“Debbie, please,” Mr. Grimm said sternly.
Luna lifted an eyebrow. “Do you mind if I ask . . . whyDebbie?” At his puzzled look, she continued, “Only, ravens have always struck me as gothic-sorts of birds.Debbie,on the other hand, is a singularlyun-gothic name.”
“Ah!” He nodded and lowered his mug between his knees, turning it slowly in his long, graceful fingers. “She used to go byD.B.The initials. That becameDebbieover time.”
“D.B.” Luna tilted her head. “Does it stand for something?”
A faint flush tinged the shopkeeper’s cheeks, though that may have been proximity to the stove’s glow. “TheBis forbird,” he admitted. “As for theD,well . . . I’m afraid it isn’t very polite.” He glanced up at her then back down at his cup. “My father named her, you see.” Another glance up and down again. “He didn’t much care for birds.”
Despite all her aunties’ brave attempts to spare her young ears from what Auntie Aurora deemed “unwholesome speech,” Luna had picked up enough colorful language over the years to make an educated guess. “In that case,” she said, “Debbie is indeed a fine name. Certainly an improvement.” A little giggle escaped her lips, and before she could stop herself, she added, “It might have been worse. She might have beenPhoebe.”
Mr. Grimm frowned for a moment. She watched his lips sound out a silentfffff. Then, suddenly understanding, his face cracked in an unexpected smile and a nervous choke of laughter that absolutely transformed his face. It made him look much younger, much more in keeping with that floppy hair of his and that clean-shaven chin.
Shocked by his own outburst, he hastily stifled his smile behind a gulp of tea that nearly knocked him from his stool.Grimacing, he set it aside, cast her another half-look, then focused intently on his own hands. Luna frowned. Why did the man seem to have so much trouble looking directly at her? Did it offend him to see a woman in a man’s dressing gown?
She sat up a little straighter in the cane chair and was just opening her mouth to speak when Mr. Grimm blurted suddenly, “If you’ll pardon my asking, Miss Talbot, what were you doing out in such a storm? It could not have been safe.”
As though to emphasize his words, a sudden growl of thunder rumbled overhead, and the rain pounded with renewed force at the shutters. Luna shivered, despite the warm folds of silk encasing her. “It probably wasn’t safe,” she admitted. “And the tea leaves this morning did warn me against going out, but . . . well, there was that one little clump which seemed to imply a positive change of fortune. I suspect it was just wishful thinking on my part—which can interfere with the Sight far more than most people realize—but I simply couldn’t pass on the chance of it actually being true. And I’d just spotted the sign for that sweet little tea shop over on Nettleton Lane, and I thought, oh! What if I were to apply there? ‘Tea and readings,’ the sign said. A match made in heaven!”
Mr. Grimm nodded, brow wrinkled with concentration as though listening to a Sunday morning sermon. “You are a tea witch then?” he asked when she paused.
“Yes, didn’t I say?” Luna swirled the dreck in her cup. “Born and raised. I’m not particularly strong in the Sight, not compared to my aunties, at least. But I thought perhaps . . . well . . .”
She tucked her left wrist a little deeper into the fur-trimmed cuff of the dressing gown, but Mr. Grimm spotted the movement. “Is that a sorcerer’s mark?” he asked.
Luna nodded. Then suddenly, to her great surprise and mild horror, she started crying. It was one of those abruptoutpourings, like a spring shower in the middle of a sunny day, completely unexpected and drenching. She bowed over her mug, and fat tears dripped into the tea.
Mr. Grimm reached for a handkerchief, only for his hand to come up empty. Luna laughed through her tears at his confused expression. “Oh, don’t worry about it!” she tried to say, though it came out as a hiccupping sob. He snatched a tea towel and handed it to her instead.
“You must think me a silly little ninny,” she said as she mopped her face, “crying over something like this. It’s just that I’ve never performed any sorcery in my life! Yes, there’s dark magic in the family, and from what I understand some second or third cousin of mine caused something of a stir using illegal conjuring. But what does that have to do with me? I’ve never practiced any magic other than that sanctioned by the Green Mother, and even then, it’s only ever been tea. Readings, the odd healing, a bit of a positive influencing. Aura work, you understand.”
He nodded earnestly, though something about his expression told her he didn’t understand at all. She supposed he probably wasn’t well versed in magic.
“But ever since the Authorities marked me,” she continued, “it’s been impossible to hold down a job. They say it’s not illegal tobea sorceress, just illegal topracticesorcery, but one wouldn’t know there was any difference.” Bitterness coated her voice. She didn’t like this side of herself; she’d never been a bitter person before. But these past two years had been difficult, and the last eight months almost unbearable.
“I secured a nanny position for a little while last year.” She didn’t know why she kept on talking, but there was something sympathetic in Mr. Grimm’s manner, in the way he perched on the edge of that stool, leaning toward her. It made her feel safe to pour out her heart. “One of the children blabbed to myemployer, however, and that was the end of that. Since then, it’s been odd jobs here and there and constant moving from place to place.” She sighed and tried another smile, but it came out all weak and watery. “I thought Ballycastle would offer a solution. It’s so big and cosmopolitan, filled with so many different kinds of people! I figured folks here wouldn’t be narrow-minded about a sorcerer’s mark. No such luck. I managed to get a job as a washer woman three weeks ago, but the minute I rolled up my sleeves to get to work, the head woman spotted the mark from across the room. Fired me on the spot. If it weren’t for the charity of the Green Mother’s chantry house over on Giltspur Street, I’m not sure how I would have gotten by.” She swallowed hard, forcing down the lump in her throat. “I’m at the end of my savings, and the aunties simply can’t afford to send anything more. Not that I would ask them! But I’m . . . well, I’m . . . just not sure what I’m going to do.”
“Work for me.”
The words blurted from Mr. Grimm so abruptly, Luna could swear she had imagined them. She looked up at him curiously, her lips slightly parted. “Wh—what did you say?”
He coughed awkwardly and pulled at his collar with one finger. “My apologies, that came out wrong.” He pushed that lock of hair back from his forehead and sat up a little straighter. “What I meant to say was: Work for me. That is, if you please. That is, if you’d like to. That is . . .”
“Here?” Luna interrupted, blinking over her mug. “In your flower shop?”
He nodded. “You don’t have to know anything about flowers.”
“Well. That’s a mercy.” She chuckled. “I only know about teas and tea gardens. But . . . but are you sure, Mr. Grimm? Now that you’ve seen . . . ?” She held up her wrist, letting the long sleeve fall back to reveal the heptagram fully.
Mr. Grimm merely shrugged in that nervous-tick way of his. “It doesn’t bother me.”
“Is that so?” She eyed him where he sat across from her in the little nook, surrounded by her laundry. Something about her definitelydidbother him, if she could just put her finger on it. Unless he was always this nervous. Some people simply were, she supposed.
But he met her eyes then and held them steadily, speaking in an earnest tone: “It would be my honor, my . . . It would be a great benefit to have someone around the shop.”
“Never mind!”rasped the raven and fluttered her wings.
“Someone other than Debbie.”
