“Madame.” Nigel put out a startled hand, not quite daring to touch her elbow but feeling as though he ought to offer support. “Are you all—”
She sneezed again, then again, then a fourth time all in quick succession. Twisting her face in odd contortions to prevent a fifth eruption, she rooted around inside the pocket of her jacket and withdrew a small cotton square. It was as saturated as the rest of her. Her brow wrinkled sadly at the sight.
“Here,” Nigel said, offering her a clean handkerchief from his own trouser pocket. Too late he realized it was one his landlady had gifted him with. Being of both a generous and a compulsive nature, Mrs. Goddard was constantly making him little presents to “cheer him up,” as she put it. He suspected that, having inflicted all the tea towels, pillow covers, table runners, and handkerchiefs on her friends and family as could be borne, she now turned to her tenants as a fresh set of victims. Onesuch present was a stack of handkerchiefs, embroidered with his initials and a motif of dancing mushrooms. Why the mushrooms should be dancing, Nigel hesitated to ask. He merely thanked her and, with his usual lack of concern for such trivialities, entered the new set into rotation with his rather less whimsical supply of hankies.
He cursed this blasé decision now when the young woman held up the little square and exclaimed, “Adorable!” just before burying her nose in its folds as another sneezing fit struck.
Nigel’s cheeks burned. Not once in his entire existence had anyone uttered the wordadorablein conjunction with him. Not even Great Aunt Galatea, the gentlest influence of his childhood days, would have dared such ignominy. Three years ago, he was a sorcerer of the blackest order, a figure of terror ensconced in a tower of secrets and darkness, delving into the enigmas of the unnatural, heedless of all peril to mind, body, or soul. Nothing about that dreadful version of himself was in any wayadorable.
But as the young woman wiped her nose and shot him another apologetic smile, he couldn’t help thinking . . . ifshewanted him to be adorable, he would give it his absolute best effort.
“Thank you,” she said, folding the hanky and offering it back to him.
“Oh, keep it,” he said hastily.
“But it’s got your initials on it,” she protested, turning the item slightly to reveal theNGmonogram framed in a border of charming cross-stitches.
“You can pick that part out if you like.”
She laughed at this. “I’ll clean and return it, how’s that?”
Nigel’s heart performed a backflip. Something he wasn’t aware hearts could do. But then the young woman sneezed again, and he saw that she was shivering rather hard, so hard, in fact, her teeth were beginning to chatter.
“Madame,” he said, moving his arms vaguely so as not to touch her but to indicate some sort of guidance, “do come this way. I’ve a warm stove going in the back, and . . . and . . .” He scrambled, straining to recall what Great Aunt Galatea once tried to impress upon him as a host’s sacred duty. “And I’ll make you a spot of tea.”
“I don’t want to be a bother.”
“Oh no, no bother. I was just about to put on the kettle,” he said, startled by how easily the lie slipped from his lips. “Please, this way.”
“But I’ll drip more water all over your nice floor.”
“It doesn’t matter. I was going to mop today anyway.” Another lie—he had absolutely no intention of mopping. He never did; his landlady managed such things for him. It was part of the lease agreement, along with a regular sequence of uninspired meals and a milk order which he usually forgot on the backstep until it soured.
But the falsehood seemed to put the young woman at ease. She smiled through another sneeze and allowed herself to be led down the aisle. Flowers peered at her curiously as she passed, the double-delight rose with open interest, the tiger lilies with subtle aggression. Even the shy violets peeked out from behind their leaves.
“You have a lovely place here,” the woman said in tones which implied honest admiration rather than mere politeness. “Why, one would never know there was a secret garden hidden behind those dingy windows!” Nigel’s heart jolted at the words “secret garden.” His footsteps may even have faltered. But the young woman continued blithely, “I’m sure in nice weather you must put such lovely displays out around the step.”
Nigel blinked. He opened his mouth then closed it again. Truth be told, it had never occurred to him to place any of hiswaresoutside.Wasn’t that the whole point of a shop? To keep thingsinuntil other folks bought them?
As the young woman was looking at him expectantly, he offered a tight-lipped smile and flipped up the hinged portion of the counter, like a footman holding open a door. The stranger stepped through into the space behind, nodding to the raven on the skull-pot as she went. “How d’you do?” she said politely.
“Never mind!”quoth the raven.
“Sorry.” The woman placed the hand holding the hanky over her heart. “I didn’t mean to pry.”
“Don’t mind Debbie,” Nigel said hastily, shooting the bird a sharp glare. “She’s a bad-tempered old fowl, and the weather puts her out of sorts.”
“And who’s to blame her?” The woman offered the raven a sympathetic smile, which was met with a croak. She then turned to look around the little nook space. “Isn’t this cozy!” she declared.
Nigel lifted a brow.Cozywasn’t the word he would have chosen.Sparcewas more like. He’d hung a curtain to offer a little privacy in one corner and kept a cane chair and an old-fashioned potbellied stove back there. The stove boasted a single burner on which sat a very old and unsightly kettle, which looked as though it might have been a witch’s caldron back in its glory days but had since fallen on hard times. There was a little rack of tea towels on the wall; more dancing mushrooms ornamented their edges. Perhaps this was the cozy element?
“Have a seat,” Nigel said, then busied himself adding coal to the stove and stoking the blaze. He reached for the kettle, intending to fill it at the trimming sink, but just then the young woman exploded in another fit of sneezing, worse than before. By the time she finished, she was shivering so hard, Nigel could swear he felt the floorboards vibrating. Was he mistaken, or were her fingertips turning blue? Despite the warmth backbehind the curtain, that wool suit of hers was going to take its time drying out. In the meanwhile, she was at grave risk of catching cold.
“See here,” he said, rather abruptly, “you really need to take off those wet clothes.”
The woman flashed him a look from over the mushroom handkerchief pressed to her nose.
A roaring blush flooded Nigel’s cheeks. He quickly turned away, fumbling with the kettle’s lid. “I—I mean,” he stammered, “that is, I don’t mean—That is—Well, you’re welcome to step up to my apartment. Upstairs you know. I have no lady’s clothes, I’m afraid, but you can borrow a dressing gown and . . . and . . .”
