“I’m taking you to . . .” He swallowed and forced himself to finish. “I’m taking you to my father’s grave.”
Songbirds aplenty populated the vast stretches of Garden, twittering their melodic harmonies in sweet symphony with the perfume-laden breeze. They scattered in a flurry of tweets and coos, however, as Debbie tore through their midst, croaking,“Never mind! Never mind!”like a herald of doom.
Nigel pursued Debbie on foot, trusting his raven to lead him through the winding ways of Garden to his destination. Garden itself had a way of knowing where one was trying to get to and would—if in a good mood—organize its paths accordingly. But it generally wasn’t so lenient with Nigel himself. It seemed to be mustering good behavior in the presence of a woman, however, and it took no more than five minutes to trek from the boiler room door to the lonely plot where his father’s tombstone stood.
Debbie alighted on the tombstone, looking singularly appropriate in this setting. The land for half-an-acre radius surrounding was blighted beyond recovery, nothing but skeletal trees and blackened bushes, stretching up from the dry ground like corpse hands seeking to escape their eternal home. Not the place Nigel would have preferred to lay his father’s remains to rest.
But it was here that Alfred P. Grimm made his Great Last Stand. Here he’d planted his two feet, the only hedge wizard in all of history with the grit and determination to face off against the Shadowbane Lady.
She blasted him to oblivion, of course. But it had taken her a couple of tries. A source of pride to Old Mister Grimm, for the few minutes he’d lived to enjoy it.
Nigel himself had arrived moments too late. But he’d come. In the end, he’d come.
He stood in this desolate place now, surrounded by the bounty of his father’s Garden, feeling the strange sense of sentient personality which infused this land. He’d never been close with his old man—he couldn’t say he felt close with Garden either. They were, at best, uneasy allies in the face of a world which had become unfamiliar. But they both acknowledged the sacred quality of this place, where Old Mister Grimm laid down his life to defend his creation. And the world.
Nigel led Luna to the gravestone. She followed hesitantly, keeping far enough back that, were he to make any sudden move, she could bolt for it. The doorway back to The Arcane Bouquet was still visible at a distance, a free-standing doorframe from which hung the green, peeling door. She kept turning her head, looking back at it, as though afraid it would suddenly disappear.
“Here, Miss Talbot.” Nigel came to stand beside the stone and rested his hand on the marble. It was quite a simple monument—large, but nothing more than a block with words. No reliefs of cherubim or sculpted reapers to adorn it. It was the best Nigel could afford with what remained unconfiscated of the great fortune he’d accumulated alongside Jastira. “Come closer,” he urged.
Luna obeyed with obvious reluctance, drawing near enough to read the inscription. Her lips moved as she softly murmuredthe words:“Here lies Alfred P. Grimm. Noble Hedge Wizard of the Verdant Ilk. Servant of the Green Mother. Perished in the struggle against the Shadowbane Lady, in a Great Demonstration of Courage and Skill.”
Her eyes widened. She flicked her gaze to meet Nigel’s. “Your father . . . fought the Shadowbane Lady?”
Nigel nodded.
“H—how? Why?”
Nigel’s brow furrowed as he considered just how much he should relate. But he could tell by the look on her face that Luna wasn’t about to settle for anything less than the truth. So he would give her that. Just . . . maybe notallof the truth.
“Jastira—the Shadowbane Lady, as it were—intended to use Garden as a power source for a Spell of Tremendous Magnificence. She had already drained much of the vitality from the land of Plym, sourcing all the great powers and channeling them into her various incantations. But this last spell was a big one, and she needed a particularly potent energy supply. She did not think my father could stand against her, having no use for hedge wizards of any kind.”
A shadow seemed to fall across his soul at recollection of those dark days. Jastira’s last spell was meant to secure her own immortality, something which she’d long promised to share with Nigel. Not that Nigel particularly cared about such things. He’d been too busy pursuing his own experiments into the nature of the Dire Dimensions. He was so caught up in this business, in fact, he’d long since ceased to pay attention to where Jastira’s experiments were taking her.
“Were it not for Alfred P. Grimm,” he continued, his hand trembling where it rested on the block of marble, “the Shadowbane Lady would even now reign in eternal darkness from Nocturnus Tower, her evil influence spreading across the whole of the world like a stain.”
Luna’s face puckered with uncertainty, struggling to piece together the bits of the tale left unspoken in the blank spaces. Nigel could only hope she wouldn’t guess the truth: that he was Jastira’s consort. That he had risen to power beside her in Nocturnus. Though he had turned on her in the end, it was too late to save his father.
“You must be . . .” Luna hesitated, struggling to read Nigel’s expression. “. . . very proud,” she finished.
Proud? Gods, no. Nigel didn’t have a lick of pride left in his soul. How could he? After what Jastira had made of him—her patsy, her plaything. And, in the end, her fool. If it weren’t for Old Mister Grimm, Nigel would still be just that and never have thought to question the state of things.
“My father was a great man,” he answered. “He—we—we didn’t much understand each other over the years. I was always more inclined to academic magic—sorcery—whereas the old man had no use for that stuff. He wanted his sons to pursue the soil and the growing of things, as he had.” He cast his gaze around the multi-colored landscape surrounding this blighted plot of earth, his heart swelling uncomfortably in his breast. “I keep Garden now as a way of honoring his memory. I hope one day to restore these grounds to something of their former glory.”
“And the flower shop?” Luna asked softly.
“Well, one must earn one’s bread somehow, mustn’t one? Garden keeps me well-stocked with the freshest blooms, and I never have to worry about anything being in season or not. Garden manages its own temperatures and rain cycles according to its own needs.”
She nodded. “So that’s how you’ve got daffodils out of season. I thought you must have a greenhouse out back.” She laughed a little and looked around at the expansive grounds. “Some greenhouse!” Then, with a shake of her head, she fixed Nigelwith another stern look. “All right then, Sorcerer Grimm. You’ve got some swearing to do, haven’t you?”
Nigel lifted his hand for a moment before bringing it down again atop the marble block. “On my father’s gravestone, I solemnly swear that I am a practicing sorcerer no more. So long as you work for me and The Arcane Bouquet, I shall craft no spells to bring about your harm in any manner.”
Luna narrowed her eyes. “That’s not the same thing as swearing to craftno spells at all, whatsoever, under any circumstances.”
Nigel pursed his lips, conflicted. “I can’t swear to that because . . . well, I can’t know what the future may hold. But should I ever work any spells, Miss Talbot, it would be only under the greatest duress and for the purpose of protecting Garden or . . . or yourself.”
She folded her arms. “I don’t need any sorcery performed for my benefit, Mr. Grimm. In fact, I’d very much prefer you didn’t.”
Nigel nodded his understanding. “But you will stay on at the shop, won’t you?”
