Page 56 of A Spot of Tea and Sorcery: Vol. 6

“Tell me,” she said, rather than answering his roughly-spoken question, “what is my sweet Luna doing, associating with a sorcerer like your fine self? Hmmm?”

“I’m not a sorcerer,” Nigel said quickly.

She gave him a look.

“That is, not anymore,” he amended. “I’m retired.”

“Judging by the complexity of that portal sigil, which opened up right in the middle of my anti-sorcerer-warded yard, not to mention that outrageously fluffy demon you’ve apparently enthralled to your will . . . I’d say you’re not as retired as all that.”

Though her voice was gooey-sweet, the sharpness in her gaze was undeniable. Yet again, she reminded him rather starkly of Luna. Nigel rolled his jaw. “It’s a long story.”

“Well, Idolike stories,” she said, then held the teacup to his lips again. He obediently took a gulp, grimacing with distaste. “However, something tells me we don’t have much time for stories at the moment, so just answer me this: Do you love my little niece?”

Nigel sputtered, droplets of tea spattering down the front of his exposed torso. Swallowing hard, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, flushing furiously. “I, erm, that is.” He coughed again, clearing his throat. “I’m her boss. Her employer. She works for me at my, erm, my flower shop. Best employee I ever had. Very, erm, very hardworking. Innovative. Quite a favorite with the customer base. Erm.”

The old lady’s eyebrow rose in an expression that was so very Luna-like, it was almost uncanny. “And?”

He dropped his gaze, his face burning. Then he murmured, “And I love her.” He looked up then, meeting the old woman’s eyes as he added in tones of torment, “Desperately.”

For a moment, the old woman was very still, very silent.

Then, with a little, “Oooooh!”she set her teacup aside and clasped her hands before her sagging bosom. “Ooooooh, it’s just likeThe Viscount’s Unrelenting Passion,isn’t it? Ooooooh, and look at you! So pretty and romantic! Not what I would have thought for our Luna, not a sorcerer, but well, who am I to judge our dear girl’s choices? And that dreamy voice of yours does cover a multitude of sins! Ooooooooh!”

Nigel’s mouth opened and closed, trying to find the words to explain that, whatever his feelings for Luna might be, there was nounderstandingbetween them, nothing for which old aunties should be getting excited over. Before any words would come, however, she snatched up the teacup, shoved it to his lips, and he found himself ingesting another hideous gulp.

“I’m Arabella, by the way,” she said. “You can call me ‘Auntie,’ if you like. Everybody does, no need to stand on ceremony!” She force-fed him another mouthful before adding, “Luna’s up in her old room. Aurora and I, we carried her between us. We’re sturdier than we look, you know! She’s all right, but there’s a bit of a dark spell on her. Aurora’s looking into it, and just as soon as she figures out what’s what, we’ll get it broken, never you fear. Now!” She sat back a bit and gave him a once-over that made him hastily pull the front of his dressing gown closed. “Can you tell me how to banish that demon of yours?”

“Erm.”

“Only it’s settled down for a nap out in the front yard, and our old mare, Gwendolyn Astoria, is quite distressed over it. Personally, I thought it seemed like a dear, sweet creature, but probably not happiest in this dimension, no?”

Nigel cleared his throat. “The, erm. The ‘Gronk Cat Boogie’ is, I find, generally effective. For banishment.”

“Really? I don’t know that one. You’ll have to teach me.” Auntie Arabella tapped her lip thoughtfully. “Perhaps a saucer of milk first, just to see the poor thing off right?” Before Nigel could protest any efforts to make a pet of a Dire demon, Arabella heaved herself to her feet with minimal grunting and crackling. “I’ll take you to Luna now,” she said, offering a hand to Nigel. Though a bit skeptical, he accepted it and allowed the old lady to assist him up, her strength unexpected. She might have clung to his hand a little longer than necessary, uttering a pleased little, “Hmmmmm,” and giving him another once-over that brought a tinge of pink to his cheeks. But the next moment, she turned about and led the way to the cottage.

The kitchen beyond the back door felt less like a room and more like an embrace. Flagstones worn smooth by generations of footsteps stretched across the floor, while dark ceiling beams crossed overhead, blackened by age and decades of woodsmoke. An old cast-iron range stood in one corner, the sort that burned coal or wood rather than gas. Its black surface gleamed, and a copper kettle rested atop it, quietly steaming. Opposite this was a large stone fireplace, its hearth broad enough to sit in. A modest fire crackled there, casting a warm amber glow across the walls. An antique rocking chair stood before it, its arms polished silky by years of use. The scent of burning oak mingled with traces of baking bread, dried herbs, and tea. Always tea. So much tea.

