“Never mind!” #2
But when he looked again, she was still there, her face turned away from him.
She pulled the crushed folds of her petal skirt and stepped awkwardly through the narrow space behind the counter until she reached the hinged portion.
That awkwardness alone was nearly enough to convince him that this wasn’t a dream.
His dream Luna was always a creature of supreme elegance and grace.
Only the real Luna could be graceful, elegant, and awkward as well.
It was part of the magic of her being, which no dream could replicate.
She pushed up the hinged counter and stepped out into the main shop floor, dragging her overlarge skirts behind her.
The magic infusing her gown protected it from any lasting damage, though Nigel thought he heard a subtle rip from somewhere.
But she emerged and stood a few paces away from him, the glow from the thaumatic bulb backlighting her hair in a soft halo.
Nigel swallowed, his throat dry. Subtly, he put his hand behind him and shook off the Dire droplet, which fell inert and useless to the floor.
All the power he’d begun to summon dissipated, but he was not so drained or exhausted as he had been before.
Not now. Not with her standing so near. Her mere presence filled him with an energy unlike anything he’d ever before known, prickling through every nerve and synapses.
“Did you, erm.” He hesitated, then forced the words out. “Did you have a nice time?”
“Oh, yes,” she said, staring down at her fingers, which gripped tight handfuls of skirt. “It was lovely.”
Nigel frowned. There was something odd about her voice—a thick sort of hitch that was unmistakable. He took a step closer then, eyes narrowing as they scanned her downcast face. Were those—Oh gods. Were those tears on her cheeks?
“Miss Talbot?” He took another step, then another, closing the distance between them.
His heart leapt strangely, even as his mind shuffled through a collision of wild ideas and over-sprung conclusions.
“What’s wrong? What happened?” His voice thickened, and when it emerged again, it came out in a growl through gritted teeth: “Did Ward—”
“Whatever you’re thinking, stop.” Luna’s eyes flashed to meet his, her expression sharp, despite the sheen of tears. She held up one hand, palm out. “Ward is . . . fine. Not a perfect gentleman, perhaps. But nothing I can’t handle.”
Rage roared in his veins. Nigel drew a harsh breath, fighting desperately to keep a full eruption at bay. “If he hurt you—” he began.
“He didn’t.” Luna hastily swiped tears from her cheeks with trembling fingers, then shook her curls, looking up at the ceiling as she laughed oddly. “John Ward couldn’t hurt me if he wanted to.”
The sound of her laughter was enough to calm the worst of Nigel’s fears, and some of the rage abated as a result.
But there was something off in her demeanor.
She seemed brittle. Like the wrong word might cause her to shatter into little pieces.
So different from the bright-hearted, spirited tea witch he knew so well.
Darkness overshadowed her soul, so thick it was almost palpable.
Nigel took another step, drawing closer still.
He was so ragged, having removed his jacket and waistcoat earlier, his collar unfastened, his tie hanging half-undone around his neck.
He could not be a starker contrast to her beauty if he tried; a far cry from the handsome wardsman in dress uniform with whom she’d left for the night.
But she’d not stayed out with Ward. She was here.
Whatever might have happened, she’d brought her sorrow, her fear, her shadowed soul back to him.
To Nigel Grimm. Did that mean that she still .
. . trusted him? Despite what had happened last night?
Despite the revelations made and the resolutions broken?
Did that mean he still had a chance to keep her near? To be the friend she needed?
Her head was down again, her lashes lowered.
But he could tell by the tension in her cheek that she was aware of his approach.
She did not flinch away from him when he stretched out his hand, when he took her fingers with his.
So soft, so delicate. He felt all the little callouses and the contrasting smoothness of her palm, delighting his senses.
Her nails were unpainted and short, which perhaps did not suit the glamour of her gown, but absolutely suited a hardworking tea witch.
Her hand was, in Nigel’s view, perfect. Feminine.
Strong. Strong enough to hold his very heart if she so willed.
“Please, Miss Talbot,” he said, his voice rough as he lifted his gaze from where her hand rested in his to her face, half-hidden behind her curls. “Please, my dear. Tell me what’s wrong.”
