It was only then that it finally occurred to her how very warm the room was.Actuallywarm. Almosttoowarm, particularly with these arms holding her close, and her back pressed up against a fellow human body. Luna swallowed. It hurt. Her throat was absolutely raw, but when she drew breath, it came much more easily than it had in some while. How long of a while, she couldn’t begin to guess.
“Mr. Grimm?” she tried again and managed a croak of sound this time.
She heard a hitch in his breath. Followed by a grunt.
She wriggled a little, seeking to loosen his grasp without being too obvious about it. Her sleeve strap fell lower, and she moved to pull it back into place. This, in turn, dislodged one of his arms, which upset his balance, and brought his face tilting forward to press against her bare shoulder.
She froze. Her mouth formed an open little O.
She heard the snort, the inhale. The sudden shift in his body.
His head lifted—she felt his breath against her skin, causing all the fine hairs to prickle.
She held absolutely still.
Should she say something? Should she do something? Should she pretend to be asleep? What in the Green Mother’s name hadhappened?What was Mr. Grimmdoinghere?In her bed?Why was she so very undressed, while he, apparently, was still fully clad? Which, granted, was a relief, but a confusing relief, nonetheless! Luna wracked her brain, trying to recall something, anything. She remembered coming home from work, struggling to breathe, coughing, and frozen to the bone. She remembered thinking, as she changed into her nightgown, that she would just rest a little while before getting up to prepare for . . . for . . . for something. Some engagement. She couldn’t remember what.
After that, it was all a blur of impressions.
A bitter taste on her tongue.
The feel of icy metal under her bare feet.
Arms lifting her when her strength gave out.
And a voice. Low and a bit uncertain, singing a Green Yule hymn in the darkness.
Luna bit her chapped lips. “Um,” she tried one more time, and felt his arms tighten around her. “Mr. Grimm—”
After the fact, she realized that she’d heard the footsteps coming up the stairs. Only the throb of her own heartbeat had seemed so loud, she rather mistook the one for the other.
So when the door burst open in that moment, and Bryony stepped through, all bouncing red curls and vibrant yellow coat and stomping, snow-coated boots, it took Luna so much by surprise, she would have screamed had she the lung-strength for it.
“Green Mother love me, it’s warm asblazesin here!” Bryony declared, throwing off her hat and scarf. She was just unbuttoning her coat when she turned. Looked across the room to the little bed under the sloped ceiling.
Stopped short.
To give her credit, itwasa shocking sight. Luna. In her bed. In her nightgown. The strap of which had fallen indecently far down her upper arm. Wrapped in the arms of Mr. Grimm.
Bryony’s mouth dropped open. She shook her head. Looked again. Her gaze flicked to the dark smear on Luna’s breast, then around at the disheveled state of the room, before darting back to the two of them.
“What in the name of all green-loving hecks is going on here?”
As though her voice liberated him abruptly from a spell, Mr. Grimm sprang up from the bed. Only his legs were still wrapped around Luna, and, as a result, he fell sideways to the floor, while she nearly tumbled out on top of him. He landed with a thud, and even then, his voice sounded inexplicably posh when he exclaimed, “It’s not what it looks like, Miss Braithwait!”
“Oh, really?” Bryony tossed aside her yellow coat. She wore scarlet holiday duds underneath, quite fitted and not terribly practical against winter chill, but festive in their own way. “And whatexactlydoes it look like, d’you think?” she demanded, crossing her arms and cocking a hip.
“I thought—I was told—” Mr. Grimm pulled himself upright. Luna, pushing onto her elbows, took a peek at him from behind a veil of straggly hair. She’d never seen him so disheveled. His jaw was covered in morning shadow, his hair tumbled every which way. His tie and waistcoat were both missing, his suspenders drooping, his shirt unbuttoned rather more than was decent, so that she could just about catch a glimpse of his sorcerer’s mark.
Luna blushed and looked away, but couldn’t help glancing up at him again when he finally finished, “Mrs. Boggs said you were home for the holiday, Miss Braithwait.”
“Oh, did she now?” Bryony’s brows rose. “And so you two thought you’d make a little Green Yule magic of your own,eh? Roommate’s away, so the mice may play, is that it?”
“No! No, it’s just, Miss Talbot is . . . was . . . She had, or has, rather—”
“Bryony,” Luna croaked.
That one word did it. Bryony turned to Luna sharply, her eyes widening at the horrible sound of her voice. She leapt forward, exclaiming, “Mother love me, are you sick, Lunaloo?”