Nigel paused a moment, struck by the scene, by the smells. He’d heard so many stories that a strange sensation of heart-stopping nostalgia overcame him. He could just about picture Extremely Great Aunt Amelia, sitting there in her black taffeta, rocking back and forth as she drank far too many cups of Wolf Brittlebum, while her three daughters and little niececlucked and plucked around her like nervous chicks. He could envision young Luna and all the various ages of her childhood, adolescence, and blossoming young adulthood, hastening back and forth in the kitchen, brewing up pots of tea and assembling little trays of treats, her hair up in pins and hidden under a kerchief, her face a bit sweaty with exertion.

And for the strangest, briefest, most bizarre instant . . . he saw another image as well. A vision of Luna, but much older. Much older indeed. Not as old as Auntie Arabella, but not far off from it either, with silver hair and comfortable proportions and wrinkles lining her doe-soft eyes. She sat in the old rocking chair, reading out loud from a little paperback novel, one hand gesticulating animatedly as she read. A second shadowy form stepped into sight, bringing her a cup of tea. Someone . . . someone in a waistcoat. With white hair smoothed back with pomade, other than one recalcitrant lock which fell over his forehead, and a pair of square-rimmed spectacles perched on his nose. Luna looked up at him with a broad smile, accepting the tea, puckered her lips for a kiss, and . . .

Nigel gasped. He staggered back a step, nearly tripping over the threshold of the doorway, back out into the yard. Auntie Arabella, a few paces ahead of him, looked back, her brow momentarily crinkled with a question. Then it smoothed, and she clucked understandingly. “I should have warned you,” she said. “There’s a great deal of scrying energy in this household. If you’re attuned to it, you might catch glimpses of things without meaning to.”

Blinking hard, Nigel shook his head. He wasnotattuned to scrying energy. He’d never been gifted in that area. Why, he’d nearly failed Scrying 101, back in undergrad! He knew better than to take any images he thought he glimpsed with any sortof seriousness. They were more than likely merely carry-over glimpses from some parallel reality, utterly unrelated to his own.

Besides, the vision had been mostly shadows anyway. Nothing to get het up over.

His heart still beating strangely, he followed Arabella across the kitchen to a poky little stairway leading to the room above. Gods, but this whole place reeked of Green Magic! It was everywhere, infused in the painted plaster walls, in the creaking floorboards, in the murky panes of glass set in the stairwell window. He’d rarely been anywhere more magically saturated, and he’d grown up with Garden right outside his kitchen door! All this time, he’d assumed Luna’s aunties were a bunch of sweet old biddies with a bit of magical acumen. He’d honestly had no idea of the truth, none at all.

Arabella opened the door at the top of the stairs. She motioned Nigel through, and he stepped into a tiny chamber with a single dormer window. The light from that window fell upon the still figure lying in a narrow, brass bed, and all other thoughts fled Nigel’s head.

She looked oddly young. Possibly due to the fact that she was back in her old childhood room, all the makeup washed from her face, all the horror smoothed from her sleeping features. Someone had tucked a ragged old teddy bear into the crook of her arm, adding to the effect. She was pale. Far too pale. Like a marble replica of herself rather than the living woman. Her dirty white slip was gone, replaced by a soft blue nightgown with little flutter-strap sleeves. Her hair was still limp, without any trace of her habitual pin curls, but neatly combed. His gaze sought for the cut on her forehead, but it was gone. So thoroughly vanished, Nigel couldn’t find evidence that it had ever been there in the first place. The work of some healing tea, no doubt.

But he could also see more clearly now—now that they were out of the dark confines of that dungeon cell, now that theywere away from the gleam of the Dire-torch—the strange sorcery hovering around her.

With a little exhale, Nigel took a lunging step toward her. He could not take a second, however, for a very small, very thin, very upright and severe person appeared like a wall in front of him, eyes blazing, nostrils flaring. He looked down into a hollow-cheeked face which he knew could only belong to Auntie Aurora. He’d heard far too many stories not to recognize her at once.

“And just what do you think you’re doing in this chamber, sir?” she demanded in imperious tones.