Her lips parted, emitting a startled little gasp. Nigel’s words echoed in the silence between them: my dear. Spoken without thought, because . . . well, because they were simply the truth. And she knew. It wasn’t like it was some great secret. Not anymore. No, she knew.
Suddenly, Luna tilted her head, her gaze seeking the front windows of the shop and the moonlit street outside. “Do you hear that?” she asked.
Even as she said it, strains of a violin reached Nigel’s ear.
Soft but not distant. The street fiddler must have taken up residence in the doorway of the bicycle shop across the street.
His bow moving across strings, he called to life haunting strains, sending them lilting up and down moonlit Addle Street.
And though no voices sang along, Nigel could hear the familiar words sighing in his head:
“If only you’d see beneath layers of time
The love that I carry, a bittersweet rhyme.
But dreams slip away as the night turns to dawn,
And I’m left here to mourn what was never my song.”
“Funny,” Luna said, her chin lifting. She smiled suddenly, a brilliant beam of light in the gloom, all the brighter through the tears still staining her cheeks.
The sight was devastating, and Nigel was obliged to lock his knees.
“He doesn’t usually play this late at night, does he?
” Biting her lip, she wiped her cheeks again with her free hand, while Nigel continued to hold the other.
Then she turned to look at him directly, meeting his gaze for the first time.
“Would you . . . ?” She hesitated, bit her lower lip, momentarily transforming its pallor back to rosebud pink.
“That is, if it isn’t too improper to ask . . . May I have this dance, Mr. Grimm?”
A smack across the face could not have shocked him more. Nigel felt his throat close up. He could not speak an answer, not if his life depended on it. So, in lieu of words, he simply bowed over the hand he held. Solemn, courtly.
Then, as the fiddler plied his haunting melody, Nigel slipped his hand around Luna’s waist. He pulled her close to him, guiding her away from the counter and down the center shop aisle.
It wasn’t a large dancing space, particularly not for those massive skirts of hers.
But the watching flowers, tittering softly behind their leaves, backed away and made room enough for small maneuvering.
Memory of the steps she’d taught him several months ago returned, and Nigel moved with a confidence that surprised him.
The feeling of her in his arms was too right for hesitancy, and the music carried him with it into an enchanted place of moonlight and dance.
Luna’s gaze upturned to his, liquid and dark and achingly lovely. The expression in her eyes . . . what was it? He hadn’t the courage to name it or even to guess. All he knew was that, if he had one wish, it would be to have her always look at him in just this way, from now to the end of his days.
“Do you know,” she said, her voice soft but audible above the fiddler’s tune, “they played this same song at the governor’s mansion tonight. But it didn’t sound this sweet.” She smiled softly before adding, “I suppose this dance floor is a bit more accommodating than our last one!”
Nigel’s mouth pulled in a small grin. “I don’t know,” he said. “My particular moves might be better suited to under-the-table dancing.”
“Oh, don’t sell yourself short, Mr. Grimm. I suspect there’s a dancing fiend hidden secretly somewhere inside you.”
“You think so?”
“I do. Just waiting to be unleashed!”
“Well, in that case . . .” He lifted her hand over her head, pushed gently against her waist, and sent her spinning out from him.
Her skirts flared, and some potted dahlias ducked their heads, and a cluster of tiger lilies growled irritably.
But she finished the spin without disaster, and he drew her back to him, catching her around the waist once more, turning, and dipping her back.
Her hand gripped the fabric at his shoulder, even as her mouth opened in a little squeak of surprise.
“Why, Mr. Grimm!” she exclaimed, her curls wafting behind her.
He pulled her up, and she rested against his chest, their clasped hands pressed to his heart, their faces suddenly much closer than they were. “So you are a dancer after all!”
His grin grew. He did not let her step back from him, did not let her put any distance between them.
His hand at her waist remained firm, keeping her body flush to his, even as he began to sway in time to the music again.
He felt . . . powerful, somehow. Not the heady rush of sorcerous supremacy he’d known as the Grimshade Lord.
This was something different, something deep and rooted.
In that moment, as she rested her head against his shoulder, and he leaned his cheek into her sweet-smelling hair, he did not think there was a force in this world or any other that could stand against him.