Chapter 13 #2
But the possibilities of what it could mean had raced through her veins last night.
And when he’d taken her in his arms, when he’d pulled her close .
. . when his mouth had begun to dance and play with hers in such extraordinary ways .
. . those possibilities had seemed far more real and pressing and desperately desirable than she had ever dared imagine.
Only to be so hideously dashed by the spiraling chaos of subsequent events.
But did that mean every possibility was gone forever?
Of course it does, a stern voice in the back of her head growled. He’s the Grimshade Lord. There are no ‘possibilities’ to be had with him!
But looking at him now, Luna couldn’t seem to recall that horrible image she’d glimpsed on a few spare occasions: the seven-foot tower of dark-writhing malice.
Before her was just Nigel Grimm. Her boss.
Sweet and shy and rubbing the back of his neck, afraid to look her in the eye.
But she knew now that this shyness was only a very thin crust overlaying something molten in his core.
“I shouldn’t,” she whispered. “I . . . I need to . . .”
He caught her eye more firmly this time. “Please,” he said. “It won’t take a minute.”
Oh, wouldn’t it? Luna frowned. She certainly wasn’t an expert on these sorts of things, having learned everything she knew from Auntie Arabella’s secret stash of racy novels hidden in her darning basket.
Still, even in those darning-basket novels, matters such as this generally took a couple of pages at least.
But what did she know? Basically nothing. Nothing except that when Mr. Grimm looked at her like that—with such earnestness and hope and undisguised longing—she would do anything for him.
Forget all good sense.
Forget the 4 am mail train, even now on its way.
Forget everything.
Even as her stomach performed a series of strange loops, Luna attempted one last small protest. “The, um, the flowers. They’re getting hungry.”
“Yes, I’ll take care of all that,” Mr. Grimm answered with a dismissive wave of his hand. Then he turned slightly and indicated the stairwell. “Please, Miss Talbot.”
Luna drew a shivering breath. Ducking her head to hide the absolutely furious red blush staining her cheeks, she stepped past him.
The next moment, she was climbing the stairs.
To his apartment.
She hadn’t been up this stairway more than twice or thrice since her initial arrival at The Arcane Bouquet.
First was the day they’d met. The next was a few weeks ago, when he was ill, having caught pneumonia while nursing her.
She’d ventured up then to check on him but hadn’t lingered.
She’d invaded his shop and quite taken over his kitchen with all her witchy brews, but his apartment was his own.
A private space, set apart from their doings down below.
Her knees shook as she made the climb, and her hand gripped the rail with white-knuckled intensity.
She feared she’d lose her nerve, but somehow made it to the topmost step.
Once there, however, she couldn’t make herself reach out and grasp the door handle.
Instead, she pressed her back against the side wall, allowing Mr. Grimm to step in behind her.
It was quite a narrow passage and dark, for he’d not flipped on the thaumatic light bulb.
Luna found herself suddenly overwhelmed by the lovely smell of him, so close in her nostrils.
His hand reached for the doorknob.
“Wait, Mr. Grimm,” Luna gasped and gripped his forearm.
He looked at her. Standing one step lower, his face was nearly level with her own.
She peered into his eyes, but they were so obscured by shadows, she couldn’t discern any expression.
He waited for her to speak, but what was she going to say?
What was she going to do? A terrible temptation filled her.
Temptation to lean forward right here, right now, and close that little distance between them, pressing her mouth to his. But something held her back.
“Pardon me, Miss Talbot,” he murmured and turned the knob. He pushed the door open. It creaked softly. “After you,” he said.
Heart racing, face burning, Luna turned sharply and took the last step into his apartment, over the threshold. She felt as though she was stepping into her fate, and—
She stopped. Short.
Her mouth dropped slowly open.
A little gasp eked up her throat. She tried to speak. Failed. Gasped again.
Then she finally managed, “Oh, Mr. Grimm!”
A gown spread across his bed. Frilly layers of yellow and pink in the absolute softest, most delicate fabric imaginable.
A structured bodice, intricately worked, with a daring neckline, trimmed in innumerable rosebuds which, at first glance, looked real, at second, looked silk, and at third, looked real again.
