Every grin.
Every lean.
Every blush and moment of fluster.
He could tell, even without hearing a word, when Officer Ward made his invitation. Saw the way Luna’s eyes widened, her breath caught, and her eyelashes fluttered.
At that point, Nigel had enough wherewithal to turn away and drag a deep breath into his lungs. Three customers lined up behind the register at the counter, but though one said, “Excuse me? Can I get a little service here?” and another offered a more concerned, “Are you all right there, sir?” he didn’t reallyhearany of them. Not through the sudden throb of blood in his ears.
His stomach knotted. Probably that damnable hibiscus tea. Hibiscus and raspberry. Why? Just why? Tea was such a nonsensical thing, with all its flavors and combinations, and you never knew what you were going to get,and why didn’t people just drink coffee like rational creatures?
The door bells rang.
Nigel’s head whipped around.
Luna entered the shop, a dazed expression on her face, Officer Ward’s empty teacup in her hand. She paused a moment, frowned into the cup, shook her head . . .
And suddenly Nigel needed space.
A trio of voices called after him from the register, but he ignored them all. Slipping from behind the counter into the passage, he all but fled to the boiler room door. He fished the key from where he’d stashed it in his pocket that morning and, heedless of the potential surge of sorcerous energy—which might alert the wardsman, if he was still near—plunged the key into the lock, yanked the door open, stumbled out into the dawn-soft light, and slammed the door shut behind him.
He stood a moment, back pressed against the slats. Staring out at the rolling stretches of green lawns and bountiful blossoms. Breathing hard.
Then he growled, “Damn it all.”
Reacting to his mood, heavy clouds rolled in, darkening the perpetual dawnlight to deep, gloomy gray. A chill breeze picked up, tossing leaves and petals, and suddenly all that was bounteous and glorious became a bit jagged on the edges.
Nigel stuck his hands deep into his pockets, pushed away from the door, and stomped down the path before him. Garden’s paths twisted, taking him away from the finer grounds and into more desolate tangles as yet unrestored. His feet crunched on withered leaves and broken twigs and tripped over half-buried chunks of dead Dire Matter, but Nigel didn’t care. As long as he was moving, as long as he wasn’t back in the shop, looking at Luna’s flushed face, all giddy with delight.
“I should never have taken those wards down,” he muttered, passing under a flowering cherry tree.
It dumped all its petals on him in a single gust.
“Yes, well, I know!” Nigel growled and roughly shook cherry blossoms from his hair. “But I only want to keep her safe, don’tI? It’s most unwise for her to go about fraternizing with SSSD officers! She should know better.”
The cherry tree’s leaves all turned brown overhead, and its branches creaked in the cold breeze. Nigel glared at it and walked on swiftly, shoulders hunched. “Of course, Miss Talbot is capable of making her own decisions. But that doesn’t mean she doesn’t need someone looking out for her!”
The wind blew directly in his face, a harsh blast.
“I’m perfectly aware she never asked for my help!” he snarled. “It’s none of my business what she does or with whom she spends her time. But in my own shop, surely I should have some say? Shouldn’t I?”
He was passing the tangled mess that had once been his father’s rose garden. The twisted, choked canes seemed to mock him, and the thorns ground together like teeth. No blossoms to be seen, only the ragged edges of half-buried Dire boulders, sunk into the soil. The only rose he’d managed to pull from the wreckage after Jastira’s assault was the double-delight. The rest . . . well, that would require Green Magic on a level Nigel wasn’t certain he’d ever be able to muster.
He stood in front of the snarled mess, not really seeing it. His mind’s eye played over the sigils one might use if one were to transform certain officers into fine, fat toads. It would be easy enough, what with the green uniform and all. A toad could live a long, happy, enchanted life in Garden. There were numerous little ponds and swampy patches, plenty of bugs. It would soon lose itself in these wild depths, never to be found by its fellow wardsmen, and—
“Damn it all,” Nigel snarled again and ran his hands aggressively through his hair, knocking a lock loose to fall across his forehead. “You aren’t a Dark Sorcerer anymore, Grimm. You can’t justtoadpeople who get in your way.”
And it’s not as though Officer Ward hadgotten in his way,had he? He’d shown no further interest in the shop since that first day. Just the shop girl.
Nigel drew a long breath through clenched teeth. Then, removing his jacket and unfastening his cufflinks, he rolled up his sleeves, tore off his tie, and shouted,“Wheelbarrow!”
The rusty old contraption appeared at his side, along with mean-looking pruning shears and a pair of stout, much-weathered gloves. His father’s gloves. Nigel always felt a bit of an imposter when he put them on, but they were deeply infused with Green Magic, and he couldn’t tackle the daunting restoration of Garden without them.
He slid his hands into them now, like a knight donning gauntlets before battle. Then, brandishing the shears, he dove into the wild tangle of roses, cutting, pruning, liberating, and occasionally yelping when a vicious cane reached out to smack some vulnerable part of his anatomy. So what if he’d abandoned the shop in the middle of a busy day? So what if he’d left customers standing at the counter and his wares unattended? They could all justhelpthemselves for all he cared!
It was a somewhat wild, disheveled, thorn-pricked and dirt-smeared version of himself who finally lifted his head from the task some hours later, ears caught by the sound of a voice calling from the top of Garden. “Mr. Grimm? Mr. Grimm, are you out here?”
Nigel straightened. The day was still quite overcast and gloomy, and a breeze chilled the sweat accumulated on his brow. He rubbed the back of his father’s glove across his forehead and turned his gaze to the door, which stood in incongruous isolation at the top of the hill.
