Nigel grimaced. But he’d promised the Green Motheranything, hadn’t he?
He placed a hand on Luna’s forehead, feeling the heat of fever radiating out from her, and wracked his brain for memories of song lyrics, of Green Yules long ago, never celebrated, barely acknowledged. But the words were there. Woven into the fabric of his life. And, for the first time, on this dark, dreadful night, he felt the need for them.
“In the still of winter's night,
Where the frost begins to play,
Like a whisper of love, a gleam of light
Hails the hope of dawning day.
Hear our laughter fill the air,
As the snowflakes gently fall.
Together we will rise and share
Green Yule Spirit to one and all.”
His voice was nothing much. He could carry a tune; that’s the most that could be said for his singing. But he thought he sawLuna’s mouth curve in the smallest, faintest of smiles. By the time the last words fell from his lips, she seemed to be sleeping, and—dared he hope it?—breathing a little easier.
Nigel gently tucked a strand of limp hair behind her ear. Then, closing his eyes, he rested his cheek on the top of her head once more.
“Merry Green Yule, Luna,” he whispered.
Luna woke to the realization that she was snoring. Loudly.
She jolted out of sleep on the last climactic blaring of a particularly loud snort, embarrassed, though uncertain why. She blinked a few times, trying to make sense of rather blurry surroundings. Her throat felt like it had been used to sharpen knives, and her chest ached, and every part of her body was sore, all the way down to the soles of her feet.
And yet, she felt unexpectedly . . . comfortable. A great deal more comfortable than she could remember having felt in a long, long time. So comfortable, in fact, that she half-wondered if she’d been miraculously transported home to Tealeaf Cottage and tucked into her warm childhood bed.
But no. When she blinked again to clear her foggy vision, the view that met her eyes was the same it had been for months now: the footboard of her narrow, metal bed. The little table with the thaumatic kettle on its heating plate. The racks on which she and Bryony hung their clothes. The dirty splash of light falling though the grimy window square. The pink unicorn stuffie, won in a festival game.
Only . . .
She frowned.
Only there was also a foot.
Clad in a gentleman’s shoe.
Attached to a tweed-trousered leg.
A leg which rested alongside her body, and . . . oh. There was another one. In fact, she seemed to be propped in between them. And there were arms wrapped around her middle, holding her securely in place.
She looked down. Blankets were tucked around her, but had fallen away from her torso, revealing her thin, pink nightgown. One shoulder strap had slipped down her arm, baring a great deal of her chest, which seemed to be stained with some black substance.
Simultaneously too baffled and too woolly-headed to feel alarm, she let her gaze sink farther. Down to those arms looped across her stomach. Rolled-up shirtsleeves to the elbow. Unexpectedly hairy and masculine forearms. Long-fingered, elegant hands, limp in repose.
Luna blinked. Then blinked again.
Then felt the rise and fall of a chest behind her. The exhale of breath against her temple.
Her eyes widened.
She turned her head slightly, only for her nose to bump the stubbly cheek of an all-too familiar face.
“Mr. Grimm?” she whispered. Her voice emerged in a rough little rasp, hardly strong enough to make a sound. She cast about the room again, uncertain what she ought to do under these highly unusual circumstances. Her eye caught on the pink unicorn, which stared accusingly at her from the foot of the bed. She made a face at it—aYes, but what am I supposed todoabout it?sort of face. Her gaze returned to the table, where she spied a medicine bottle and what looked like the remains of several old poultices. Also her chipped little teacup and box of chamomile tea.
