With a clamorous pealing of brass bells, the door blasted open to admit a lusty summer gale, which roared through the flower shop, decapitating all the delicate begonias as it went.
It would be the begonias,Nigel thought with dismay as he leapt out from his nook behind the counter and sprinted down the center aisle of the display floor. He’d only just convinced the tuberous little blossoms not to simply give up on life and die. Begonias had such fragile egos, and he’d not realized this soon enough and placed them far too near the double-delight rose with its multi-hued frills. By the time he recognized his error, the despairing begonias had already shed their vibrant colors, pretty pink and orange petals shriveling up like brown crepe paper. A pathetic sight, and Nigel had been moved to pity. Murmuring desperate apologies, he’d relocated them to a shady nook near the aloe vera. Anything that flowered couldn’t help looking charming by sheer comparison to that spidery lurker, and the begonias had begun to perk up.
All for nothing, apparently.
Begonia heads pelted Nigel in the face as he lunged for the door. He caught the knob, but it slipped free of his grasp, and the door slammed three more times against the wall before hefinally managed to wrestle it shut. He pressed his back against it as it rattled in its frame under another enthusiastic assault of wind and rain. Thankfully, he’d had the foresight to batten down the shutters in advance, having been warned by the locals that these late summer nor’easters could put on quite a show.
Now at midday, the interior of The Arcane Bouquet, purveyor of the freshest flowers in Eastside Ballycastle—or so the sign over the lintel claimed—looked rather more like a graveyard than a flower shop, all haunted shadows and moody angles. The flowers in their pots, vases, and basins gave off the appearance of tombstone offerings. In this light, even the double-delight rose was downright sepulchral.
“Never mind,”quoth the raven perched on the skull-turned-primrose-pot adorning the sales counter at the far end of the shop. She flapped her midnight wings and ruffled her feathers, contriving to look like nothing so much as a disapproving old granny clutching her shawl in dismay.
“You’ve got that right,” Nigel muttered and shook a stray begonia blossom from behind his ear. “I’m not convinced I ever had a mind! Something in the mental faculties was certainly lacking when I signed that damned lease.”
Too late for second guesses now. Or third, fourth, or even tenth guesses, for that matter. The lease was signed and, for better or worse, Nigel Grimm had sunk every penny remaining from his meager inheritance into traveling across the channel to the Kingdom of Brython, where nobody knew his face. There he’d done what his father had always wanted him to do, what he should have done long ago, before ambition lured him elsewhere: he opened a flower shop.
Not the career move one might expect from a former Dark Sorcerer.
At the time, however, it had seemed a reasonable enough plan. He had Garden, after all, to assist him, which solved thematter of supply. And while sorcery was strictly outlawed in Brython—and innumerable wardsmen patrolled the streets of Ballycastle, ready and willing to exert the full force of the law on any practicing sorcerer who dared poke his nose through the city gates—there was no law against the use of Green Magic.
Nigel had no knack for Green Magic, unfortunately. But how difficult could it be? He could get by without sorcery, surely. He could become the man his father had always hoped he would be. An honest man. An unobtrusive man. A man who worked with his hands and kept his mind clear of conjurings and enchantments.
A man free of Jastira’s influence.
Nigel sighed, catching the raven’s eye across the gloomy room. He knew how thoroughly his familiar disapproved of this whole venture; she’d never been one to disguise her feelings. But he’d hoped the Grand Opening of The Arcane Bouquet would prove her spectacularly wrong.
Only now it was three days post Grand Opening, and he’d yet to make a single sale. One would think the denizens of a gray, grimy, grim harbor city like Ballycastle would be downright giddy to get their hands on the freshest of fresh flowers Garden had to offer. But so far his bright yellow sign hadn’t drawn even one customer in through the door, for all its curlicue flourishes and cheery floral border. Nigel was half-tempted to start throwing armfuls of blossoms into the streets from the upper apartment window, just to call a little attention his way.
