Nigel cleared his throat rather aggressively, suppressing a cough, and drew himself up a little straighter. “Miss Talbot’s roommate has returned unexpectedly,” he replied, his voice perfectly controlled and modulated. “She has agreed to take over her care.”
A single brow slid up Dr. Bucket’s forehead, vanishing under the brim of his hat. “Kicked you out, did she? One of those high-moraled misses, eh?”
This description of Bryony was so inapt, Nigel couldn’t begin to answer beyond an uncertain, “Erm . . .”
Dr. Bucket patted his shoulder, offering a bit of manly sympathy. “On the whole, I myself can forgive a little moral failing here and there,” he said, “especially if it motivates a fellow like yourself to do right by the young lady in question. Not many Jacks would sit up all night to administer medicines to their Janes, so I’ll give you credit where it’s due.”
Despite the fog of sleep-numbness, part of Nigel knew what Dr. Bucket was implying. And part of him knew as well that he ought, for the sake of Luna’s reputation, to correct the good doctor.“Oh no, Dr. Bucket, you’ve got it all wrong,”he should protest, his voice infused with some righteous indignation for the sake of the one maligned.“I’m like a brother to Miss Talbot. A kindly, considerate, rather stuffy older brother.”
But his wooly-headed self couldn’t manage more than an, “Erm.”
Then he coughed into his arm.
Dr. Bucket took a step away, up the stairwell, holding his medical bag between them like a barrier. “You sound worse than you look,” he declared. “That’s the danger of sitting up all night playing nursemaid when you haven’t the proper training. Best get home and get to bed. Call your own doctor if that cough gets any worse.”
Nigel nodded and began to descend once more, then paused and looked back around. “You will continue to look in on Miss Talbot?” he asked, brow crinkling. “Until she is quite well?”
Bucket’s mustache twitched to one side. “So long as my bills are paid. What was that address of yours again? Addle Street, right?”
Nigel nodded. “And . . . you won’t tell her, will you?”
“You want me to let her believe in the charity of my good nature?”
“Yes. That.”
Dr. Bucket chuckled and shook his head. “As long as I’m paid, I can play angel of mercy for as long as you like.” He tipped his bowler then. “Merry Green Yule.”
Unable to return the solicitation, Nigel turned and stumbled on down. In his head, he could hear Luna’s voice, murmuring against his shoulder in the dark of the night,“Merry Green Yule, Mr. Grimm.”
Not particularly aware of his surroundings, Nigel descended numerous flights of stairways to the lower levels of Mrs. Boggs’s Boardinghouse for Young Women of Good Character. Some small part of his brain registered the yipping and yapping of Mrs. Boggs’s terriers, and Mrs. Boggs’s own voice shouting,“Down, Blitzen! Down, Dancer!” But it wasn’t until he reached the door that he was arrested by Mrs. Boggs herself, stepping between him and his exit, a sentry of darkness in her black crepe dress and ebony brooch. “And when can I expect payment for my goods and services?” she demanded, with all the seasonal goodwill of a battleax.
“Just send the bill to The Arcane Bouquet,” Nigel muttered, hand reaching around her for the doorknob.
But Mrs. Boggs sidestepped, forcing a visage of meritorious fury into his line of view. “I won’t have women of bad character staying on in my establishment,” she declared. The slight bristling on her upper lip quivered with the passion of her words. “That girl had amanin her room overnight. This goesstrictlyagainst the guidelines! She will have to leave by the end of the week—”
It happened quite without intention—more of a reflex than anything. Nigel certainly didn’tmeanto summon a sudden influx of Dire Matter into his being, he didn’tplanto swell suddenly into a towering figure of dark-infused radiant horror. Sometimes these things happen. When one is a former Dark Sorcerer, that is.
And Nigel found himself suddenly looking down into Mrs. Boggs’s cowering form from a loftier height than moments ago, his vision ringed in a whorling storm of anti-glitter. And he heard his own voice, reverberating with hidden depths of horror:“You will not drive Miss Talbot from her home.”
Mrs. Boggs shrank before him, a quivering ball of abject terror. Her terriers yelped in chorus, fleeing on skittering nails into the depths of the house, abandoning their mistress to her fate. But though his hands were already beginning to form fell sigils, Nigel hastily squeezed them into fists, and forced his essence and being back down into more ordinary proportions. He smoothed back a lock of his hair and added in a much-softened tone, without any echoing traces of the Dire Dimensions, “Good day, Mrs. Boggs.”
With that, he pushed past the cowering landlady and stepped through the door out into the frigid morning. Gray clouds filmed over the sun, and fat, gentle flakes of snow fell, contriving to disguise the worst stains and ruts of Bootblack Alley.
Shivering, Nigel stuffed his hands deep into his coat pockets, tucked his face behind his scarf, and set out walking. There weren’t any taxies to be hailed, not this early on Green Yule morning, and certainly not in this part of town. He tramped past the same seedy bar as yesterday. Green Yule music continued to play on the thaumatic radio inside. Apparently, they didn’t close for the holy day, and more than one sad voice, upraised in drunken chorus, echoed from within.
“Like a whisper of love, a gleam of light hails the hope of dawning day,”drawled the desperate revelers.
Nigel closed his eyes, hastening by. But he could not outrun the memory of Luna, cradled in his arms. And though he triedveryhard not to, he felt again the unexpected softness of her bare shoulder beneath his lips when he awakened this morningwith his head bowed forward. That memory sent a rush of warmth through every vein, driving out all wintry chill.
But no. No!
“I think very highly of him. He’s been good to me. Just like a brother.”
Her words seemed to follow him, pursuing like determined terriers, all the way back through the snow-muffled streets of Lower Eastside. He was scarcely aware of his surroundings and didn’t notice the length of the walk. Were the traffic any worse, he may well have been flattened for all the attention he paid at crosswalks.
Her voice was in his head, an inescapable echo:“Brother . . . brother . . . brother . . .”
Abruptly, he found himself standing in front of The Arcane Bouquet. Nigel gave his head a little shake and stared stupidly at his own door. The echoes in his head receded, and he drew a deep breath of cold air. Then he coughed—and that served to wake him up a bit. Lurching forward a stumbling step, he fetched his key from his pocket and jiggled it in the lock a few times until the door swung open.
