Rather absently, Nigel rose, fetched the kettle, filled it. Put it on the burner. Prepared a pot of orange llarmi. Luna would want a cup when she arrived. Didn’t she say that’s what she craved on cold days like this?
8:58.
9:00.
Opening time. And no sign of her.
The regular morning queue gathered on the sidewalk outside, stamping their cold feet and swinging their arms to keep the blood moving. Someone tapped on the glass.
Nigel didn’t so much as turn to look. He sat back in the nook, listening to the kettle boil but not really hearing it. He rubbed his carefully-scraped chin contemplatively.
She wouldn’t leave without saying goodbye. Surely. Quit the shop and flee, all because of a . . . a kiss? Not even a kiss. Just a misunderstanding, really.
But it wasn’t the kiss that was the problem.
It was what he’d done after.
“You scared her,” he whispered. Passing a hand down his face, he pulled at his mouth. “Oh gods. You frightened the poor girl. Now she thinks that you . . . that I . . .expectsomething from her. That she’s not safe here with me.”
She was so vulnerable. Alone in this big city. What was she to do if her boss—the man she worked with day after day, all alone—proved untrustworthy?
“Now look at you!”Fabian’s voice growled in his memory.“Proprietor of a little tea shop, shagging the shop girl in the hall closet while the kettle boils over.”
The comment had come far too close to depicting any number of secretly-held and carefully-suppressed but never fully-conquered fantasies. Everything Nigel knew he should not feel and absolutely could never act upon.
Only he’d almost let it all out. Right there. Behind the counter.
Over a stupid clump of mistletoe.
Nigel stood abruptly, knocking the cane chair over. He jerked the whistling kettle off the burner and set it down hard. Then, turning, he paced behind the counter, running his hands through his hair. “She’s gone,” he muttered. “She’s gone. You frightened her away. You idiot. You absolute damnablefool.You—”
A little scrap of paper on the counter caught his eye. He recognized Luna’s large, loopy handwriting. Heart jolting, he dove for it, snatched it up in a trembling hand. Was it a note?Perhaps of farewell? A hastily scrawled notice, left behind before she walked out yesterday?
Instead he saw:No. 27 Bootblack Alley, Lower Eastside, Ballycastle. Garret.
An address.
Heraddress.
Well, technically Bryony’s, but they were roommates, so . . .
“I’ve got to find her.” Nigel looked up, catching Debbie’s eye. “I’ve got to apologize. I’ve got to make things right. I’ve got to—”
By this time, he was already scrambling for his coat, hat, and scarf. He forgot his gloves in his hurry, but his hands probably trembled too much to get them on in any case. He stuffed the paper in his pocket, turned again to Debbie, and pointed a finger at her beak. “Watch over everything until I get back.”
He leapt out from behind the counter, took three strides toward the door. And saw the customers lined up outside, cupping their faces as they peered through the windows. Nigel grimaced.
Then he turned on heel, retreated into the passage, and made his escape through the alley.
Luna’s lodgings were within walking distance of The Arcane Bouquet. This much, at least, Nigel knew.
What he did not know was how very far of a walking distance it was. Even by taxi, the journey took over half an hour, what with traffic and snow and Green Yule exuberance on every corner. In those terrible shoes of hers, it must have taken Luna the better part of an hour each way. In the ice. And slush. And muck.
Nigel’s nails dug into his palms as he looked out the dirty cab window at the shady blocks passing by his view. Lower Eastside was not considered an upscale part of Ballycastle, but the shops district was pleasant and clean enough to attract a good clientele. Even chic figures like Lord Bruxley or Luna’s Silly Young Things were more than happy to make the trek to the intersection of Addle Street and Pembroke for a jaunt and a cuppa.
But once the taxi rattled over the train tracks, bleakness set in fast. The streets were brown with snow-muck, and only the broadest roads had been cleared by snowplows. All the side avenues and alleys were piled up with brown snow and ashy ice, with a few hand-shoveled furrows between the gray, grimybuildings. Dubious characters loitered on every corner. Not charming vagabonds like the street fiddler—no, these distinctly lacked any trace of charm. While no doubt Luna would find room in her heart to worry for their suffering, Nigel couldn’t help it if his primary concern was for Luna herself. Walking home. Every night. Passing by these dark alleyways where unsavory forms lurked and lounged.
The taxi dropped him on the corner of Bootblack Alley, demanded an outrageous fare, and sped away in a spew of dirty snow. Nigel stood a moment, feeling rather conspicuous in his nice coat and hat. A huddle of three miserable beings of indiscernible sex stood one street over, watching him through long trails of cigarette smoke. He wondered, suddenly, if he’d done Luna a favor in gifting her those nice new boots after all. They would make her dangerously conspicuous in these parts.
