Chapter 12
The following morning, Nigel stumbled downstairs to the shop, wrapped in his dressing gown—which still smelled faintly of chamomile and lavender—unshaven, hair askew, his bare feet shoved into slippers.
Ordinarily speaking, he wouldn’t be caught dead in such a state of deshabille, but he was running on fumes and simply hadn’t the energy to care.
It wasn’t as though Miss Talbot was going to show up this morning, after all.
No, in the small, dark hours post-midnight, he had firmly convinced himself of this fact.
“She won’t come, you know,” he informed the double-delight rose confidently as he scooped a hearty breakfast of Mama Morgana’s into its pot.
“And she’s right not to, of course,” he added as he deadheaded vicious snapdragons, nearly losing the tip of one finger in the process.
“I mean, why would she?” he asked the violets, pulling their tray out from behind a curtain of protective ferns. “A smart girl like her wouldn’t take a job from a half-crazed former sorcerer.”
As none of the blossoms ventured a counter opinion on the subject, he took their silence as affirmation.
Dusting his hands, he looked around the shop.
Neat as a pin, with bounteous and aromatic displays fairly bursting from every corner, it was more than ready to greet customers.
Customers who would not appear, Nigel knew.
Any more than Miss Talbot would. Another day of silent frustration lay before him, indistinguishable from the day before, promising many more such days to follow. A dull, insipid existence.
Not that he deserved any better. Not after everything he’d done.
With a blustering sigh, Nigel moved to pull up the shades and push back the window shutters.
He didn’t bother turning the shop sign to OPEN, for it was still early.
The street was already busy, however: the milkman made his rounds, and patrons passed in and out of the bicycle shop across the street.
Automagic mobiles trundled up and down the cobblestones, wheels splashing in accumulated puddles of rainwater.
It was only then Nigel noticed the sun peeking through breaks in the clouds overhead. So Miss Talbot’s prediction of two more rainy days was off. Which meant either she’d lied or she wasn’t much of a tea witch to begin with. Nigel shrugged. It didn’t really matter either way.
Realizing his own milk delivery was probably on the back stoop even now, he retreated back between rows of flowers toward the kitchen.
Mrs. Goddard would be along with breakfast soon enough.
Best to fetch the milk then hasten upstairs and dress before he scandalized her with a glimpse of bare ankles.
He was just reaching for the back doorknob when there came a sound which stopped him dead in his tracks. A knock. Not on the door in front of him, no.
The shop door. Three sharp raps.
Nigel’s heart flipped over. It couldn’t possibly be . . . ? Surely not. He was getting ahead of himself. That knock probably hadn’t originated at this building at all, but the shoemaker’s next door. Yes, that was the most likely explanation. He reached for the knob again.
Another series of knocks. Three staccato taps, light but firm.
Nigel let out a slow breath. Then, clutching the front of his dressing gown, he crept through the kitchen, out to the shop, and peered through floral displays to the front door.
There, framed in the square window set in the door, was Miss Talbot’s face.
Her brow was wrinkled with consternation, and she gnawed nervously at her lower lip.
“Great gods,” Nigel whispered.
She’d come back. She’d actually come back. She wanted the job, he hadn’t frightened her off with his caddishness, and . . . and . . .
He looked down at his dressing-gown clad self. “Oh, great gods!”
In a flurry of flapping slippers and belt tassels, he darted for the stairwell and half-flew up to his apartment.
He burst into the room, disturbing Debbie, who preferred to sleep in most mornings.
She squawked and flapped her wings irritably, but Nigel only shouted, “Can’t talk now!
” as he flung open the wardrobe doors. Even as he reached for his shirt and suit, he heard a third set of knocks down below.
Would she give up and go away? How would he find her again if she did?
He’d not taken down her information, her place of residence, anything.
He’d never locate her in this beastly city, with its labyrinthine streets and innumerable boardinghouses!
No time to shave, no time to fix his tie. He frantically buttoned his shirt halfway, shrugged into a waistcoat, grabbed his jacket, and nearly fell downstairs, tying his shoes as he went.
By the time he reached the door, she’d already gone.
The square window was empty, framing nothing but rain-washed city.
Nigel burst out onto the step, wild hair flopping in his eyes.
