“Laugh all you like,” Nigel said sourly, dropping the shears on the counter with a clatter. “I’ll get the best of that blasted parasite this year. Just wait!”
With that, he stepped from the store, taking care to lock up behind him. Then he turned to face the street. He felt like a polar explorer about to set out on an expedition into the frigid unknown. He grimaced into his scarf and tramped up Addle Street to Pembroke, where he hoped to hail a taxi. Even that little trek was nearly enough to freeze him to the bones. How did Luna manage her walk to and from work each day? And with just a few pieces of cardboard between her and the snowy sidewalk too.
At thought of Luna, Nigel’s blood warmed, despite the freezing air and the crunch of snow underfoot. He found himselfthinking of the way she’d taken hold of his frozen hands and blown softly on his fingers. The shape her lips made. The pressure of her grip . . .
She’d not touched him—not once—in the weeks since Saint Jollify. Which wasn’t something he should have noticed. But he did. Because, up until then, she wasn’t so very carefulnotto touch him. There were always little brushes, tiny moments of connection. Not to mention that time she’d literally hiked up her skirts and clambered onto his shoulders!
Something had changed at Saint Jollify, however. Some barrier had gone up between them, though he couldn’t specify exactly what. She was still her genuine, friendly self with him. Still laughing and quick-witted and warm. Everything was soalmostthe same, he could nearly convince himself itwasthe same.
But it wasn’t. And he didn’t know why.
Had he frightened her? That moment in the nurse’s pavilion, when he’d . . . leaned?
He’d thought about kissing her then.
Well, no. There hadn’t been muchthoughtin the matter. He’d simply, without thinking, nearly done it. In another second, if she’d not turned away, he would have caught her lips with his, and . . .
But she did turn away.
And he hadn’t kissed her.
And it was a damned good thing, too. Because if he had, no doubt she would have turned in her notice that very instant, and he never would have seen her again.
But did she know what he’d almost done? Did she guess? Did she realize that, when her dark-eyed gaze dropped to his mouth, it had very nearly undone all the careful self-control with which he’d been restraining himself all those weeks?
He’d redoubled that self-control in the weeks following, honoring her unstated wish to keep a touch-free barrier between them. But it hadn’t made him any less aware of all the touches whichnever happened.
And when she took his hands today . . .
“Damn,” he breathed into the frigid air. The word seemed to ice over and drop to the sidewalk at his feet.
He shook his head roughly inside the wrapped protection of his scarf. Stepping under the lamppost on the corner of Addle and Pembroke, he raised an arm to signal a passing automagic cab. It pulled up to the sidewalk, and he clambered inside. The cab interior wasn’t much warmer than the sidewalk, but at least he’d reach his destination faster.
“The King’s Crown Hotel,” he said, and sank into his seat. Time to drive thoughts of Miss Luna Talbot firmly from his mind and concentrate on whatever the evening ahead might hold.
“Ah, Nigey! Good to see you, old boy!”
Fabian rose from his seat, hand extended, as the host guided Nigel through the maze of candlelit tables to where his brother waited. Nigel almost didn’t accept the offered hand, irked to see his brother still swathed in sorcery, right there in the middle of the restaurant. It was so gauche. Not to mention risky. He allowed only the briefest contact of fingers before taking his seat opposite the anti-glittered face of Ebenezar Prodigimus.
“I’ve taken the liberty of ordering you an absinthe,” Fabian’s voice spoke through the Minister Supreme’s mouth, warm with hospitality. “That’s your poison of choice, right?”
Nigel turned to the host and said shortly. “Water, please. And do you have any teas?”
“I’ll bring you a selection, sir,” the host replied and glided away.
“Teas?” Fabian’s brow wrinkled. “At least drink coffee like a man. Or has that little tea witch gotten under your skin?”
Nigel, however, had no intention of discussing Luna with Fabian. He turned to his brother and asked coldly, “How long have you been in Ballycastle?”
“Oh, a few months.”
“And before that?”
Fabian shrugged. “We don’t need to get into all the backs and forths, do we? Let’s have a good meal, share a few laughs. Let the evening be whatever it is. What do you say?”
Though Nigel strongly suspected the evening would not play out as stated, he was game enough to go along for now. Their waiter arrived, and they placed their orders. The hotel’s tea selection was certainly nothing on Luna’s, but they did offer the Twiglings brand, of which Luna approved. Nigel lingered for a moment over the chamomile-lavender, but ended up ordering the dark taerel.
Fabian toyed with a sprig of holly from the centerpiece. All The King’s Crown Hotel was festooned for the season, each table a mound of festive greenery. Whoever supplied them with their florals was probably making a small fortune. Worth noting for next year, perhaps.
