“Oh, Mr. Grimm!”
“No kiss for sad young Nigel, oh no! As for the mistletoe, I thought it lost forever, only . . .” His voice dropped an octave. “Only it followed me home. And when Great Aunt Galatea came to visit me in my invalid state, the cursed plant reappeared suddenly over my head. I had dreamed of Iona Thwipwhistle’s soft lips; but it was a cigar-smoking-and-mustachioed great aunt who smothered me in her affections! And continued to smother me every Green Yule until her dying day.”
Luna pressed a hand to her mouth and made a small coughing noise. It might have been a sympathetic sound, but he suspected it was, in fact, a derisive snort. At least she had the grace to try to hide it.
“I thought, after her passing, I would be spared,” he continued. “I left home soon after and glimpsed neither leaf nor berry for a number of years. But ever since I took over the keeping of Garden, it’s made a vengeful comeback.”
Other memories crowded in—dark images of dark times. There was the first Green Yule after Jastira’s fall, which he had spent in a prison cell, awaiting sentencing from the Authorities of Plym. That year he’d been kissed by one of the guards—a terrifying woman with most of her teeth knocked out, probably twice his size and breadth, who took one look at the mistletoe appearing so unexpectedly above his head, grinned like a shark, and very nearly swallowed him whole. She released him only just in time for him to gasp in a lungful of air before darkness closed in. Not a kiss he'd soon forget, no matter how he tried!
The following Green Yule, he’d been at liberty once more. He’d found his way to a hole-in-the-wall diner, ordered a lonely supper, only vaguely aware of the season or its perils. The waitress approached his table, set down his order of fish-and-chips, leaned down, and planted a kiss on his mouth that shocked him straight to his core. (She tasted like mackerel.) Then she’d gone—wordless, expressionless, as though the whole incident were just part of her regular day—and Nigel saw the mistletoe slip out the door into the night. He could have sworn he heard its leaves rustling in a wicked cackle of laughter.
“There were . . . incidents,” he finished darkly.
Luna made another coughing sort of sound, her eyes sparkling behind her fingers. When she managed to get her hilarity in order, however, she dropped her hand from her mouth and said with appropriate solemnity, “It doesn’t seem to have it out for you this season, Mr. Grimm. So far it is nothing more than a source of delight to your customers. It always chooses those who are more than happy to be chosen. Perhaps it isn’t out for vengeance at all? Perhaps, after all these years, it is simply trying to fulfill its purpose in life.”
Nigel sent her a look. “You are far too trusting for your own good, Miss Talbot.”
She shrugged. “I’ve heard that before, Mr. Grimm.”
With that, she went about her day, carefree as always. But Nigel kept a firm grip on the pruning shears and a wary eye on the ceiling.
Luna hurried as fast as she could down the snow-mounded sidewalk, her boots making short, shuffling movements, leaving little trenches in her wake. She was not convinced she’d make it to The Arcane Bouquet before her feet positively dropped from the ends of her legs. Perhaps they already had . . . who could say? They’d become such ice blocks, and she’d long since lost any sensation in her toes.
She couldn’t manage to spare the street fiddler a smile. How did he keep on playing in such bitter weather? She began to suspect the man had fairy blood, for nothing, absolutelynothingseemed to put him off from his solemnly ordained task of filling Addle Street with music. He grinned at her as usual and started up a quick little jig-like clip in time with her shuffling feet, as though to coax her on her way.
Snow came down in thick, fluffy clumps, which accumulated densely on the frozen pavement. The only advantage to this was the reduction in daily traffic. With far fewer automagic mobiles on the road, Luna didn’t have to wait long for a gap to cross Addle and hasten under the flower shop’s awning. There she found the little metal tables so piled in snow, one couldn’t tellwhat they actually were. She didn’t bother sweeping them off; it’s not as though anyone would be sitting outside today.
Her fingers were too numb to work her key into the door lock. She tried three times, almost dropping the key into the snow, before giving up at last. She pounded on the door with the flat palm of her mittened hand. “Mr. Grimm!” she shouted through chattering teeth. “Open up, will you, please?”
Her employer appeared on the other side of the glass a moment later, his face lined with concern. He opened the door just as a particularly cruel blast of wind and snow hit Luna from behind, knocking her over the threshold. She staggered into the shop, and it felt absolutelyheavenlywarm after her icy garret room and the street outside. Like a greenhouse!
“Miss Talbot,” Mr. Grimm said, pushing the door shut against the wind and locking it. It was still half an hour until opening time. “Are you quite all right?”
“Notquite!” Luna admitted, shaking snow from her hair. She stomped her way across the shop and ducked behind the counter into the nook. Oh, thank the Green Mother, Mr. Grimm already had the fire going in the little stove! Luna didn’t even bother to strip off her jacket; she wasn’t convinced her numb fingers could work the buttons anyway. She simply plunked down in the chair and held out her hands to the heat. Feeling started to return, and oh, dratted hecks, but ithurt.She gritted her teeth against far fouler curses piling up on her tongue.
Mr. Grimm appeared in the nook, silently took the kettle, filled it at the trimming sink, and popped it on the stovetop. Bless the man! “What tea are you craving this morning?” he inquired.
“Oh, on mornings like this, there’s onlyonetea I want!” Luna replied, rubbing her aching fingers together fast. “And, before you ask, it’snothingto do with cinnamon, apple, pumpkinspices, or peppermint! No, no. Just a nice, dark orange llarmi. With a dab of milk and a spoonful of sugar, thanks.”
Nigel nodded and slipped back to the kitchen, while Luna concentrated on the feeling returning to her digits and nose. Now . . . she winced. Now she had her toes to deal with.
Grimacing, she hiked one foot up over her knee. Her fingers were still kind of numb, but she managed to undo the laces and pry the boot off. Then, reaching inside, she pulled out chunks of absolutely sodden cardboard. No use trying to dry those out—she tossed them into the stove’s burning heart, before setting her shoe on the open stove door. Then she set to work pulling off the second boot.
Mr. Grimm returned with tea things to the nook just as she unrolled a wet stocking from one foot. She heard him utter a little choking sound behind her, and cringed. How very uncouth he must think her, stripping off stockings and showing her bare feet like this. And oh! howghastlyher feet looked, all blue-toed with cold.
Luna hastily pulled her skirt down over her knees. “Sorry, Mr. Grimm,” she said, not quite daring to look round at him. “I’m quite soaked, I’m afraid. May I just dry my stockings for a moment? Before I put my boots back on?”
“Of course,” he answered, his voice a little tight. He cleared his throat and added, “You’ve dried a lot more than that in the past, Miss Talbot.”
She grinned up at him then, even as a flush tinged her cheeks. “Well, I’ve no need to borrow your dressing gown today, thank goodness!”
“No,” he acknowledged. His gaze flicked to her bare feet and away again swiftly. “But perhaps a pair of socks?”
“You wouldn’t mind?”
“Not at all.”
“Oh, Mr. Grimm, you’re too kind!”
