Page 40 of A Spot of Tea and Sorcery: Vol. 6

Nigel forced himself to read the words again, gleaning what information he could from those few lines. His brow puckered in sudden perplexity. Did they think he was an idiot? He knew perfectly well how they needed Luna just as much as they needed Garden to fulfill their mission for Jastira. So why offer this exchange? Unless . . .

A slow breath eased from his lungs. It felt hot like sulfur, but as it expelled, he felt room in his chest for the faintest stirring of hope. Because, he realized, there was a chance. A bare, slim, almost-nothing of a chance. But notquitenothing.

Calista did not remember Luna. He had wiped her brain of those memories personally. And while it was possible members of the Brotherhood had filled her in on Luna’s identity, it was just as possible they had not. Dark Sorcerers didn’t like to share information, after all. Knowledge was power, information was leverage, and every member of the Brotherhood looked upon every other member as an enemy to be thwarted.

Lancelot Mortimer was the only one Nigel knew for certain possessed the truth about Luna. But he may indeed have been taken by the SSSD. The man Nigel had watched them cart away two nights ago might in fact have been the real Mortimer. In which case, he might not have had a chance to impart his knowledge about Luna to others.

So it was possible—not likely, butpossible—that the Brotherhood had taken her only to use as leverage. That they knew about his feelings for her, but not about her own importance to their mad scheme.

“But what good does it do either way?” Nigel muttered. “I can’t turn over Garden. I can’t—”

The words never finished forming on his lips. A sudden roaring burst of magic erupted behind him, so big, so profound, it knocked him to his knees. Nigel caught himself before hitting his face, but the force of the wind sent him skidding across the tile floor until he struck one of the empty display shelves. There he grabbed on, his mouth opened in an unheard yell of shock and fear, as the terrible roaring continued, assaulting his ears even as the wind battered at his flesh.

It all ended as abruptly as it had begun. Nigel, clinging still to the shelving, breathed out several times. He felt battered by profound, magical energy. Using the shelf, he managed to pull himself to his feet and stood a little while, simply relearning balance. Then, turning, he faced the back passage from which that blast had issued.

“Oh no,” he whispered. “Oh no, no, no, no!”

Staggering and tripping over his own unsteady feet, he rushed down the passage, making for the boiler room door. The door which was not green and painted with flaking flowers and vines. The door which was simply white and blank and nondescript and not at all as it should be. Nigel grabbed for the latch, tried to open it. It was locked.

“Damn!” he shouted. Turning on heel, he rushed to the storage room, searching for the polka-dot pot and its hidden key. But it wasn’t there. No pot. No key. Both completely vanished. Had Garden grabbed them and brought them inside last night, at the same time it dragged Nigel to safety?

Cursing again, Nigel hauled his toolbox from a lower shelf, flung open the lid, rummaged around until he found his hammer. Gripping this, he returned to the passage, marched straight to the boiler room door, and began to pound at the handle. Again and again, he brought the heavy metal head down as hard as he could, exerting all his anger and frustration and fear until the handle broke off and fell with athudto the floor.

The door swung creakingly open.

Nigel stared into the dark, stained-brick, windowless chamber. An ancient, squat metal boiler stood in front of him, popping and sizzling quietly to itself.

Garden was gone.

Nigel couldn’t say how long he sat in stunned silence in the back passage. All the energy seemed to have simply gone out from his body, and he sank to the floor, one knee drawn up, his back to the wall. His eyes stared unseeingly into that dark boiler room, where the unlovely metal contraption whistled and gurgled without a care in the world.

This was a good thing, though. Right?

Some part of Nigel’s mind strove valiantly to rise up from the malaise. This situation could ultimately work in his favor. He’d told Garden to hide, hadn’t he? Garden was simply doing as asked. The Brotherhood knew the great magical working must be hidden close to The Arcane Bouquet, which meant this location was disastrously compromised. Garden must find somewhere safer to conceal itself.

Only Nigel hadn’t been quite aware of just how sentient Garden really was. He certainly hadn’t thought it capable of making choices like that. Picking up and relocating completely, without so much as a by-your-leave? Nor had he realized it had recovered its powers to quite such a degree. Relocation requireda truly tremendous amount of magic, after all. But then, Gardenwaspure magic. So he really oughtn’t to be surprised.

This is for the best,he told himself firmly, ignoring any traces of desperation in his own mental voice. It was true though. If things went badly with the Brotherhood (and he couldn’t expect themnotto go badly), and they managed to ensnare him, they might pry the knowledge of Garden’s location out of his brain, no matter how valiantly he resisted. It wouldn’t even take a great effort, not while he was crippled with severmist. No, this was better. He couldn’t betray secrets he did not possess.

But now . . . how was he to get Luna back?

He looked down at Calista Anguish’s message, crumpled tight in his fist. His teeth ground so hard, they threatened to crack, but he forced himself to study the words again, focusing in particular on:the old granary in North Sobbington.

Granary . . . granary . . . why did that strike him as familiar?

“Fabian,” he whispered, his voice strangely loud in the painful emptiness all around him. He narrowed his eyes, pulling hard on a faint memory, trying to bring it forward. Yes, Fabian had said something at Green Yule, when they were out to dinner. Something about Montesquieu Fairfax, a former sorcerer schoolmate of theirs.“He set up shop in an old granary up in northern Brython.”Those were his very words.“Made a bit of a fortune for himself concocting these face-swapping creams. But the wardsmen got a tip and tracked him.”

Montesquieu Fairfax wasn’t a Dark Sorcerer, certainly wasn’t a member of the Brotherhood. But Calista had worked with him; she’d admitted as much to Nigel over drinks. So it was very possible the North Sobbington granary was the same one in question.

Nigel grimaced. He was vulnerable. He had to admit it. Yes, the Sovereign Troth was broken, but it made no difference, not when he was poisoned like this. If he was going to face CalistaAnguish and the Brotherhood, if he was going to get Luna back, he would have to be a lot more cunning than usual. No storming in on the winds of a Dire hurricane, blasting bolts of darkness hither and thither. That didn’t take a whole lot of cleverness to devise. No, he needed a different idea, he needed inspiration. He needed . . .

Oh damn.

Fabian’s voice echoed in the back of his brain: “But the wardsmen got a tip and tracked him.”

“Gods,” Nigel whispered. Then he closed his eyes, leaned his head back against the wall and hit it a few times. “Oh gods, please, no. Anything but that!”

He sat frozen in perfect stillness for some moments. Waiting for another idea to present itself. Basically, any other idea. Listening to the shop clock as it ticked away the seconds, faster than he could count them.