Chapter 9 #3
With those words, she let go of Nigel’s arm and hastened ahead of him up the cathedral steps.
Nigel pursued her, wanting to protest yet again that there was no need for any rush, but he suspected it wouldn’t do much good.
By the time he achieved the top of the steps, Luna was circling the young duke, studying him closely.
Then she turned to the door, where a passel of groomsmen—all wearing Nigel’s boutonnieres—trailed after the groom.
Their expressions varied: amusement, concern, worry, and irritation.
No two faces alike, despite their uniform tuxedos and cravats.
“Is he running away?” Nigel asked, crossing his arms over his green apron front.
Luna frowned. “Not likely. By all accounts, the duke is crazy about Miss Lambert.”
Or at least, about her millions, Nigel thought, but tactfully did not say out loud. “Can you squeeze inside?” he suggested instead.
It required some ducking and weaving to get around the groomsmen.
Easier said than done, but Luna managed to get through, and Nigel followed after into the narthex.
This was quite a stunning space, all old stone masonry carved with holy symbols of various gods and saints and big stained glass windows.
But despite the holiness of the setting, mayhem dominated the scene.
Everywhere Nigel looked there seemed to be bridesmaids run amuck—some weeping, some scolding and pointing at each other, one literally in the act of beating a groomsman over the head with her bouquet.
How many bridesmaids did one bride require to get herself properly married?
And beyond these stood the formidable Mrs. Lambert, resplendent in a shimmering silver gown, her face quite red with the effort of scolding her mousy little husband, whose eyes were rolled so far back in his head, Nigel wondered if they were stuck that way permanently, not merely the result of time-severance.
No matter where one looked, there was no sign to be had of any bride.
Luna made her way through the throng, ducking around bridesmaids. “Maybe the nave?” she said.
Nigel followed her through another set of doors to where the wedding guests were gathered, all captured in a moment of uncertainty. Some checked wrist watches, many twisted in the pews to look back over their shoulders, and all wore expressions of mingled uncertainty, boredom, and impatience.
Nigel lingered at the end of the aisle, watching Luna as she hastened toward the altar.
The pillars and pews were all festooned in Arcane Bouquet blossoms, which the two of them had worked hard all morning to put up.
The effect was quite good. Not that this magnificent chamber needed extra decoration, what with the gilded pillars and the painted ceiling and the massive organ which dominated the entire back wall.
“No sign of her here, either,” Luna declared, her voice echoing faintly in the vaulted space.
She turned to Nigel, and the light pouring through one stained glass window illuminated her worried face.
She looked quite fetching in her work apron and that glorious bouquet and her hair all a-tumble. “Where could she be?”
Nigel stuck his hands into his front apron pockets and cleared his throat again. “Perhaps the dressing room.”
Luna shook her head. “Everyone would think to look there first.”
“The washroom?”
“Also obvious.” Chewing her lip, Luna marched back up the aisle, searching the faces of the frozen guests as she came, as though seeking inspiration.
She passed by Nigel and returned to the narthex, where she stood a moment with one hand on her hip, foot tapping.
Nigel followed her, wondering if he might suggest simply leaving the bouquet in the hands of one of the many bridesmaids and getting out of here.
But his eye was caught suddenly by another face which he found unexpectedly familiar.
“Do we know that fellow?” he asked, pointing out a young man who seemed to be slipping out of the narthex into a side passage, looking back over his shoulder.
“Oh, Green Mother!” Luna gasped in the same tone with which someone else might utter a curse. “That’s Tom Doorhandler!”
Nigel frowned. “Isn’t he that can opener chap?”
Not bothering to answer, Luna marched over to the young man.
He had a distinctly sneaky look about him.
Not quite the tiptoeing, shoulder-hunching, mustache-twirling villain, but there was definitely something sneakish in his manner.
For one thing, he wasn’t dressed in wedding-appropriate garments.
In fact, he was kind of shabby. This shabbiness was offset by a large, brawny figure, however, and though no expert on male beauty, Nigel suspected he was the sort of specimen women deemed attractive.
Luna moved to stand directly in front of the man, folding her arms as she looked him over. “What exactly are you up to, Tom?” she muttered.
“Not a favorite of yours, Miss Talbot?” Nigel asked.
“Not at all! He’s a fortune-hunting squib.”
“Strong words.”
“Strong feelings.”
“And does Miss Lambert harbor equally strong feelings?”
Luna sighed. “Stronger, I fear. Though of a rather different nature. Oh, Mother bless me!” She growled softly.
“I bet you anything he’s behind all this hullabaloo.
” She turned on heel then, taking in the corridor into which they had stepped.
Nigel recognized it as the one which led eventually to the dressing rooms on the far side of the cathedral.
“Ah!” Luna said and jerked her chin. “Now there’s something interesting. ”
Nigel turned to look the way Luna peered.
It was more challenging to discern much through the pinkish haze in smaller, enclosed spaces like this.
The shadows tended to go weird and a bit purplish, and the anti-glitter sparks gathered more densely.
But he spied a figure at the end of the passage. “Who is that?”
“That,” Luna said, striding away from Tom Doorhandler, “is Sutton. Miss Eugenia’s maid. If anyone knows where our missing bride has gotten off to, she does. Come on!”
Nigel followed his determined assistant through the stirring shadows.
The passage spilled out into a larger corridor at the end, and it was into this which Sutton stepped, carrying a cup of tea with her.
She was caught in the act of turning to look back over her shoulder, an expression of suspicion and dislike plain on her habitually-stoic face.
Luna peered beyond the maid, as though expecting to spy Miss Lambert. But the hall was empty. Just more pink-whorling reality veils. “Well, Mr. Grimm,” she declared, “I think we must return now to our own time.”
“Really?” Nigel glanced at the bouquet. “You know, you could just leave that with the maid, and we could be well away from here before breaking the spell. That way they’ll never know it was missing to begin with.”
“Oh, you don’t think Sutton will be shocked to find the missing bouquet miraculously appearing in her hands out of thin air?”
“She might just think herself forgetful.”
“No, Mr. Grimm. We’ll hand it to her ourselves. And we’ll ask after Miss Eugenia while we’re at it.”
“Why?”
“Because she’s in trouble. I’m sure of it.”
Nigel caught her eye. “You do realize, Miss Talbot, that you are not personally responsible for every client for whom you perform a scrying, do you not?”
Luna wrinkled her nose but followed it up with a sigh. “I think she needs a friend. That’s all. Everyone does sometimes, you know?”
And that was Luna Talbot for you in a nutshell.
No matter what other concerns might be pressing in on her life, she always found room to care for those around her.
Even those who really did not merit her caring.
Nigel could almost be jealous. Not to mention irritated.
Instead, he was unexpectedly softened. The cold, closed-off heart of his Dark Sorcerer-self seemed to be a thing of the past. He scarcely recognized this new, rather soppy organ flopping stupidly against his breastbone.
“Very well,” he said, taking care that his voice betrayed nothing of what went on internally. “In that case, you had better hold onto something.”
Her eyes widened slightly. “Like what?”
“Like me, for example.”
She blinked slowly. Then, her lips pursed in a tight line, she took a step forward and gently rested her hand on his arm. “Is . . . is this good enough?”
Nigel looked down into her eyes. Before he could think twice about it, he slipped a hand around her waist and, with a single tug, pulled her tight against him.
She gasped, one hand splayed against the front of his green apron bib, the other still gripping the bouquet.
“More like this,” he said roughly, close to her ear.
Raising his other hand, he made a sharp gesture in the air, cutting through the sigils which held them suspended in this sliver of reality.