Page 68 of A Spot of Tea and Sorcery: Vol. 6

Instead, there had been some long and rather difficult conversations. About her past. And his. About the ways those pasts had unexpectedly converged.

“I suspect it was the magic which drew you to the shop,” Nigel had mused, as Luna rested her head on his shoulder, and he stared up at the beams overhead, one hand toying with her hair. “After two years away from your aunties’ suppression teas, all your magic was beginning to awaken. You probably felt an unconscious draw both to the sorcerous wards protectingGarden and to Garden itself, though you wouldn’t have known that’s what it was. Which is why you ended up on Addle Street that day.”

“Mmmm,” she’d answered sleepily and rubbed her eyes with the heel of her hand. “Or it was fate.”

She’d seemed quite comfortable with that explanation. As a tea witch, fate was simply part of her day-to-day framing of existence. Which was also why she continued to insist that her coming rendezvous with the Brotherhood could not be avoided for much longer.

That was a bitter turn of conversation indeed. Several times, Luna repeated, “You have to promise me, Nigel, that you won’t do anything stupid when they come. I will marry you, and I will love you for as long as the Green Mother grants us time together. But when that time is up, I need to know that you will go on living. No matter what happens to me.” Then she’d grabbed his face and forced him to look deep into her eyes. “You cannot make me watch you die.”

For some reason, she was utterly convinced hewoulddie. Which was a bit insulting. After all, he’d managed to get her out of Nocturnus in one piece, hadn’t he? And that was with his magic almost entirely out of commission! He was recovering now, slowly but surely. If they could stay a jump or two ahead of the Brotherhood for long enough, surely he would regain his complete strength. Then, when the next confrontation happened, Luna would finally see her husband in his true power. And the Grimshade Lord would rain fire and brimstone down upon any who dared threaten his bride!

But he’d chosen to keep such hubris-fueled statements to himself. They’d agreed to discuss it more thoroughly after the wedding and, both exhausted beyond all reason, had soon fallen asleep. Only to be awakened by the crow of a rooster just outside the window, right at the break of dawn.

“That’s Sir Egbert Cluckingham,” Luna had murmured into Nigel’s shoulder, lifting her head and yawning hugely.

“Ugh,” Nigel groaned in response. “Chicken soup tonight?”

She’d smacked his shoulder, then kissed his cheek. He would have gladly rolled over and kissed her more thoroughly, but she’d yelped, “No, no! No morning breath kisses on our wedding day! Let’s maintain at leastsomeillusion of perfection untilafterthe vows, shall we?”

So saying, she’d slipped out of bed, hastily adjusting her nightgown into more modest lines (it really was such a delightfully slinky thing, even by morning light), and imperiously pointed to the door. “Out!” she’d said. “I’ll see you at ten when the vicar arrives.”

“And what exactly am I supposed to do until then?” Nigel had muttered, rolling sluggishly onto his feet and wincing at all the aches and pains which shot through every part of his body. That summoning spell had taken it out of him, though the delightful events of last night had mostly driven such considerations from his awareness. The knot on the back of his head from the rocker going down probably hadn’t helped much either; he might be minorly concussed.

“You can bathe,” Luna had answered firmly. “You’re a wreck of a man, Nigel Grimm. I want you posh and polished before I muss you up good later today.”

With this, followed by a heated glance and one last refused attempt at a kiss, Nigel had found himself sent downstairs to meet the beaming smile of Auntie Arabella and the stern, condemnatory stare of Auntie Aurora.

“Let not the bridal bed be sullied with un-chastity,”Auntie Aurora had intoned by way of a “good morning.” It was enough to stop Nigel dead in his tracks.

“Oh tut, their bridal bed is plenty chaste enough, Rory!” Arabella had interjected swiftly, sticking her tongue out at hersister. “Youknowwho he is, after all. It’s justdestiny.Stop being such an old prune about things!”

Finding himself in the enormously embarrassing position of trying not to meet either the knowing winks or the formidable judgment of each auntie, Nigel was relieved when Arabella pointed the way to the very small, very old-fashioned bathroom, with its narrow-but-deep copper tub. She’d conveniently filled it already, using some Green Magic spell to keep the water warm. While Nigel would have preferred a shower, it was something of a relief to sink his weary bones deep into hot water. He allowed himself the luxury of a lingering soak. And perhaps a few lingering thoughts on Luna Talbot and her many charms. Thoughts which he would have firmly suppressed only hours ago, but which he felt, under the circumstances, free to indulge this morning.

Things had moved fairly quickly post-bath. Wrapped in his own dressing gown—which smelled remarkably lavender-fresh, thanks to the ministrations of the aunties—he was made to drink many cups of fortifying tea, which Auntie Arabella insisted would help him recover more swiftly from the severmist. Then he was led to Extremely Great Aunt Amelia’s old bedroom, handed her husband’s wedding suit, and left to his own devices.

And now, he stood before the old mirror, giving himself a last once-over.

So this was it. He was marrying Luna Talbot. In fact . . . he frowned and did a quick calculation. Yes, in fact, he was marrying Luna Talbot exactly five months to the day from when she’d first crashed through his door, knocked him flat, and changed his life forever.

After all this pain.

After all this yearning.

After all this never believing he had a chance in hell of winning her heart.

In the end, it wasn’t actually a slow-burn romance at all, was it?

The wedding gown had once been white, but time had softened it to an old ivory with hints of cream and faded pearl lingering in the folds. The silk was delicate with age, the sheen muted but not lost, like moonlight caught in cloth. The sleeves were long and slender, ending in lace cuffs that brushed the backs of the bride’s hands. The skirt flowed gracefully from the narrow waist, falling in soft folds to the ground before sweeping into a modest train behind her.

It was not the sort of gown found in fashionable shop windows. It belonged to another age entirely.

On Luna Talbot, it was positively glorious.

Nigel found his attention rather fixed on the row of tiny, fabric-covered buttons marching from waist to throat, each one painstakingly fastened. How many were there? Gods, it must have taken half the morning to do them up! Would it take the other half to get them undone again? And could he manage it before his fingers gave out?

With a quick shake of his head, Nigel lifted his focus to her face, partially hidden behind the antique lace veil. The veil was so fine, it seemed to have been spun from cobwebs. Its pattern of flowers and curling vines had yellowed slightly with age and draped over her pin-curled hair in a mist of lace and memory. She smiled (a little knowingly, no doubt guessing his thoughts on the buttons) as she walked between her two aunties up the center aisle of the tea garden. She held a little bunch of lavender and white chamomile blossoms in her hand, and though Nigelhad thought to maintain a solemn demeanor, his mouth broke into a grin at the sight.

The vicar had arrived only five minutes previous, a bit breathless but on time. He stood with Nigel now at the top of the garden, looking a bit perplexed but game for anything. An old potting bench served as the altar, and the only decorations were the flowering tea bushes and herbs. The wedding chorus was sung by little songbirds, who, having failed to migrate for winter, took their refuge in the magical atmosphere of Tealeaf Cottage. The guests included the aunties, Gwendolyn Astoria the mare, a gaggle of geese and ducks and chickens, a couple of pint-sized goats, and a snorting sow. All the various creatures from Luna’s stories or, at the very least, their descendants.