Chapter 27 #2
“Sleeping it off, rather,” she muttered, sitting back on her heels.
She cast a worried gaze around the shop.
All the flowers looked a bit chilled but otherwise demure in their pots and basins.
Debbie perched on her skull, performing quite a thorough preen, seemingly not in the least bit concerned with the plight of her master.
“What happened here?” Luna demanded.
The raven looked at her and ruffled her wings. “Never mind.”
“Well, that’s easy for you to say!” With a sigh, Luna looked down at her boss again. There was something distressed about his attitude. She couldn’t pinpoint it. Something in the set of his brow, in the way his arm lay outstretched. Had something happened to upset him? With Bryony, perhaps?
Luna bit her lip hard. Then, uncertain what else to do, she rose, removed her hat and coat, hung them up on the peg, and set to work lighting the stove in the back.
Time to get a bit of heat in here; it was cold as an icebox!
She fetched the kettle as well and went about filling it and putting on a Sniff-Me-Not tea to brew.
All the while, she kept glancing Mr. Grimm’s way.
He did not move. Not a muscle. Green Mother spare her, she’d think he was dead were it not for the lack of panic among the plant life, not to mention Debbie’s general indifference.
Luna set to work inspecting the shop, searching for clues.
There was nothing taken from the register or the strongbox in the back.
She counted the tiger lilies, but they were all accounted for, and all the supplies in the storage room were perfectly neat and in order.
The shop floor itself was in pristine condition as well, better than she’d left it.
Had Mr. Grimm returned from his date and finished tidying up himself?
Then simply collapsed in the middle of the floor from sheer exhaustion?
But why had he left the door open like that?
Once the tea was brewed, Luna poured a cup, returned to Mr. Grimm’s side, and knelt.
He lay with his head pillowed on one arm.
It reminded Luna rather strongly of when she’d helped him after he collapsed over Lord Bruxley.
Was it possible he had performed another reckless act of sorcery last night?
But how could he? She’d not given her permission, and the Sovereign Troth was binding.
Unless he’d lied about that. Tricking her into a false sense of security.
“Mr. Grimm,” she said, her voice stern. She drew a little breath, exhaled it in a huff.
This was not how she’d expected to begin this day.
She’d honestly thought he’d be out in Garden by the time she arrived, avoiding her, as had become his habit of late.
“Mr. Grimm!” she said again, then reached out and patted his face sharply.
When he offered no response, she began to feel truly concerned.
Worrying her lip still more roughly, Luna fetched a clean handkerchief from her pocket and soaked a corner of it in the smelly tea.
Wadding it up, she held it under her employer’s nose.
The effect was as good as smelling salts.
His nostrils flared, and his eyes popped open, staring wildly up at her.
Then, with a gasping “Eeeeeeeeergh!” he rolled onto his back, propped up onto his elbows, shaking that lock of pale hair back from his forehead. His bright blue irises were white-ringed with terror.
“Mr. Grimm!” Luna exclaimed, holding out a calming hand. “Mr. Grimm, it’s all right! It’s me. It’s only me.”
He blinked rapidly. His lips moved several times before he dragged in a gasp of air, then managed to push out a few slurred words. “Where am I?”
“You’re home, of course,” Luna answered gently. “The Arcane Bouquet. You left the door open, did you know?”
“I . . . did?” He turned his head sharply, staring at the shut and fastened door. He frowned, his brow wrinkling with confusion.
“All’s secure now, not to worry,” Luna said. “I went over the whole shop, the register, the strongbox. Nothing seems to have been taken.”
“Garden?” he gasped, his head whipping back to stare at her again.
“Secure. The key is in the pot where it should be. Everything’s fine, Mr. Grimm.”
“Never mind!” Debbie croaked and took flight from her skull.
She landed on her master’s shoulder and pecked his ear affectionately.
Nigel nodded, expelling a long breath. He managed to sit up a little more, pushing off from his elbows.
His back hunched, and his head leaned so far forward, he almost looked like he was going to topple. But he stayed semi-upright somehow.
“Tea?” Luna said, offering him the Sniff-Me-Not.
He accepted gratefully, then recoiled as he lifted it to his lips and caught a whiff of the steam. “Is this your aunties’ hangover cure?”