Addle Street was growing busier by the moment, and he cast a desperate gaze back and forth.
There! On the opposite sidewalk, across the road—he’d recognize that neat green suit anywhere.
The young woman strode away at a quick pace, arms wrapped around her body and shoulders hunched.
His own black umbrella hung from her elbow.
“Miss Talbot!” Nigel cried and plunged into the street.
A blaring horn burst in his ear, and he narrowly avoided being clipped by an automagic machine, belching thaumaturgical exhaust in its wake.
Somehow he managed to achieve the far sidewalk in one piece just in time to see that green suit disappear up Nettleton Lane.
Nigel broke into a sprint, leaping over the outstretched legs of a street musician, who sat with his back to the brick wall, idly tuning an ancient violin. Using a convenient streetlamp pole to swing himself around a sharp bend, Nigel shouted at the top of his voice, “Miss Talbot, wait!”
Up ahead, the slim, hunch-shouldered figure paused. Then she turned.
Under the full light of the sun, she was just as glorious a creature as she had appeared in the stormy gloom, but this morning, her doe-brown eyes were hollow, overlarge in their sockets.
This in no way diminished her otherworldly beauty—if anything, it made her all the more compelling.
Even from this distance, the mere sight of her was enough to make Nigel’s pulse jolt and his tongue feel suddenly thick behind his teeth.
For a moment, he stood stock still at the head of the street, unable either to move or to speak.
Then her searching gaze landed on him. She blinked twice, without recognition, before her expression cleared. A smile burst across her lips. If the sun weren’t already shining bright that morning, Nigel would have thought he’d come face-to-face with an incarnation of the Dawn Angel herself.
“Mr. Grimm!” she exclaimed. “Why, what are you doing out here? I called at the shop, but no one answered, and I thought perhaps . . . well, perhaps you were . . . perhaps you didn’t really mean . . .” Her smile faltered, and her gaze skittered sideways.
Nigel realized suddenly how carefully she pressed her left wrist up against her wool jacket.
Did she think his job offer of yesterday insincere?
Hastily he closed the distance between them, rather out of breath.
“Indeed, Miss Talbot,” he said, smoothing his hair back with one hand, “I am glad of your arrival. I . . . I simply wasn’t expecting you so soon. ”
“You did say eight-thirty, didn’t you? I suppose I am a little early.”
As though on cue, the chantry bells over on Giltspur Street began tolling out the half-hour. Nigel flushed. “My . . . my watch must have stopped,” he said and attempted to fish it from his pocket only to discover he’d forgotten it entirely in his rush to dress.
Miss Talbot’s gaze took him in, running down his haphazardly buttoned shirt and flapping waistcoat before gliding up to his unshaven face and slept-on hair. Gods above, if she didn’t take him for a madman and quit on the spot, it would be a miracle!
But she merely thrust out his umbrella, holding it between them. “Here, Mr. Grimm,” she said. “Thanks again for the loan.”
“Oh, of course. Any time.” Nigel reached for the offering. For an instant, their fingertips brushed. A spark seemed to jump from her skin to his, shooting up his arm and straight to his heart, where it burst in multicolored hues. He swallowed hard, blood draining from his face.
Miss Talbot narrowed her eyes at him, taking a step back and tilting her head. “You look as though you could use a spot of tea.”
Suddenly, though he had never once felt that way before in his life, Nigel was convinced nothing in the world would do him more good. “Yes. I suppose you’re right,” he managed. “How about you come back to the shop, and I’ll put the kettle on?”
“How about you let me handle the tea this morning, Mr. Grimm,” Miss Talbot said, turning with him to retrace their steps to The Arcane Bouquet.
“I have a tea cozy,” he offered lamely.
“Do you, now?” Her eyebrow lifted. “Well, I’m sure we shall manage admirably then, shan’t we?”
In something of a haze, Nigel escorted the young lady back to the shop, managing to cross the street safely, despite being dangerously unaware of the world around him.
They arrived to find the door standing wide open, but no customers had pilfered his flowers while he was away.
Debbie emerged from the stairwell in a flurry of black feathers just as they stepped inside, croaking dire invocations as she settled onto her skull-pot.