Page 87 of A Spot of Tea and Sorcery: Vol. 6

He cast his mind back, trying to remember. It was difficult, making his mind work through the limitations of brain matter and firing synapses when it had, momentarily at least, been a thing of pure spirit-stuff, far more expansive and terrible. He felt heavy and slow, sluggish. But there seemed to be some sort of memory in there. A memory of . . . greenness. Huge, profound, pulsating greenness.

Garden?

Yes, maybe.

But more than Garden.

Luna?

Luna . . . Luna. Lifegiving Luna. Beautiful, perfect, precious and adored Luna.

Wait a second.

Wait just one damned second.

Had he saved her?

Had the trowel-spell worked?

A surge of desperation shot through him, a need to know for certain. His mind, his body, his soul, all jolted with the compulsion to come awake, to find a way back to consciousness. To know that his Luna was still whole, to know that the point of that rusty old trowel had not, in fact, pierced her flesh and punctured her beating heart, even as it had seemed to. That it wasn’therblood which had gushed over his hand.

While moments ago he’d been a bit resentful to find himself back in a flesh-form, concerned about the apparent failure of that Infernus spell, Nigel pushed his way now through layers of fog and fatigue, and . . . yes. Severmist. There was still severmist in here with him, angry at the sudden Dire-transference he’d performed. He’d disastrously depleted his own lifeforce as well, but even that wasn’t as bad as he would have thought. Because in all the places where lifeforce was drained, he found more of that pulsing greenness. What was it his father used to say? Everyonehad a bit of Green Magic in them, if they could just be bothered to notice it.

Perhaps he had more than a bit. Perhaps, after all this time he’d spent working in Garden, he actually had quite a lot.

“Nigel?”

Her voice! His very soul quickened at the sound of it. It was her, his Luna! Calling to him! Why did she sound so desperate, so tear-clogged? Oh no. Did she think he was dead? His body was probably very still and pale and gray after that lifeforce transference. He most likely looked quite dead. He definitely should be dead—there shouldn’t have been any surviving that spell. He hadn’t cast it with the intention of surviving it. But he had. He was here, he was present, and he didn’t want her to be sad or afraid. He must get back to her.

“Nigel, darling, please. Please, answer me. Please, just give me a sign.”

Did she just call himdarling?

She’d done it once before. While pretending to be his wife, back at the Moat House Café. And oh, he’d liked it then! He liked it even better now, because she didn’t have to pretend anymore. Shewashis wife. And this fact alone . . . why, it was worth living for. Even if he hadn’t meant to.

His awareness rose faster now, pushing its way through layer after layer of darkness and fog. The greenness surrounded him, a lovely, soft-filtered glow, and then—white light. Piercing his eyelids. Heavy eyelids, but real, physical ones that belonged to him and which he had the power to open.

So open them he did. And gazed up into the face of an angel.

Dark eyes, framed by limp strands of magical wind-blown hair. Delicate freckles dusting a nose with a slight bump in the middle, pale skin sun-kissed from so much time spent out foraging for teas in Garden’s grounds. That delightfully kissable mouth with that charming little mole in the lower lefthandcorner. Those sweet brows, puckered in concern, and those priceless tears trickling down her not-yet-full-enough cheeks. Oh, how could she be so exquisite? Surely the gods themselves must have wept at the moment of her creation.

“Nigel?” she said, sucking in a little breath as she caught his eyes. “Nigel, can you hear me?”

“I . . . I can hear you . . . my dear,” he murmured.

With a little, “Oh!” she bent over him, wrapping her arms around him and weeping into his chest. Summoning up all the strength in his body, Nigel somehow managed to get his arms around her, holding her close. Apparently, she’d not bled out from a trowel-inflicted wound. Which meant that spell of his had held. But then, what did he expect? Hewasthe Greatest Sorcerer of the Age, wasn’t he? He didn’t practice sloppy magic.

Blinking a bit stupidly, he looked over his wife’s quaking shoulders to the other faces hovering overhead. Auntie Arabella was there, openly sobbing with delight, even as she said over and over again, “See, Rory? I knew how it would be. My chamomile said it would all turn out!”

Auntie Aurora stood behind her sister, her stern mouth creased in just the slightest of smiles.“The Green Mother’s will ripens in its own season. The faithful need only tend the garden,”she said.

“Never mind!”Debbie concurred, perched on Aurora’s shoulder. She flapped her wings and blinked an ominous eye, beak clacking.

Another figure moved into Nigel’s line of sight. He felt his heart tighten, and his arms closed a little more protectively around his weeping wife. But Fabian offered a strained sort of grin, and said, “Good show, brother. You really . . . you really are something of a sorcerer, you know?”

It was a huge concession, coming from Fabian. Their dynamic had always been riddled with jealousy and spite, but Nigel heardthe sincerity in his praise, and he accepted it with a short nod. Maybe things would never be easy between the two of them. But Fabian had come through when it counted, opening Garden’s door so that Nigel could get through. He must have performed some degree of impressive sorcery to locate Tealeaf Cottage and get the door all the way out there without alerting the Brotherhood to his doings. Someday, when Nigel had a bit more capacity for it, he should probably compliment his brother on that remarkable feat. But not just now.

Just now, he had other concerns.