“Oh. Right.”
He brought his hand back to rest on her waist once more and, for a moment, Luna recalled the pressure of both his hands when he’d caught her in the fete wheel carriage. She could still feel where his thumbs had pressed, feel the warm heat of his palms, and . . .
She turned her face away quickly, hoping he could not see her flush. “You’ve got it, Mr. Grimm!” she said brightly. “Feel up to a spin?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “Seems like it could get dangerous.”
“For me or for you?”
“For those unlucky souls on either side of us.”
“Are you willing to gamble their safety? Or are the odds of disaster too great?”
He tipped an eyebrow. Then, drawing a breath, he lifted her hand above her head, pushed against her waist, and sent her softly spinning out. She paused, their fingertips still holding tight. Then, as the violin sighed, she twirled back again. Her skirts brushed against his knees, and their faces came rather close together, closer than they were before.
“Any casualties?” she gasped.
He peered over her shoulder. “Looks like you’ve taken out a sailor.”
“What? No!” Luna turned to look and spied a young midshipmen, splendid in his uniform, hopping around on one foot while gripping his shin. A blonde in a pink dress stood back observing, arms crossed, eyes narrowed. “That wasn’t me,” Luna declared. “She kicked him a good one for getting handsy.”
“You’re certain?”
“Quite, Mr. Grimm.”
“Dare we risk another spin then?”
“I don’t know. How daring do you feel?”
He didn’t answer but lifted her hand again, spinning her out. Fairly slow and not quite in time with the music, but there were no mid-dance collisions at least. He drew her back again, and Luna declared, “I think we’re getting the hang of this!”
“Perhaps we should close up the flower shop and take this dynamic artistry on the road?”
“We could travel with the fair.”
“I was thinking the stage, rather.”
“Oh, yes. Much classier that way. We could dance for the Queen of Brython herself!”
He propelled her into another spin. She wobbled a little, her balance not quite sure. Rather than spin her back again, Mr.Grimm stepped swiftly forward and slipped his hand around her waist for support. A shot of heat streaked straight from her heart to the pit of her stomach.
“We might want to rehearse a little more,” he said, entirely unconscious of what that simple maneuver had done to her. “Before our royal performance.”
Luna giggled softly through her blushes. “We’ll push the flower displays back to make a dance floor. Get some good practice hours in.”
They both laughed at this, only . . . even as she said it, it didn’t feel like a quip. It felt like something else. Something Luna could actually envision doing: the two of them, finishing up work for the day, popping on the thaumatic radio, and clumsily plodding through a dance or two, laughing at their own ineptitude. All while the dahlias sighed, and the tiger lilies purred, and Debbie disparaged them from her skull-pot. Why did this vision—not observed in any teacup, simply popped directly into her head—feel so much morerealthan the glamorous image she’d glimpsed of herself and Ward in the ballroom?
Perhaps because she was simply so much more at ease with Mr. Grimm. For one thing, he wasn’t a six-foot-five, muscle-bound demigod, beautiful beyond the dreams of a country Crimble girl like her. Yes, that was probably it. Ward was simply so dashing, so overwhelming, and his obvious interest made her nervous, unused to male attention as she was. While Mr. Grimm . . . well, he was her employer. Quiet and dry-humored and shy and comfortable. Yes. She was comfortable with him. Like . . . like a . . . like an older brother. Or something . . .
“Look out!”
In the same instant the warning cry went up, Mr. Grimm spun Luna away from himself. Which was why she was out of the line of fire, as a bright red apple streaked from the Bad Apple booth, straight across the dance floor.
And clocked Mr. Grimm dead in the eye.
“There, let me have a look at it.”
Very gingerly, Nigel lifted the icepack from his face, turning so the thaumatic light bulb hung in the nurse’s pavilion could illuminate the damage. Luna, standing before him where he perched on the edge of a medical cot, peered at his face and reached out to prod his cheekbone with her fingertip.
