He simply did not trust himself around her.
He couldn’t even say what it was he did not trust himself to do, or say, or be.
Only that, where Luna Talbot was concerned, his impulses were entirely treacherous and, for the moment at least, he needed a little distance.
He had cause to regret his cowardice a few moments later, however, when he stepped through the kitchen door to discover, not the solitary space of reprieve he’d expected.
No, for his gaze was met by the rotund little figure of Mrs. Goddard, his landlady, come to deliver his daily breakfast platter.
Said platter sat on the kitchen table, and the good woman stood with her back to Nigel, gathering last night’s dishes from the draining board.
The not-so-subtle sounds of “boo-hooing” issued from beneath the old-fashioned lace cap adorning her gray head.
Nigel stopped cold, grimacing. He liked Mrs. Goddard.
He truly did. She was a kindly soul, and she’d come through for him with that spice cake in a pinch.
She never up-charged anything, and while he could possibly do with fewer mushroom-embroidered handkerchiefs in his life, he couldn’t fault her generous nature.
That didn’t mean he wanted to play the role of comforter in her hour of need.
He made a slow, backwards step of retreat. Just then, however, the good woman uttered a despairing sigh, followed by an, “Oh, dear, oh, dear, oh, dearie dear!” Even the coldest heart could not help but be moved. And Nigel’s heart was no longer quite so cold as it had once been. More’s the pity.
Closing his eyes and bracing himself for what was to come, he said, “Is something the matter, Mrs. Goddard?”
“Oh!” She turned from the sink in a flutter of lace and ribbons and pressed a wrinkled hand to her careworn bosom. Tears glistened in her eyes. “I wouldn’t want to burden you with me troubles, Mr. Grimm.”
Good, Nigel thought. Please, don’t burden me, that would be excellent.
With another sigh, he fetched his handkerchief from his pocket and offered it to Mrs. Goddard.
She accepted and, upon noting that it was one of her own dancing-mushroom hankies, her face brightened in a momentary smile.
She blew her nose loudly. “All right,” Nigel said, backing away. “Well, I hope all will be—”
“It’s my boy!” she declared in the tones of one settling in for a long telling.
“Oh gods,” Nigel whispered.
“I just know he’s gone and got himself mixed up with that bad crowd down by the harbor. You know the ones, don’t you?”
Nigel shook his head. He made a point of not knowing basically anything that went on in Ballycastle beyond the boundaries of his own little shop.
“The Brute Boys,” Mrs. Goddard continued, wiping tears from her faded cheeks with a corner of Nigel’s handkerchief.
“Them’s the ones what got themselves mixed up with that sorcerous business up north at Gliphaven.
A bunch of them was nicked for it, or so me sister’s husband’s brother-in-law tells me.
He’s a detention officer in the correctional branch of the SSSD, and he said they got the worst of the lot in the chokey now, but the remainders have been recruiting since then.
I know for a fact my sweet boy’s best mate, Rodeny Rookshanks, joined up, and he’s been pestering my Tobias . . .”
She continued in this vein for some while.
Apparently, she’d tried to send her youngest son up north to work for his elder brother—Yes, please, go up north, posthaste, Nigel thought uncharitably, though, with valiant effort, he maintained a sympathetic expression—but Tobias and the brother in question fought like tomcats, and Tobias was packed up for home again before you could say “kippered herrings,” and—
At some point, his landlady paused for breath.
Sensing what might be his only opportunity, Nigel managed to insert a calming, “Now, Mrs. Goddard, I’m sure it will all work out.
You’ve planted the seeds of good principles in his mind, and when the grindstone begins to turn, he’ll remember the cloth from which he is cut, and fly back to the bosom of his . . .”
His voice trailed away. Exactly how many metaphors had he just blended in one go?
Mrs. Goddard, however, sniffled into her borrowed handkerchief, smiling through tears.
“Oh, thank you ever so for the wise words, Mr. Grimm. You are a great comfort to me poor heart!” She reached out then and patted his cheek, and Nigel congratulated himself on managing not to flinch.
