As he turned the corner onto Pembroke, Nigel stopped abruptly. The sidewalk was unexpectedly empty, and the road momentarily bare. No cars, no pedestrians. Not so much as a pigeon to be seen. The lamppost at the end of the street had burned down, as though the thaumatic charge was run low. It cast little more than a limning aura on thethinghuddled beneath it.
A thing like a bundle of rags.
Which rose up suddenly, elongating into a far taller figure than Nigel would have expected.
And swooped away, onto Addle Street, out of sight.
Nigel stood frozen for a count of ten breaths. In that time, the streetlamp slowly brightened, and cars resumed zipping through the intersection. A group of workmen, walking home from the harbor, came and went, discussing the offenses of their supervisor in loud voices. Still Nigel stood there, heart hammering uncertainly, while the tiger lily pressed its leafy self against his bosom.
Though he didn’t want to admit it, he could almost swear that thing had trailed . . . anti-glitter in its wake. The dark motes of the Dire Dimensions.
Sorcery.
Kicking his feet into gear, Nigel hastened over the crossing and down the sidewalk. By the time he reached the lamppost, any anti-glitter had already dispersed. And really, he’d been much too far away to detect anything of the kind. In fact, the whole vision struck him as singularly improbable, though . . .
Faint memory prickled in his mind. Memory of the windy, rainy night one week ago, when he’d first met Luna Talbot. Had he not glimpsed a phantom-like form lurking in the doorway of the shop across the street? Was it the same? Or had his mind merely played tricks on him in both instances?
Nigel hesitated. He could, no doubt, start summoning Dire Matter and reveal a trail of sorts by which he might follow that strange apparition. But he’d already used rather more sorcerous energy tonight than he’d meant to, and he was lucky Officer Ward hadn’t seemed to notice. That whole situation could have proven disastrous, and he didn’t want to push his luck.
Besides, he already had a work of sorcery in mind for tonight. He couldn’t afford to expend his energy elsewhere.
Brow set in a stern line, Nigel continued on his way, taking the turn onto Addle Street. He dismissed the vision as pure imagination or, at the very least, nothing to do with him. If he saw it a third time, that might be different. He’d worked in magic long enough to know better than to ignore the Rule of Three. But twice was pure coincidence.
Shake it off, old boy,he told himself, determined to do just that.
The walk home felt much longer than the outward journey had been, and much lonelier as well. The air tasted of autumn’s chill, filling Nigel with melancholy as he drew nearer to the shop. From across the road, the sidewalk fiddler, lurking in some shadowed doorway, began scraping out a forlorn melody, in keeping with his mood. Though he never listened to thaumatic radio himself, even Nigel had not been able to escape the most popular hit tune of the summer. He recognized it at once, sighing on the fiddle’s strings:
We shared secrets in the dark,
Every glance igniting sparks,
But now you’re lost in another's gaze,
While I’m drowning in this haze.
Oh, love! Like a rose in the rain,
Each petal a sigh, each thorn a sweet pain.
Nigel’s lips twisted in a sour expression. What an incredibly stupid song. And yet . . . and yet . . .
And yet, as he fished the key from his pocket and rammed it into the lock beneath the swinging sign of The Arcane Bouquet, a sense of purpose cemented in his heart.
It was time todosomething about this Officer Ward. Once and for all.
Nigel got off to a slow start the following morning. In fact, he made it down to the shop mere minutes before Miss Talbot’s arrival. He’d stayed up rather late the night before—into the wee small hours of the morning, rather. When the streets were mostly abandoned. Witching hours.
No, make thatsorceringhours.
There was no better time than the darkness post-midnight for the working of spellcraft. Particularly the intricately wrought and anchored spells he’d placed around The Arcane Bouquet. Placed with such subtly and guile, no SSSD officer would ever recognize them. He’d used the distilled Dire Matter, which he kept in a bottle in his shower caddy, disguised behind a strong scent of sandalwood. The price for the power contained in that bottle was paid long ago, and required no immediate draining of any nearby lifeforce to activate it. Which meant no evidence. So he’d performed his spells, taking time over each and every one, and not retired to bed until after three am.
Only Debbie’s insistent squawking in duet with the ringing of his alarm clock finally got him to roll out from under the covers that morning. Somehow Nigel managed to shave, dress, andstagger bleary-eyed down the stairwell to stand in the middle of the shop, staring around blankly at the flowers. Trying to remember what all he was supposed to do.
Luna arrived soon after, letting herself in. “Good morning, Mr. Grimm!” she called brightly. “I see you got home all . . . right . . .” Her voice trailed off as she drew nearer and set her purse down behind the counter. Then she turned and studied him more closely. “You look terrible.”
“Thanks,” he grumbled.
Shetskedand shook her head. “You must have had such a fright from that wretched dog! And then that long walk back home again? It can’t have been good for your immune system.” She snapped her fingers, closed one eye, and pointed a finger at his nose. “I’m going to make you a tea. Something to shape up your innards and ward off ill humors. Echinacea and . . . yes, and some cardamom should do the trick. You drink it, while I get the shop ready for opening.”