Oh, he was a fool all right. A fool to think he had any knack for salesmanship. Or flowers, for that matter. Old Mister Grimm had been a true green thumb, a hedge wizard of the Verdant Ilk. While Nigel could scarcely tell a petunia from a potato, his father had poured his entire heart and being into Garden, more literally, perhaps, than most people realized. Over the years, he’d successfully nurtured over a hundred varieties of roses—nimbly refereeing all the in-fighting bound to occur amongst so many divas of the plant world—along with innumerable annuals, perennials, bulbs, seedlings, cuttings, shrubs, succulents, tubers, vines, and more. A veritable treasure trove of color and perfume. There was even a large selection of wildflowers, which a plant novice might ignorantly label “weed,” but which the old man tended with the same loving care as any of his other darlings.
By the end of his life, that humble plot of earth at the back of nowhere in southern Plym was undoubtedly one of the sweetest spots in the entire world. A rare gem, brimming with rarer magic.
What would Old Grimm think if he could see this gloomy tomb of a shop now? All those sad petals wilting for lack of sunlight, the double-delight rose looking less delightful by the moment, while the tiger lilies growled threateningly at the shy violets, causing them to hide their frightened faces under their leaves.
“Never mind,” Nigel sighed, echoing the raven’s dismal proclamation. He ran a thin hand down his tired face.
He should never have come to this wretched city. But where else could he go? Certainly not home. Everyone back in Plym wanted him drawn and quartered. It was only by virtue of the service he’d rendered at the Moment of Crisis that he’d been spared his head and various extremities. He may have been a figure of dread and terror across the realm, but he was nothing compared to Jastira. She, who was called the Shadowbane Lady.
And when he turned on her at the last possible moment—when he toppled her the instant before she took absolute power—hetechnicallybecame the Great Hero of the Age.
But it wasn’t enough to earn him complete forgiveness.
Honestly, what had he expected? A pat on the shoulder, a friendly wave, and then back to his tower to continue his eldritchexperiments uninterrupted? The Authorities of Plym knew the truth as well as he: once a Dark Sorcerer, always a Dark Sorcerer. It would only be a matter of time before the Shadow overcame him once more: the obscuring focus which blinded him to everything save the need to uncover the next inscrutable secret or acquire the newest abominable spell.
If he couldn’t trust himself, why should the people of the country he’d all unknowingly helped drive to the brink of famine?
No, no. Flowers were safer. Old Mister Grimm had good reason for choosing flowers over more scholastic pursuits. Flowers knew who they were, and they didn’t let you get away with much. If you tried to force your will upon them, they’d simply die to teach you a lesson. Flowers required a firm but gentle hand, finesse, and unfailing patience.
Patience. That’s what Nigel needed just now. What were three days in the grand scheme of things, after all? He could weather it and worse. Anything was better than falling back into old habits. Anything was better than what Jastira had made of him. Best not to look back.
Forward is the only option,he thought, stepping away from the refastened door and casting about for the broom.Forward into whatever this new life in Ballycastle has for me. A life of predictability, calm, and—
The shop bells shrieked again as the door burst its latch and slammed against the wall. Nigel whirled on heel, lunging to catch it. Only this time, rather than being hit with a blast of rain and begonias, he found his arms suddenly filled with a completely drenched person, who blew in over the stoop, slammed into his chest, and knocked him clean off his feet. He hit the ground hard, smacked the back of his head, and saw stars.
“Gracious Green Mother preserve us!” a voice exclaimed rather close to his ear. “Have I done you an injury, sir?”
For a moment, Nigel could not answer. Nor could he see anything save dancing constellations.
Slowly, these began to clear, however. Then he thought he must have hit his head rather hard indeed. It was the only explanation that made sense of the sudden vision appearing before his addled eyes: an angelic face, surrounded by what he initially took to be a golden halo but which, after a few clarifying blinks, turned out to be a yellow rain hat with a wide brim. This in no way detracted from the sweetness of the features thus framed. A pair of large, doe-brown eyes set above a prominent nose with just a hint of a bump. A bow-shaped mouth, the upper lip a little fuller than the lower, parted in an O of concern.