Glinting jewels studded the bodice and the edges of the skirt ruffles, like drops of dew caught on morning petals.
It was glorious. More glorious even than she’d remembered from that briefly-glimpsed vision in Ward’s teacup all those months ago. But she recognized it immediately.
Luna turned, her staring eyes catching Mr. Grimm’s. He smiled softly, though it did not reach his sad eyes. “I thought you might like to wear it,” he said, lingering in the doorway, not crossing the threshold. “To the ball tonight.”
Luna blinked once. Otherwise, she did not break his gaze.
“I felt bad,” he continued. “About what Debbie did, I mean. Thought the least I could do was make it up to you. Wouldn’t want you to miss your night out, after all.”
She finally managed to draw breath, exhaling in a gust. “Did you use sorcery?”
He shook his head. Then followed it up immediately with a guilty nod.
“It didn’t take much,” he added quickly.
“I used blossoms from the double-delight as the base, and she has so much magic of her own, I needed only the barest drop of Dire Matter to twist the essential modalities . . .” His voice trailed off, his brow wrinkling with concern.
“What I’m trying to say,” he continued, “is no one will be able to tell. That sorcery was used in its creation, I mean. You may simply wear it. And enjoy it.”
Unable to bear looking at him a second longer, Luna turned her head sharply, staring at the gown again.
The dream-come-true, beautiful-beyond-reason gown, every young girl’s fantasy miraculously realized.
Emotion welled in her throat, lodging painfully.
She couldn’t tell if it was gratitude or sorrow or happiness or relief or longing.
There were too many emotions, all piled up too quickly, before she had a chance to put them in some sort of reasonable order.
Finally, she forced herself to face Mr. Grimm again, noting this time how pinched he was, how gray his skin.
He looked nearly as bad as he had earlier that morning, when she’d found him in the nook.
“Did . . .” Luna hesitated, wetting her dry lips.
“Did making the dress . . . did it hurt you? Because of the poison?”
“Oh, no.” He shrugged and pulled a face, stuffing his hands into his trouser pockets. “It wasn’t a problem.” Then his eyebrows rose, and he removed something from his pocket. “By the way, as this gown is without sleeves, you might want to make use of this.”
He held out a little white tube of cream. Luna accepted it, her fingertips just brushing his as she did so. She turned the tube over and read the label: Mystic Veils. A brand she’d seen Bryony use many times to disappear her freckles.
“It’s potent stuff,” Mr. Grimm said. “Just rub it on your wrists. It’ll hide any, erm, anything you might wish to conceal.”
Like her heptagram tattoo. And the nasty abrasions left behind by those binding cords last night.
Luna nodded, turning the tube around in her fingers.
Then her lashes flashed, and her eyes shot up to catch Mr. Grimm’s gaze.
Suddenly she knew for certain: she did not want to wear this gown.
She did not want to put it on and take Ward’s arm and dance with him under glittering chandeliers, smiling and pretending to be happy while her heart slowly broke in two.
She had only one night left. Right now, all she wanted to do was take advantage of those short hours.
To grab hold of this man right in front of her, pull him down onto that creaky bed of his, and let him wrap her up in his arms and hide her from all the rest of this big, scary world.
Instead, she heard her own voice whispering, “Th-thank you.”
He nodded. “I’ll fetch your bag up for you,” he said, taking a step back down the stairs. “You can use my bathroom for . . . well, for whatever you need. To get ready, I mean.”
Luna nodded. When she didn’t say anything more, he offered her an awkward sort of half-smile, turned, and began to descend. Luna lunged two steps after and called out, “Mr. Grimm!”
He paused. Looked back. The dim light coming from his apartment only partially illuminated his face, but his eyes gleamed. “Yes?”
The look in those eyes was nearly enough to melt her to the floor. Luna gripped the doorframe, desperately trying to find the words she needed. Any words. Anything.
But all that came was a murmured, “Never mind.”
She felt Mr. Grimm’s gaze searching her face. All was very still between them.
Then he nodded, turned, and continued down the stairs, leaving Luna lingering in his doorway, watching his retreating back.