“Oh, Green Mother!” Luna whispered and tried to rub it off with her sleeve. It wouldn’t budge. Panic looped in her gut. Was it some sort of spell? A tracking spell, perhaps? If so, she couldn’t return to the boardinghouse. Or the shop. She couldn’t go anywhere safely, not iftheywere tracking her. Oh, how could she have been so careless? Auntie Apolonia always told her she was too impulsively compassionate, without a thought for potential consequences, only Luna had never thought it a real vice. After all, was it possible for one to betookind?
But this one act of kindness—not even kindness, really, merelypoliteness—may have just compromised everything.
A little ripple of movement drew Luna’s eye. The next moment, in a twirl of green tendrils and purple petals, the violet crawled out from her apron pocket and onto her lap. It curled its leaves around her fingers and peered up at her from several sweet, round faces. Then, before Luna could do anything to prevent it, it climbed into her palm and she felt . . . something. Something magical taking place. Some sort of energy exchange which she could not explain.
“What are you doing?” she whispered, too soft to be heard by any of the passengers around her. “What are you—oh!” She caught her breath. For the violet began rapidly to wilt. Its little petals withered up, turning black, and its leaves shriveled and dropped away, one after the other, into her lap. In less than five seconds, Luna cupped a dead plant in her hands.
But the mark on her palm was gone.
“Oh!” She choked on a sob, tears brimming and spilling out onto her cheeks. The violet had eaten the spell. Somehow, it had taken that sliver of dark magic right out of her, giving its life without even being asked. “But you were a brave little thing in the end, weren’t you?” Luna whispered, tears dropping on the rapidly-disintegrating bits of leaf and stem.
After a little while, she turned her head to stare out the window at the streets of Ballycastle slipping by. The dome of Saint Agatha’s flashed, and she heard the cathedral bells ringing out the hour. She bit her trembling lip, forcing down yet another sob.
You should leave tonight,her own voice whispered in the back of her mind. And it was the truth. If this altercation wasn’t evidence that her enemies were closing in, she didn’t know what was.
But her ticket was for Wednesday morning. And it was nonrefundable. She didn’t have the money to pay for another, not without dangerously compromising her chances of survival wherever she ended up. She had to have something left over for food and shelter. Oh, why did she purchase that ticket so far in advance?
Because if you didn’t, you would have found a way to talk yourself out of going,that voice in her head answered sternly.
It was true. A pre-purchased, nonrefundable ticket had seemed like an important security measure at the time. Security against her own wayward heart and wishes.
Luna gazed down at the little dead violet. How effective had it been in removing that tracking spell? Would this stranger, this Lancelot Mortimer, be thrown off her tail? He had the name of The Arcane Bouquet, but it was a big city. It could take him some time to figure out what it was and where it was located. She breathed out slowly, the expulsion of air gently stirring the driedup leaves. She was going to have to risk it. She was going to have to wait. Just until Wednesday morning. Surely she could survive until then.
The trolley clattered across the bridge of the Bally River, carrying her on to Lower Eastside. As they crossed that sparkling water in the sunset glow, Luna quietly stretched her hand out through the window and let the remains of the violet drift away in a cloud of dust.
Luna swirled the white Whittlewedge teacup in her hand: clockwise thrice and counter twice. Just the way her aunties had taught her. The aromas of a pleasant herbal tea drifted up to her nose, but it mingled with the potent perfume of the Silly Young Thing seated across from her in the nook behind the counter. The result was oddly ticklish in the nostrils, and Luna fought the urge to sneeze. Sneezing certainly wouldn’t suit the auricular aura of the moment, so she twisted her nose and valiantly kept all sneezes and sniffles at bay.
When the dregs had settled, she peered over the lip of the cup. To her surprise, her Sight clarified almost immediately, revealing a stunning image. But then, sweet little Miss Peabody had been quite specific in her scrying request, and her own worries about the upcoming occasion would have influenced the tea as she drank it, leaving behind a powerful residue for Luna to pick up on.
“Well, Miss Peabody,” Luna said, her eyebrow rising. “You are, in fact, going to be kissed by a gentleman wearing a red rose in his buttonhole at the Governor’s Ball tomorrow night.”
“Is it Frankie Attwood?” Miss Peabody asked, eager hands clasped at her bosom, eyes shining.
Luna glanced up from the tea. “Does Frankie Attwood have ginger hair and a crooked front tooth?”
“No.” Miss Peabody sagged a little in her seat. Then her head tilted, her expression considering. “That’s Oliver Trimble, his best friend.”
“A friend of yours as well, I trust?”
“We’ve spent some time together. But I never noticed him much, not with Frankie around. Frank’s one of thoseloudfellows, you know.” She pursed her little rosebud lips. “So, Ollie Trimble is going to kiss me at the Governor’s Ball?”
“Yes,” Luna confirmed. “Under the rose arbor, by the looks of it.”
“Interesting.” Miss Peabody tapped her lip thoughtfully. “He’s usually so very shy, is Ollie. Not the sort to go around kissing girls.”
“Unlike Frank Attwood?” Luna hazarded.
The young lady shrugged. “He kissed Mabel at the Covingshire Picnic last week. And Babette at Stokingsly, the week before.”
Luna knew she ought not to invest herself too deeply in the doings of her Silly Young Things. Look at the trouble Miss Eugenia had very nearly got her into! Still, she couldn’t resist a gentle, “Miss Peabody, do youwantto be one in a line of Mr. Attwood’s kissing objects?”
Miss Peabody tipped her bobbed head to one side. “I just wondered what it would be like. Everyone seems to think he’s quite a good kisser, you know!”
Luna returned her gaze to the teacup, considering the scene playing out within. Her own range of kissing experience was not exactly vast. Other than two brief, embarrassing, blink-and-you’d-miss-it instances (which she triedvery hardnot to dwellupon), there’d really only been John Ward. A month ago. The night before he shipped out on assignment. He’d kissed her quite thoroughly that night, but she couldn’t say whether or not he was agoodkisser, having no basis of comparison. All she could say for certain was that she didn’t enjoy it all that much. It had struck her as quite a lot of mouths-mashing and not a lot of romance or thrills. A bit wet too. She’d had to resist the impulse to wipe her mouth off with the back of her hand, not wanting to offend the man in question. It was altogether more awkward than anything.
Though Ward had seemed to get a kick out of the endeavor.
The image in the teacup faded. Luna took a last look, just in case there was some detail she’d missed, but it wafted away. Setting aside both cup and saucer, she faced Miss Peabody and looked her in the eye. “Well, Mr. Trimble is definitely going to kiss you under the rose arbor tomorrow night. If I were you, I’d decide how I feel about the idea going in. If you do not wish to be kissed by Mr. Trimble, I would recommend avoiding the rose arbor entirely.”
