Page 33 of A Spot of Tea and Sorcery: Vol. 6

Though a small part of his rational mind warned that these ideas were pure hubris and he ought to have outgrown them by now, Nigel gathered his bottle of Dire Matter and the celestial dressing gown, arming himself for the coming confrontation. He was just about to slip the robe on when he paused.

Were those the shop bells ringing down below?

His heart gave a sudden lurch, and his senses jolted to high alert. The door. He hadn’t locked the door. He’d never gone back downstairs after Luna left with Ward, and he’d left The Arcane Bouquet open and vulnerable. Visions of Dark Sorcerers danced in his head: Mortimer and his cronies, filling the display floor down below, searching for Garden. And for Luna.

Breathing in a sharp inhale, Nigel popped the top from the long-necked Dire Matter bottle and poured a single drop into his palm. Potential power sizzled against his flesh, ready to be used. He stepped into the stairwell, holding the Dire droplet in one hand, while his other hand halfway formed a sigil. Only halfway—he didn’t want to actually cast this spell until the absolute last possible moment, knowing full well the physical repercussions likely to follow. He must be certain he wouldn’t miss.

His footsteps soft, he listened to sounds of movement in the shop. To his surprise, he heard the familiar creak of the counter hinge. Nigel grimaced. Whoever was down there was looking for Garden’s key. It might even be Calista Anguish. Yes, he’d wiped her mind thoroughly, but a month later, residual memories could start bleeding through. She may have recalled the shop and returned with a small horde of hideous simulacrums. Or it could be any one of his other former associates. Names and faces paraded before his mind’s eye, each more unwelcome than the last. Every muscle in his body tensed for battle. He wasn’t going to be caught unawares, not like a month ago. This time, he would defend his territory.

Leaping out from the stairwell, Nigel raised his hand, a sigil partially drawn. Only to stop short.

The single thaumatic light bulb shone behind the counter. Its faintly-magical glow illuminated a wondrous vision in pink-and-yellow, standing rather cramped and rumpled back in the nook. Her back was to him, but even as he watched, he saw her rip a white corsage of gardenias from her wrist, open the front of the ancient stove, and throw the blossoms in to feed the low fire.

“Miss Talbot!” Nigel exclaimed.

She whirled in place, her massive skirts scrunching up between the wall and the counter. Her dark eyes flashed in an expression so sharp with terror, it made him take a step back. She blinked, however, and the terror vanished, replaced with something else. Something guarded.

“Hullo, Mr. Grimm,” she said, her voice very soft.

Nigel stared. The last person he’d expected to find when he descended that staircase was her. She ought to be dancing the night away in the arms of her beau, carefree and laughing andbeautiful beyond all reason. Instead, she looked strangely pale. Though her dark lashes fell to shield her gaze from his, he could see how hollowly her eyes rested in their sockets.

“I . . . I did not expect to see you again tonight,” Nigel said, drawing a step closer to the counter.

“Oh, yes.” She shrugged, her bare shoulders rising and falling elegantly. “Well, my things are here, you know. Besides, I don’t think it would be a good idea to wear a gown like this back to Mrs. Boggs’s.”

Nigel opened his mouth. Closed it again. Truth be told, he wasn’t entirely convinced this wasn’t a dream. That he wasn’t, in fact, still lying on his bed upstairs, and it was only his desperate subconscious which had conjured this image of loveliness. He blinked hard, shook his head.

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 hadbeen 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 sowell. 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 washere.Whatever might have happened, she’d brought her sorrow, her fear, her shadowed soul back tohim.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.