And following the disastrous events of yesterday morning—the arachnidification of Lord Bruxley right before her eyes—any chance he might have had of winning her over was gone.
“You have to accept the truth,” he muttered to himself, running both hands through his hair. “She isn’t yours. She never will be.”
And what was he going to do about it? Cast himself from the highest dome of Saint Agatha’s Cathedral in a fit of despair? Because that would show her, wouldn’t it?
“Yeah,” Nigel muttered. “Real mature, Grimm.”
Somewhere off on Giltspur Street, the chantry bells rang out 5 o’clock. Time for Luna’s date with Ward to begin. And was he taking her to the King’s Crown as he’d originally planned? Luna didn’t own a dress glamorous enough for that restaurant. Not that it would matter. She could go in her dingy little work skirt and blouse, and she’d still outshine every woman there, in all their satins and jewels and . . .
Nigel turned abruptly, marched over to the double-delight rose in its pot, and braced himself. “Will you do me a favor?”
She lifted her blooms at him.
“I need you to smack me. Hard. Across the face.”
She fluttered her leaves, heaved an aromatic sigh. Then, swinging a cane, she thwacked him a good one. Her leaves whispered together in a satisfied purr of sound.
Nigel touched the cut on his cheek where a thorn had snagged. “Ouch,” he said and fished out his handkerchief to dab away the spot of blood. “Thanks,” he added ruefully.
Skulking back to the counter, Nigel got to work settling the register for the night, in between blotting away droplets of blood. The pain was enough to put his mind into gear, and all the sums came out right in the logbook the first time around.When this was done, and the cash was stored in the strongbox in the back of the building, he busied himself with caring for all the plants. Every chore was performed with rigid focus, his concentration solely on the immediate tasks at hand. By the time he was through, the cut on his cheek had scabbed over, and his mind was firmly made up on one subject at least.
“Right,” he said with determination, removing his apron and hanging it on the peg. Then he donned his suit jacket, straightened his cuffs, and cast about the shop. “Which of you lot would like to be made into a bouquet and given to a beautiful woman tonight?”
Dozens of flowers raised their leaves and waved their bright heads with tremendous enthusiasm. None were so enthusiastic, however, as a cluster of marigolds in a tray near the counter. Yes, marigolds were just right. Nigel carefully snipped a dozen and arranged them in a pretty little nosegay, complete with yellow ribbon. “I’m off now, Debbie,” he said to the raven. “Hold down the fort until my return.”
She gave him a deeply disapproving stare.“Never mind,”she declared with more vim than usual.
But Nigel drew himself straighter, jaw set. “No, you’re wrong. It’s about time I took action. Wish me luck!”
With that, he set out from The Arcane Bouquet with a spring in his step and purpose fixed firmly in his heart.
An eruption of barks and yaps and yips exploded on the other side of the door when Nigel knocked at Number 27 Bootblack Alley a short while later. He braced himself, keenly aware all over again that he no longer had the option of simply summoning up a chunk of burning Dire Matter and blastingthe little blighters to oblivion. Not that hewould. Most likely hewouldn’t.But it would be nice to know hecould,should the inclination strike.
The door opened at last, revealing the stern face of Mrs. Boggs, clad in her mourning black. She stared at Nigel for a moment without recognition. Then, all the harsh lines and angles of her features concentrated into an expression of abject horror, and she began to slam the door. Nigel deftly inserted his foot, wincing at the force with which she tried to crush it to bonemeal.
“Mrs. Boggs,” he said in his poshest, most impressive voice, “howdoyou do this fine evening?”
“I know what you are!” the old lady snarled, pointing a boney finger at his nose. “I saw what you did on Green Yule! I sent a report over to the SSSD about you, and they promised to look into it! You’ll be dragged off to prison soon enough, and the city will be well rid of your filth!”
Nigel blinked blandly. “And when that joyous event takes place, you will find yourself suddenly deprived an income stream.”
Mrs. Boggs’s thin lips rounded in a little O of realization. Nigel had been paying the radiator bill for the garret room at the top of the house. An absolutely outrageous bill that no one in their right mind would pay, but Nigel was a sorcerer—it had been a long while since he was in his right mind. And sorcerer’s coin was as good as anyone else’s.
The landlady hesitated, her nostrils flaring through a sharp inhale. Then, somewhat less viciously than before: “What do you want? Your cousin isn’t here, you know.”
“I’m not here to see Miss Luna Talbot,” Nigel replied coolly. “I’ve come to call on her roommate, Bryony Braithwait. Will you kindly let her know I’m here?”
Mrs. Boggs’s eyes narrowed, somehow managing to express whole new levels of disapproval hitherto unmatched. “Miss Braithwait hasn’t returned from work yet.”
“That is no trouble. I will wait for her.”
“Not in her room, you won’t!”
“Surely a fine establishment such as this boasts a parlor for your boarders and their guests.”
“Naturally.” Mrs. Boggs lifted her imperious little chin, one wiry hair bristling with great dignity. “But my girls donotreceive gentlemen callers.”
Nigel leaned in then and allowed a trace of Dire menace to reverberate in the depths of his chest. “Ah, but you and I both know I am nogentleman,Mrs. Boggs.”
