“The . . . boiler room.”
“Why is it locked?”
“We always keep it locked.”
“Yes, but why?”
“I don’t know. Don’t you lock your boiler room door?”
“Not as a rule. Don’t know why you would. What happens if you’ve got to get in there for something?”
“You would unlock it, I suppose.”
“Do you have the key?”
“No.”
“Who does?”
“Probably Mr. Grimm.”
“Mr. Grimm who’s out on a midnight snack-run.”
“It’s not midnight, Ward.”
“Close enough.”
More footsteps. Nigel heard the kitchen door open and close, and their voices were muffled for a few moments. He chose to use that time to finally push himself up and out of the chair. For a moment, he feared he would topple headlong, but somehow managed to get his legs braced. Part of him was vaguely aware that his mental faculties were probably not working at top notch just then. He was sore and sick and dizzy and burned from the inside out. That last would be from whatever Mortimer had done to him, before the poison of the severmist filled his lungs. And his jaw hurt. He rolled it experimentally, wondering if the bone was cracked. He took a step. Nearly pivoted over. Throwing out one hand, he landed heavily on the table, knocking the teacup to the floor.
It shattered in a hundred shards of porcelain.
Nigel stared down at the damage, his heart thudding in his ears. Then, as though from a distance, he heard the kitchen door open, followed by long-striding footsteps. “I tell you,” Ward’s voice growled, “I heard something crash out here in the shop.”
“I didn’t hearanything,Ward!” Luna protested, hot on his heels. “Please, just leave it alone!”
Nigel remained poised where he was, still leaning hard against the table. Should he step out from behind the curtain? Declare his presence, demand Ward the Wardsman vacate the premises? But no. He looked down at his front, saw the purple stain of poisoned spittle and sickness on his shirt and unbuttoned waistcoat. He had no explanation to offer for any aspect of his appearance. He practically reeked of guilt.
The hinged portion of the counter creaked. Footsteps drew near, approaching the nook curtain.
“Ward!”
The footsteps stopped.
“What?” Ward’s voice was sharp, as sharp as Nigel had ever heard it.
“Ward, will you . . . come back here, please?” In contrast to Ward’s tone, Luna’s was suddenly soft. Dulcet, even. Dreamy.
“Why?”
“I . . . I just . . . It occurred to me that . . . that you must have been in a great deal of danger tonight. Were you?”
A moment of considering silence. Then: “Yeah. I was a bit. There was some sorcery slung about, not to mention a little gunfire.”
“Sounds terrifying!”
“Aw, you know. Part of a night’s work.”
“But you could have been hurt, couldn’t you?”
