Nigel shivered. Though he couldn’t say why, a feeling of oppressive foreboding lodged in his soul. There was something familiar about that phantom, something he couldn’t quite put a finger on. Or perhaps he’d just invented it? The strange lighting, the rain, the wind, and his own addled mind following the events of the day—all assisted by Mrs. Goddard’s mystery meat stew—might just as easily have conjured the momentary vision.
With a little shrug, he lowered the shade, bolted the door, then set about giving all the potted plants their supper. Irked at being made to wait, the tiger lilies swiped at his ankles as he passed by, but the soft pussywillow stalks rubbed affectionately against his shins, quick to forgiveness. The double-delight rose, always one for dramatics, threatened instant death by spontaneous petal-droppage were its needs not immediately seen to, but perked up visibly when Nigel slipped an extra dash of Mama Morgana’s Miracle Manure into its pot. Even the denuded begonias fluttered their stems at him.
“Well, goodnight, all,” he said at last, and doused the lights. Debbie flapped to his arm, talons digging companionably into his sleeve as he climbed the stairs to his lonely apartment. Silently, he undressed, performed his evening ablutions, donned his nightshirt, and finally slid into bed between the cold sheets. “Goodnight, Debbie,” he said to the bird perched on his footboard, and switched off his bedside light.
And stared up at the ceiling. For an hour.
Two hours.
At the start of the third hour, he growled suddenly, “Gods, I’m such a cad!”
Debbie startled on her perch, muttering hoarsely.
“Sorry, Debbie. Go back to sleep.”
The raven tucked her beak back under her wing and was soon snoring softly. While Nigel continued to study the ceiling, recalling in exquisite detail every stupid thing he’d said or done in Miss Luna Talbot’s presence that day.
It was a long and harrowing night.
The following morning, Nigel stumbled downstairs to the shop, wrapped in his dressing gown—which still smelled faintly of chamomile and lavender—unshaven, hair askew, his bare feet shoved into slippers. Ordinarily speaking, he wouldn’t be caught dead in such a state of deshabille, but he was running on fumes and simply hadn’t the energy to care. It wasn’t as though Miss Talbot was going to show up this morning, after all. No, in the small, dark hours post-midnight, he had firmly convinced himself of this fact.
“She won’t come, you know,” he informed the double-delight rose confidently as he scooped a hearty breakfast of Mama Morgana’s into its pot.
“And she’s right not to, of course,” he added as he deadheaded vicious snapdragons, nearly losing the tip of one finger in the process.
“I mean, why would she?” he asked the violets, pulling their tray out from behind a curtain of protective ferns. “A smart girl like her wouldn’t take a job from a half-crazed former sorcerer.”
As none of the blossoms ventured a counter opinion on the subject, he took their silence as affirmation.
Dusting his hands, he looked around the shop. Neat as a pin, with bounteous and aromatic displays fairly bursting from every corner, it was more than ready to greet customers. Customers who would not appear, Nigel knew. Any more than Miss Talbot would. Another day of silent frustration lay before him, indistinguishable from the day before, promising many more such days to follow. A dull, insipid existence.
Not that he deserved any better. Not after everything he’d done.
With a blustering sigh, Nigel moved to pull up the shades and push back the window shutters. He didn’t bother turning the shop sign to OPEN, for it was still early. The street was already busy, however: the milkman made his rounds, and patrons passed in and out of the bicycle shop across the street. Automagic mobiles trundled up and down the cobblestones, wheels splashing in accumulated puddles of rainwater.
It was only then Nigel noticed the sun peeking through breaks in the clouds overhead. So Miss Talbot’s prediction of two more rainy days was off. Which meant either she’d lied or she wasn’t much of a tea witch to begin with. Nigel shrugged. It didn’t really matter either way.
Realizing his own milk delivery was probably on the back stoop even now, he retreated back between rows of flowers toward the kitchen. Mrs. Goddard would be along with breakfast soon enough. Best to fetch the milk then hasten upstairs and dress before he scandalized her with a glimpse of bare ankles.
He was just reaching for the back doorknob when there came a sound which stopped him dead in his tracks. A knock. Not on the door in front of him, no.
The shop door. Three sharp raps.
Nigel’s heart flipped over. It couldn’t possibly be . . . ? Surely not. He was getting ahead of himself. That knock probably hadn’t originated at this building at all, but the shoemaker’s nextdoor. Yes, that was the most likely explanation. He reached for the knob again.
Another series of knocks. Three staccato taps, light but firm.
Nigel let out a slow breath. Then, clutching the front of his dressing gown, he crept through the kitchen, out to the shop, and peered through floral displays to the front door. There, framed in the square window set in the door, was Miss Talbot’s face. Her brow was wrinkled with consternation, and she gnawed nervously at her lower lip.
“Great gods,” Nigel whispered.
She’d come back. She’d actually come back. She wanted the job, he hadn’t frightened her off with his caddishness, and . . . and . . .
He looked down at his dressing-gown clad self. “Oh, great gods!”
In a flurry of flapping slippers and belt tassels, he darted for the stairwell and half-flew up to his apartment. He burst into the room, disturbing Debbie, who preferred to sleep in most mornings. She squawked and flapped her wings irritably, but Nigel only shouted, “Can’t talk now!” as he flung open the wardrobe doors. Even as he reached for his shirt and suit, he heard a third set of knocks down below. Would she give up and go away? How would he find her again if she did? He’d not taken down her information, her place of residence, anything. He’d never locate her in this beastly city, with its labyrinthine streets and innumerable boardinghouses!
No time to shave, no time to fix his tie. He frantically buttoned his shirt halfway, shrugged into a waistcoat, grabbed his jacket, and nearly fell downstairs, tying his shoes as he went.
