He nodded and led the way back up the path, Debbie flapping her wings against his messy hair, but refusing to take flight. Once in the kitchen, he set about filling the kettle and lighting the stove, while Luna dug through cupboards until she found what she sought: an old and long-disused spice grinder. “This should do nicely,” she said, setting it on the counter. “Only we must take care to wash it thoroughly after the fact!”
Mr. Grimm hovered around her, tapping his nails nervously on the countertop while Luna worked. She ground up both leaves and petals into a mushy paste, transferred the lot into a metal bowl, then poured in the boiling water. That last step was the worst—it seemed to unleash the lurking stench of Noxious Windwort, filling the room with a pungent flatulence.
Luna groaned and slipped the glove off her left hand so that she could pinch her nose with forefinger and thumb. Mr. Grimm pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and buried his face in it. “Are you quite sure this is a good idea?” he asked.
Luna shrugged. “Good or bad, it’s the only idea we’ve got.”
When the water in the bowl had taken on a sludginous (she invented the word on the spot; it was the only descriptor with teeth enough for the job) color and consistency, she poured the lot into the double-delight rose’s pot. “If any of us were to drink this,” she commented, as the liquid hissed and bubbled, “we’d keel over dead in about fifteen seconds flat.”
Mr. Grimm’s eyes stared at her from over his hanky. “Is it safe for the rose?”
“Well, roses aren’t people, remember.”
He looked for a moment as though he would argue that point, but then the last of the Windwort tea sank down into the pottingsoil, and the horrific stench abated. “Now what, Miss Talbot?” he asked breathlessly.
“Now we wait,” Luna replied.
She set to work carefully packing the rest of the toxic leaves and petals in a jar, marking the label with a sketch of a skull, complete with little lightning bolts for emphasis. Then she set about washing the grinder with great care, though she suspected she might need it again before the day was through. While she worked, she kept an eye on Mr. Grimm, who hovered around the rose like a fussy parent.
“Have you . . .” She hesitated before continuing. “Have you known the rose long, Mr. Grimm?”
“All my life,” he answered. The pure distress in his face was enough to wring her heart. “You mightn’t believe it now, but this rose used to be the crowning glory of Garden. By far the biggest, strongest, most powerful rose ever seen in Plym, possibly the whole world. It was as large as a house by the time . . . well, by the end.”
Luna had certainly never heard the wordpowerfulused in conjunction with a rose before. But there was real earnestness in Mr. Grimm’s voice when he said it.
He looked up at the rose again, his brow softening slightly. “It was the only rose to survive the Shadowbane Lady’s assault. When I found it, it was nothing more than a stub in the blighted dirt, barely clinging to life. I’ve been nurturing it these last three years. I’d hoped to transplant it back into Garden once it was strong enough.”
“Oh, so it’s not for sale?” Luna queried.
“Not at any price.” He pulled out a kitchen chair, sank into it, and slumped his chin into his hand. “This rose was my father’s delight. I . . . I used to be quite jealous of it, if I’m honest. Dad seemed to prefer it to either me or my brother. Possibly because it didn’t give him as much trouble.”
Luna couldn’t help but think she was getting a rare glimpse into a distant past—a past where Mr. Grimm was a little boy, eager for the approval of a father, who never could give it. It probably explained a great many things about him, only she didn’t know him well enough to guess what.
“One day,” he continued, more to himself than to her, “Fabian—that’s my brother—and I tried to pluck some of its blooms. Just to teach it a lesson, you know. Well!” He chuckled ruefully. “It taught us a thing or two! I still have the scars to prove it.”
“Scars?”
He held up one arm, rolled back the sleeve, to display a rather vicious scar extending from wrist to elbow. “Here,” he said. “And, erm,otherplaces.”
Luna stifled a little snort. A vivid picture appeared in her mind of two naughty boys being spanked by an angry rose. It must have been traumatizing! “I wonder you still care for it so,” she mused.
Mr. Grimm shrugged. “It taught me a healthy respect for my father’s magic. That was the first time it occurred to me that Green Magic might be more than just . . . gardening. Or that gardening itself might be more than just gardening.” His jaw worked, chewing on some old, difficult thought. “I wish I’d paid more attention to that lesson when I had the chance.”
Luna’s brow knotted slightly as she considered him. There was much more to this man than he let on. She couldn’t forget that image under the Bruxley gate arch—that terrifying, seven-foot tall figure of whirling dark magic. And his father had faced off against the Shadowbane Lady. Did that mean Mr. Grimm had faced her too? How involved was he in the business of the Dark Sorceress’s fall from power?
She probably ought to ask, but . . . depending on what answers he gave, she might have to leave. And the truth was, she didn’twant to leave. Yes, she’d been uncertain last night, frustrated over the ward spells, and more than a little frightened.
But she didn’t feel frightened in Mr. Grimm’s company. Something about him made her feelsafe.Always had. Even that first afternoon, when he brewed her that godawful tea and picked up her soggy brassiere and let her borrow his dressing gown. There was just something about him which set her at ease.
Perhaps it had to do with the manner of their initial meeting. It was difficult to be wary of a man one had literally knocked off his feet.
She set the washed grinder on the draining board, dried her hands on a kitchen towel, then moved to inspect the rose again. The mottle-spot patches were as bad as ever, but was she mistaken in thinking the stink less severe? Or maybe the far worse stink of the Windwort had simply seared her nostrils.
“You needn’t stay, you know,” Mr. Grimm said from his place at the table. “I cannot open the shop today, not while she’s . . . Not until we . . . Not until I know. So if you want to go, I’ll still pay you for the full day, and—”
“Tell you what, Mr. Grimm,” Luna said, planting her hands on her hips and turning a smile his way. “How about I just pop the kettle on and make us a spot of tea?”
“Never thought I’d live to see the day when a son of mine sold his soul to the Dire Dimensions.”
