Slowly, he lifted his gaze to the ceiling. “Did you hear that?”
“Hear what, Mr. Grimm?” Luna asked, unbuttoning her coat.
“That . . . skittering.” He raised a finger. “Up there.”
She glanced up, even as she slid out of her coat. “I don’t hear anything.” Hanging her coat on its peg, she grabbed her apron and walked over to stand by Nigel as she tied it in place. The ceilings were ten feet high, all the beams and pipes exposed, but the low-hung thaumatic light bulbs made everything above their shades seem to disappear in shadows. Luna frowned and tilted her head to one side. “What is it I’m looking for?”
Nigel’s lips rolled back from his teeth in a grimace. “You’ll know it when you see it,” he growled. “Trust me. You’ll know . . .”
Itdid not make an overt appearance that day, however.
Nor even the next.
By the third day, Addle Street was transformed into Nigel’s personal nightmare. Every shop up and down both sides of the busy road seemed to have hooked up its own personal thaumatic speaker system, which blared Green Yule music out into the open air in hopes of attracting customers.
“It’s not a bad strategy, you know,” Luna said from where she stood at one of the tables, busily weaving evergreen boughs into a large wreath. “You might consider investing in a thaumatic radio too, Mr. Grimm. It would set a nice sort of tone in here. For the season. We could stick to the hymns of course, none of that modern stuff.”
“Why do any of us need radios when that infernal fiddler insists on haunting the sidewalks?” Nigel snarled.
The street musician could be heard on the shoemaker’s stoop directly next door, cheerfully scraping away at a lively rendition of,Green Yule, Blue Night, Sing ‘Round the Firelight.Which wouldn’t be so bad if it weren’t for the fact that the tailor just on the other side of The Arcane Bouquet was currently playing the same song but in an entirely different key and tempo.
Nigel pinched the bridge of his nose in long-suffering silence. Then he scowled suddenly, his gaze flicking to Luna’s work station. “What’s that wreath for?” he demanded.
“The front door.”
“Is that holly?”
“Yes.”
“Then it’s not going anywherenearour front door!”
Luna cast him a look. “You’d better stay in tonight, Mr. Grimm,” she said. “Gronk Catwillget you if you so much as stick your nose outside.”
With that, she went to hang up her wreath. On the front door.
Nigel cursed softly, exchanging glances with Debbie. The raven fluttered her wings.“Never mind.”
“Youwouldtake her side,” Nigel growled.
Just in that moment, he heard scurrying overhead. He ducked, shoulders hunching, eyes sparking. “I know you’re up there!” he whispered, craning his head at the beams and pipes as he glared into shadows. “You won’t get the best of me this year. Do you hear?”
No answer. But it was alisteningsort of silence.
Amockingsort of silence.
It did not make its first appearance until three days after that, however, on the first official day of winter. By then, snow had begun to blanket the streets of Ballycastle overnight, only to be churned into muddy sludge by mid-morning. This didn’t seem to bother anyone; they went on proclaiming the magic of the season and blaring their Green Yule boogies all the louder. Luna’s wreath attracted a great deal of attention, pulling customers in, who eagerly commissioned more of the same. When she wasn’t busy brewing up teas, she was hard at work weaving more wreaths, and finally convinced Nigel to get in on the action. He could not deny their market-appeal and, though it galled him to the depths of his being, he buckled down and learned the art.
The shop was soon filled with all the most classic Green Yule cuttings and arrangements. Scads of holly in every conceivable configuration. Evergreens and brilliant red poinsettias and even a few red and white roses (the rose plot in Garden was beginning to make a comeback). There was little point in bringing out any of the off-season flowers which Garden continued to produce in abundance. The denizens of Ballycastle became quite singular in their floral preferences during Green Yule.
There was a decided partiality for certain types of tea as well. Both regulars and new customers alike couldn’t get enough of Luna’s peppermint and silver needle, and she was hard-pressed to keep it in stock. All the cinnamon blends she could invent were snatched up almost as quickly. She spent any downtime they had harvesting from Garden’s bounty and prepping teas in the kitchen. Which meant Nigel spent far more time than he liked alone in the front of the shop. With Debbie.
“Damned Green Yule,” he muttered. And didn’t care two jots how Gronk-ish he sounded.
He was minding his own business one of those quieter mid-afternoons, when the shop door tinkled open, and a guest entered: a woman of middle age and quiet dignity. She nodded politely to him and began to inspect the festive table center arrangements.
A few moments later, a gentleman in a rather worn winter coat stepped inside. He moved to the other side of the table. Neither he nor the lady acknowledged each other and seemed to possess no connection whatsoever.
Nigel’s heart lurched.