“Now tell me,” she continued in cooing tones, “did your Luna enjoy her little birthday surprise? Did she thank you for it properly?”
Heat roared up Nigel’s neck at the words “your Luna.” He abruptly turned to the stove and, more out of habit than anything, grabbed the kettle and began to fill it.
“Tea, Mrs. Goddard?” he offered. Then silently cursed himself.
The last thing he needed was to sit and share a pot of tea with his landlady right then.
Thankfully, she shook her head, laces dancing. “No, no, dear boy, I have other deliveries to make this morning.” She tapped the lid of the covered platter on the counter. “Tell sweet Luna to enjoy the breakfast.”
With that and a last wink, she bustled from the kitchen, cheerier than she was upon entering. Which only goes to show one should never underestimate the value of a good metaphor. Or several.
In the wake of her departure, Nigel leaned heavily against the kitchen table and closed his eyes.
A single word eked through his grinding teeth: “Damn.” Then, because he didn’t know what else to do, he went about preparing that pot of tea.
He fetched Luna’s vanilla-honeysuckle blend from the cupboard, primed the pot, then measured out level spoonfuls.
With a willful set of his chin, he refused to add the dibble-dab.
One small act of defiance against this woman who had so undone the orderliness of his life.
The kitchen door opened.
Luna entered, took one look at Nigel, and turned her face away quickly. She began to retreat, but Nigel stepped back from the teapot and straightened his jacket. “Are the, erm, snapdragons tended?” he asked.
“Yes, Mr. Grimm,” she said quietly.
“Good.”
She was most likely here for breakfast. A breakfast she would not eat if he was present to see it. It was all part of their odd little unspoken agreement, one of the silent rules by which he must abide if he wanted her to accept the meals he offered.
“Tea’s brewing,” Nigel said, circling the long way around the kitchen table to maintain as much distance as possible between them on his way to the door. “Five minutes.”
Luna nodded a silent acknowledgement. He was beginning to think he would escape this encounter with no further words exchanged, but just as he pushed the door open and took a step into the passage, she spoke: “Mr. Grimm?”
His heart leapt to his throat. “Yes?” he said, looking back.
“About Lord Bruxley . . .”
And there his heart went again. Tumbling right back down to the pit of his stomach.
“Handled,” he answered abruptly.
It hadn’t been easy. It had taken most of yesterday for his strength to return enough to manage the complex transmutation spell.
Then he’d had to figure out the tricky balance of returning the offensive Bruxley to his original human shape before subduing him enough to remove certain memories from his mind.
He’d almost attempted the memory-removal while Lord Bruxley was still in spider form, but spider brains were notoriously tricky to navigate.
Nigel didn’t have practical experience with them and risked magically lobotomizing the lord.
Which wouldn’t have bothered Nigel all that much, but definitely would not have met with Luna’s approval.
In the end, Bruxley had solved one problem for Nigel all on his own.
The instant his human shape was restored, he made a beeline for the wall and tried to climb it with limbs he no longer possessed.
This resulted in a crash, a bruised skull, and a temporary unconsciousness, which Nigel was quick to exploit.
He deftly removed the memories, draining the life force from an entire hydrangea to source the necessary sorcerous energy.
He’d then dug up a bottle of cooking wine from the depths of the pantry and poured it all over Bruxley’s shirt and vest, figuring a boozy bender was as good an explanation for the lord’s addled state of being as any.
Finally, after slapping Bruxley back into a state of semi-lucidity, Nigel had assisted him, stumbling and weaving down the sidewalk and around to Pembroke Street. There he’d hailed a taxi. “Delivery for Bruxley Hall, Northside,” he’d told the driver, bundling his tipsy nemesis into the back seat.
And that was the last he hoped ever to see of Lord Archibald and his striped trousers.
Luna studied Nigel’s face for a moment, trying to read more information than was expressed in his one-worded answer. For a moment, she looked as though she might question him further. Then, with a short shake of her head, she turned to the teapot on the counter. “Five minutes, you said?”