“The very same.”
“I’m not hungover.”
“Then what are you, Mr. Grimm?”
“I am . . .” He hesitated. Blinked. Frowned.
Then, without another word, he took a large gulp of tea.
“Mmmm hmmm.” Luna got to her feet then held out a hand for the teacup.
He gave it to her, and she held out her other hand to him.
He stared at her fingers for a moment. Then, slipping his hand into hers, he allowed her to help him up onto his feet.
The moment he was standing, she pulled away.
For just an instant, she almost thought he tried to maintain his grip on her fingers but he released her the next instant. And she might have imagined it anyway.
“Back to the nook with you, Mr. Grimm,” she said, turning and marching away from him. She set the still mostly-full cup of tea down on the counter. “Finish your Sniff-Me-Not, and I’ll make you a nice cup of chamomile to cleanse the palate afterwards. Deal?”
Her employer swayed a little on his feet, looking as though he might keel over once more.
With a nod, he managed to stagger his way back to the counter.
He lifted and lowered the hinged portion very carefully, very gingerly, as though afraid of making too much noise.
His eyes kept scanning the shop, and Luna watched his gaze settle with some consternation on the double-delight rose.
Luna peered at the rose herself, but it looked very sweet and demure in its pot.
Maybe a few more blooms to its name than it had boasted yesterday. Nothing more.
“I’ll be back in two ticks, Mr. Grimm,” Luna said and made her way to the kitchen, calling over her shoulder as she went, “I’ll fetch you that chamomile!”
Once she was safely in the kitchen and away from him, she paused a moment with her back to the door and placed her hand on her stomach, grimacing against the sudden surge of tears which threatened to rise.
Why was this so hard? Harder than she’d expected.
Coming back here, acting normal. After everything she’d realized .
. . after deciding what must be done . . .
Fingers shaking, she dashed a stray tear from her cheek. Then, sniffing hard, she lifted her chin. She was not going to succumb to weeping again. Not at work. Not when Mr. Grimm was expecting her back with his chamomile momentarily.
Not when she had a plan.
“One month,” she whispered. “Then you’re out of here. For good.”
She could do it. She could survive the intervening weeks. She’d survived much worse, hadn’t she?
If she could just keep that image of his hand on Bryony’s thigh out of her brain in the meantime.
Moving with swift purpose, Luna set to work putting on the kettle, priming the pot, measuring out tea leaves.
While she waited for it to brew, she disposed of the forgotten meal sent over by Mrs. Goddard, washed the dishes and left them on the draining board to be fetched later that morning.
Then she poured two cups of chamomile and stood a moment with her shoulders back, bracing like a soldier preparing to march.
“One more month,” she whispered again. Pasting a smile on her face, she nudged the kitchen door open, stepped out into the passage and on to the shop.
Mr. Grimm was still in the nook where she’d left him.
He sat in the cane chair, staring at the stove, the half-drunk cup of Sniff-Me-Not tea resting on his knee, barely supported with one limp hand.
Luna hastily set aside the two chamomiles and went to claim the Sniff-Me-Not before it crashed.
“Really, Mr. Grimm,” she said sternly, “you ought to try to drink it.”
He nodded vaguely without looking at her. “Later, Miss Talbot. Later.”
She bit the inside of her cheek, studying his profile.
All the lines of his face seemed harder this morning, more severe.
Still very refined, almost pretty. But older.
There was a heaviness around his mouth, which she could not have imagined there last night when that same mouth was much occupied with kissing her roommate.
Luna cleared her throat. “Do you want your chamomile instead?” she asked briskly.
“Yes, please.” His voice was strangely soft, almost meek.
Luna handed the cup to him. Then, curious despite herself, she asked, “Do you remember much about last night? About what happened?”
He flicked a startled deer-in-the-headlamps gaze up to her. Hastily, he shook his head.
Luna tsked and took a fortifying sip of her own tea. “I was still up,” she said, setting the cup back in the saucer and watching the swirl of the pale liquid, “when Bryony came in last night. She, um . . . she told me about your conversation.”
Mr. Grimm’s teacup clattered, splattering chamomile everywhere. “She did what?”