“He did.”
“With sorcery?”
“Oh, no! Certainly not.” Nigel cast his gaze around the glorious grounds once more. A bed of tulips stood close by, blooming many months out of season. Their bright jewel tones seemed to wink saucily at him as they bobbed in a gentle breeze. “It started out as a simple kitchen garden for my mother. But over time, it grew. And as it grew, so did my father’s affinity for it. They sort of . . . fed each other. Garden gave my father magic, which my father gave back to Garden. As the years went by, it was difficult to discern one from the other.”
“Green Magic,” Luna whispered.
Nigel nodded, pleased at her recognition. Of course, she grew up with tea witches; she must have at least rudimentary training in Green Magic. Though there were few hedge witches or wizards in all the world on a par with Old Mister Grimm.
“Not sorcery, you see,” he finished.
Luna turned her gaze sharply, focusing on him. “And how exactly did this place come to be hidden in your boiler room?”
Nigel hesitated. She’d caught him there. He’d had to hide Garden immediately following the fall of Jastira, and that had required some of the most complicated sorcery he’d ever attempted, made all the more difficult due to his sheer exhaustion following the Last Great Altercation. In the end, he’d sort offoldedGarden up and tucked it into his wallet. Not an ideal solution, but it had enabled him to smuggle it out of Plym. Or notoutof Plym, exactly. Garden remained planted onPlymian soil, of course, only no one could find it, even with a map to the exact location. The only door which led to Garden anymore was the one to his boiler room.
Nowthathad been a complicated bit of sorcery as well . . . and very dangerous to perform, considering the strict laws of Ballycastle. He’d exerted as much energy on deflection and protection wards as he had on the enchantment itself. Garden, as a work of hedge-wizardry, broke no Brythonian regulations, but the establishing of this portal was against every anti-sorcery law in the book. Were it to be discovered, Nigel would find himself behind bars faster than he could say, “But I’ve got a good excuse!”
It was done now, however. And the spell was self-sustaining, sourcing all its ongoing energy from Garden itself, no need to draw from Dire Dimensions. It gave off barely any sorcerous heat anymore. Nigel doubted even a gallant SSSD officer would notice it, unless it was pointed out to him directly.
“Yes, well,” Nigel admitted, “there was, perhaps a little sorcery involved in the, erm, establishing of it all.”
“By which you mean”—Luna drew a long breath through her nostrils, her grip on the doorframe tightening—“you’re a sorcerer.”
Nigel looked down at his feet, rubbing a hand along the back of his neck. Then he nodded.
“Do you . . . do you have a heptagram tattoo?”
“Not on my wrist.”
“Where?”
Nigel flushed. But, figuring it best to come clean, he began to loosen his tie. Debbie, dislodged from his shoulder by this activity, uttered a raucous cry of protest and took to the air, circling above him rather ominously. Nigel ignored her, unfastened his collar, and undid the buttons down the front of his shirt. Pulling the shirt open, he revealed the black tattooinscribed over his heart. Rather larger than Miss Talbot’s but also rather easier to conceal—a point the Plymian Authorities had failed to consider when they marked him, and not something Nigel had taken pains to mention either.
Luna whispered something that sounded like a prayer to the Green Mother. Then, finally, she stepped through the doorway, her arms wrapped tightly around herself, her eyes very large. She stared at that tattoo, her expression one of intense concentration. A nervous energy sparked through her, and Nigel got the distinct impression that one stray crack of a twig or flutter of a leaf would cause her to break into flight.
But she didn’t flee. She approached him slowly, as though irresistibly drawn.
When she was close enough that she might reach out and touch the ugly mark, she stopped. Slowly her gaze lifted to meet his, her expression hard. “You know,” she said softly, “if I get tangled up with anything to do with sorcery, they’ll lock me up and throw away the key.”
“I don’t practice sorcery anymore,” Nigel said. “I haven’t practiced in three years.”
“Other than ensorcelling your boiler room door.”
“Well, yes.”
“You swear that’s the last?”
He hesitated, probably a little longer than he should, before nodding.
Luna’s eyes narrowed. “I need to hear you swear it. Swear it on something thatmatters.”
Nigel pursed his lips, glancing around uncertainly. Then with a little, “Ah!” he turned and started down a garden path. He’d progressed several paces before pausing to look back. Luna stood where he’d left her, arms still wrapped around her body, looking deeply uncertain. “This way, Miss Talbot,” he said.
“Where are you taking me?”
“You said to swear on something that matters.”
“Yes?”
