Old Mister Grimm’s voice rattled in Nigel’s ear, even as he splashed warm water on his face, rinsing off vestiges of shaving cream. Luna had sent him upstairs to freshen up after giving the double-delight a second dose of Windwort tea. “You look terrible,” she’d said. “Go make yourself presentable; you’ll feel better.”
The problem was, outside of Luna’s presence, the ghost of his father reared his ugly head once more, haranguing Nigel viciously even as he had all through the night before, when Nigel found the first mottle-spotted leaf. Gods! It was like the old man was in the room with him, so vivid was his voice.
“You are no son to me.”
Nigel straightened up, looking at his haggard face in the mirror. Water dripped from his cheeks and jaw. Newly shaven, he really didn’t favor the old man much at all. He had his mother’s features, or so Great Aunt Galatea once said. “Very pretty, very fine,” she’d added, which made Fabian nearly fallout of his chair with laughter. His older brother never failed to remind Nigel of his “prettiness” from that day forward.
But those eyes, staring back at him from the glass . . . those were Alfred P. Grimm’s eyes for sure. Accusing. Furious.
Nigel ground his teeth. He’d been so angry at the old man for refusing to see what an honor it was for his son to be appointed to the Nocturnus Institute of Magics. If he couldn’t be proud of Nigel for the achievement, fine. The feeling was mutual after all—Nigel certainly wasn’t proud of a dirt-smeared, green-thumbed, country bumpkin, who spent all his days rooting around in soil and playing with earthworms. So what if Old Man Grimm wouldn’t claim Nigel as his son? Nigel didn’t want him for a father either.
He'd strode from Garden in a billow of majestic robes and thought at the time that he would never return. The double-delight rose watched him go. She may have even lashed a cane at his heels.
He’d not seen that rose again until after Jastira had decimated it. Then he’d gathered up what remained of its roots and that one, sad stem, crooning over it like a wounded kitten.
Nigel hardened his jaw in the mirror glass. Then he mopped his face on a towel, straightened his collar, fixed his tie, pushed his hair back from his face (he hadn’t the energy to bother with pomade), and blew a blustering breath through his lips. Now was not the time to fall into sentimentality. The double-delight needed him to be strong . . . whatever that meant. He must go back down to the kitchen and face the music. And the stink.
Luna was busy at the stove when Nigel stepped back into the kitchen. Brewing up another pot of tea by the looks of things. She smiled at him, and he flushed and offered her a quick nod before stepping over to the table and the double-delight.
His heart sank at the sight of her. She had grown back so strong over the last three years, he’d truly thought they werebeyond the worst of it, and he’d soon be able to replant her in Garden’s soil. He’d meant to do it by now, in fact, but . . . he’d become so used to having her around. Yes, she looked down on him, just as Old Mister Grimm had. But there was always a sense of fond tolerance in her demeanor.
He turned over a leaf or two, wincing at sight of those furry mottle-spots. He could feel his father’s disappointment radiating down upon him from (presumably) heaven. Inheriting Garden and opening the shop had been Nigel’s last bid at earning the old man’s approval, even if only from beyond the grave. But if the rose died . . .
Luna appeared at his elbow. She took hold of his wrist, lifted his hand, and pushed a cup and saucer into his grasp. He stared rather vaguely down at it. How many cups of tea had she served him today? Was this the third? Or the seventh?
“What is this?” he asked.
“Chamomile,” she answered simply. “And lavender.”
Flicking her a short glance, he lifted it to his nose and breathed. It smelled like her—sweet and calming. Just one inhale, and he already felt better. He took a tentative sip and thought, of all the teas she’d served him since the day they met, this was his favorite. His True Match Tea at last? Perhaps.
Luna took a seat at the table beside him, cradling her own cup in both hands. She inhaled the vapors, closing her eyes, and Nigel took the opportunity to note the way her long lashes fanned so delicately. When she looked up suddenly and caught his gaze, his heart made a little hiccuping jerk in his breast. He turned swiftly back to the rose and took another sip.
“You must think me such a fool,” he said after a moment, setting the cup back in its saucer. “Carrying on over a plant like this.”
“Not at all, Mr. Grimm.” Luna shrugged one thin shoulder. “We don’t always get to pick our family. Sometimes it picks us.But when it does, we’ve got to be there for them, however we can.”
Nigel’s chest tightened. How many times and how many ways had he failed his family? He’d not been there for his father. Not until it was too late.
Luna’s gaze fastened on the side of his face. He didn’t have to look at her to feel how her brow knotted. “Cheer up,” she said at last, leaning toward him. “Where there’s life there’s hope, right? That’s what Auntie Arabella always said. Just because it’s a cliché doesn’t make it any less true. This rose is a hearty one. If it survived the Shadowbane Lady, it can survive a little mottle-spot!”
Nigel nodded, despite his clinging disbelief. He picked up his cup again, took another sip. The liquid slid down his throat and seemed to relax some of the tightness around his heart. “I owe you an apology, Miss Talbot,” he said suddenly. “I should never have planted those wards. It was unfair to you, and—”
“Please, Mr. Grimm.” Luna shook her head and set her cup down on the table. “Don’t mention it.”
“But I want you to know that—”
“Please!” Her voice came a bit sharp, forceful. But she finished with a softer, “No harm done in the end.”
Nigel drew a long breath. Then he nodded and gulped down the last of the chamomile-lavender.
The day passed. Slowly. Painfully.
Every now and then, Luna prepared another dose of the toxic tea, always very careful how she handled the leaves. It sizzled each time it went into the pot, and Nigel half-feared it would eat away the poor double-delight’s roots like acid.
At some point, Nigel nodded off—head in his arms, shoulders bent over the table. He’d spent the whole night before sitting up with the rose, and exhaustion caught up to him all at once. He woke some while later to find Luna had draped his jacket over his shoulders. And there was another cup of tea waiting at his elbow.
Luna herself was out in the shop, feeding the other plants. Nigel could hear her going about this task as he straightened up and stretched. He looked at Debbie, perched on the chair beside him. She looked back at him and ruffled her feathers.
