Miss Talbot smiled back in that artless way of hers, and Nigel discovered that, while he still liked her smile as much as ever, the sight of it trained upon another man did something rather funny to his innards.
The man spoke; Miss Talbot laughed. Nigel heard it right across the shop, possibly because he was leaning over the counter and craning his neck.
Then Miss Talbot bent and plucked a handful of yellow daisies from one of the buckets, carefully shook out the wet stems, and offered them to the gentleman. He reached into his jacket for his pocketbook, but she turned and pointed into the shop. Directly at Nigel.
Hastily Nigel staggered back behind the counter register, straightening his shoulders and pulling at the hem of his waistcoat. The gentleman’s face fell somewhat, but he tipped his hat to Miss Talbot once more before entering the shop. He approached slowly down the center aisle, his progress hampered by the way he kept looking back at Miss Talbot. When he reached the counter, the gentleman didn’t spare Nigel a glance. He set down the handful of daisies and asked, “How much?” in an absent sort of voice.
“Three crowns,” Nigel answered.
The man did not flinch at the outrageous price. He simply pulled out his pocketbook, fished out the bills, and plunked them down on the counter, all without glancing Nigel’s way. “She’s a lovely sight on a morning like this, isn’t she?”
“Would you like these wrapped?” Nigel’s voice dropped by a few degrees.
“Oh. Sure. Why not?” While Nigel set about gathering paper and string to make the flowers up in a bundle, the gentleman leaned back, his elbows on the counter, lounging as he watched Miss Talbot. He clucked softly and shook his head. “Pity,” he said, more to himself than to Nigel. “A girl like that doesn’t belong in a flower shop.”
Nigel found his mood softened somewhat in wholehearted agreement. As far as he was concerned, Miss Talbot belonged in courtly halls and palaces, clad in silks and dripping in pearls, not working her fingers to the bone simply to make ends meet. Anyone who could see as much must be a man of some worth.
But then the gentleman turned to Nigel, grinning like a devil, and uttered sacrilege: “Where a girl like that really belongs is kicking up her skirts at the Rowdy House! NowthatI would pay to see.”
An arctic flood washed through Nigel’s veins. There suddenly appeared in his brain the exact outline of dire sigils and a string of archaic phrases, chanted in a language long since damned, which might, with a little application of malice, transform certain gentlemen and their striped trousers into cockroaches.
His knuckles whitened around the paper-wrapped daisy stems as he thrust them across the counter. Through the thunder in his ears, he heard his own voice intone, “Have a nice day.”
The man tipped his hat, unbothered by his near brush with transmutation. He secured his daisies under one arm and made his way back up the shop aisle, pausing at the door to chat with Miss Talbot. Nigel heard her laugh. A coil of her carefully pinned-up hair escaped to bob delightfully at her temple. The gentleman’s eyes ran appreciatively over her figure, and—
“Never mind!”
Nigel realized he was gripping the floral scissors in a threatening manner. Hastily, he put them down, even as the gentleman doffed his hat to Miss Talbot and disappeared down the street.
With a little squeak and a hop, Miss Talbot pivoted on heel and darted into the shop. Her boot heels clicked on tiles as she rushed to the counter and leaned over it, eyes sparkling. “Did you see that, Mr. Grimm?” she cried, nearly dancing with delight. “I sold something!”
All ice melted away in the sudden infusion of hot butter filling Nigel’s chest cavity. He lifted his scissors in solemn salute, like a king honoring one of his knights. “Well done, Miss Talbot,” he said. “And welcome to The Arcane Bouquet.”
As Luna met Mr. Grimm’s timid smile, the first flush of success still warm in her heart, she thought:See? What were you so worried about? Just look at this man! There’s no way he’s the murdering-people-with-garden-trowels type.
Not that she was clear what a homicidal wielder of garden implements would be like, exactly. Whatever they were, however, they couldn’t boast such sad blue eyes, such floppy pale hair, or smile with such a whipped-puppy winsomeness. It simply wasn’t possible. Which meant all her tossing and turning of last night, wondering if she dared accept the job offer she so desperately needed, was for nothing.
Truth be told, even if Mr. Grimm did prove to be of a violent bent, it wasn’t as though she had much choice in the matter. She needed the job if she was going to make next week’s rent. If she didn’t take it, she would be out on the street by Monday morning.
Besides, it’s not likeshewas the woman glimpsed in that vision—floating in a space of strange darkness, her eyes like gimlets. Grabbed, kissed, and subsequently stabbed.
Her mind was still tumbling through these thoughts, when a voice called out unexpectedly from the back of the building. “Yoohoo! Mr. Grimm! Breakfast!”
Luna startled, backing away from the shop counter. The image of the floating woman was still in her brain, and while such a woman was not what one would associate with the wordsyoohooorbreakfast, if Luna had learned nothing else over the last two years, it was to be on her guard.
Mr. Grimm set aside a twist of floral wire with a little, “Ah!” He swung open the hinged portion of the counter and stepped out from behind it. “That would be my landlady. I’ll introduce you.” Beckoning, he led the way to the passage at the back of the building.
Luna, her heart beating a little faster than she liked, cast a quick glance back at the display floor. “Is it all right to leave all this unattended?” While the shop itself might be conspicuously empty, the street outside was busier by the moment. No doubt customers, glad to escape their gloomy houses after yesterday’s storm, would be drawn in by the happy blossoms on the step in no time.
“I wouldn’t be too concerned about it, Miss Talbot,” Mr. Grimm answered, looking rather dour. “This way, please.”
So Luna, swallowing her trepidation, followed her employer into the dimly-lit passage. A thaumatic light bulb hung from the ceiling, but Mr. Grimm didn’t bother to flip the switch. Nevertheless, Luna could just discern two doors on the lefthand wall, another at the very end of the passage, and a single door on the right. “Storage,” Mr. Grimm said, passing the first door on the left. He pointed to the next. “Erh, water closet.” He did not offer an explanation for the door at the far end of the passage, but turned to the slightly-ajar door on the right. “And this is the kitchen.”
He stepped inside, immediately greeted by a loud, fruity voice exclaiming, “Top of the morning to you, Mr. Grimm! I’ve got your favorite today, just what you need to put a little meat on those sorry bones of yours!”
Luna, still in the passage, smiled. Certainly no gimlet-eyed floating woman would ever deign use the phrase, “top of the morning.” Feeling bolstered, she moved to follow Mr. Grimm into the kitchen, but paused.
A strange scent tickled at her nose. Subtle but strong enough that it turned her head quite sharply to one side. She stared in the passage dimness at the final door . . . could it be said to belurkingin the shadows? No, surely not. It was far too innocuous a door tolurk,exactly. It simply stood there, looking just like the storage room door and the water closet door, with the same brass doorknob and slatted paneling.
