A new smile began to spread across Luna’s face. She felt it start, like the rising of the sun after a long, tumultuous night. Part of her thought she ought to stifle it, that she’d make poor Mr. Grimm uncomfortable if she started grinning at him like a lunatic. But she couldn’t help herself. After all, her chamomile had foretold a positive change in fortune this morning, hadn’t it? She wasn’t mistaken after all.
“All right,” she said.
Mr. Grimm’s brows rose. “Really?”
“Yes.” Her smile grew and grew. Before she could talk herself out of it, she extended her hand. “Yes, indeed, Mr. Grimm. I will gladly work for you.”
He rose to take her hand, and when his fingers touched hers, she felt again that little shock between them. It was strong enough this time to make her startle back and slosh the contents of her cup on the floor. “Oh, I’m so sorry about that!” she cried and hastily bent to mop it up with the mushroom tea towel.
“Quite all right,” Mr. Grimm answered faintly, sitting back in his stool, his knees suddenly weak. When she looked at him, he darted his gaze away again quickly. As though searching for something else to turn his attention to, he plucked his mugfrom the little table and drained the contents in one gulp. The result was a coughing, choking fit, and Luna wouldn’t have been at all surprised if he’d ended up spewing the whole foul lot across the floor. Somehow, with a determined gentlemanliness, he managed to keep it down, however, and sat gasping, mouth open.
“Are you all right, Mr. Grimm?” Luna asked. He nodded. Which was an obvious lie, but Luna let it slide. To spare him embarrassment, she thought it best to change the subject, so she held out her hand. “If you pass me your cup, I can read your fortune for you.”
He glanced down at the empty mug, his brow knotted once more in mild confusion. Then, with a little shrug, he handed it over. Feeling in her element for the first time in an age, Luna did as her aunties taught her long ago: she swirled the contents clockwise thrice and counter twice. Then she peered inside.
But this was . . . odd.
Luna frowned. The clumpings of overboiled and limp leaves gathered themselves in unusual ways, slowly dripping down the insides. She drew the mug up closer to her face, seeking a better angle.
Suddenly, there flashed through her mind a vivid image. She saw a woman of great and terrible beauty, wearing nothing but a pale nightgown, her wild red hair flowing about her in a storm of pulsing dark energy. And there was Mr. Grimm, standing before her. Barefoot, his shirt all unbuttoned, and a dagger—wait, no. On second glance, it was definitely a gardening trowel—grasped in one hand. The woman looked down at him from where she floated in a space of strange obscurity. One of her long-fingered hands reached out, trailing a curved nail along the line of his cheek and jaw.
Then she caught his face in her talon-like nails and dragged him to her, kissing him passionately. It was one of thoseaggressive, open-mouthed kisses such as Luna had only ever read about in trashy novels, never seen with her own maiden eyes. To her surprise, Mr. Grimm kissed the woman back with equal passion, the hand not holding the trowel burying itself in that unbound shock of fiery curls. They clutched at each other with such violence, it might look like a battle were it not so deeply erotic.
Then, in a single, fluid motion, Mr. Grimm took the trowel and drove it viciously up between the woman’s ribs.
A clap of light burst before Luna’s eyes, driving her back into her seat in the dim nook behind the counter. She shook her head, and only long years of practice kept her from dropping the mug to shatter on the floor. She stared at it, breathing with some difficulty. Her hand trembled.
“Miss Talbot?”
Mr. Grimm’s voice broke through her stupor, drawing her attention back to him. He leaned toward her, face lined with concern, but she found she couldn’t help seeing him in rather a different light than before. That image of him positivelydevouringthe strange woman seemed burned across her mind’s eye.
Her gaze drifted down to his mouth, noting for the first time how very full and sensual his lips were.
“Miss Talbot,” he said again, “are you quite all right?”
“Yes,” she managed breathlessly. Her gaze shot up to meet his. “It, um, it looks as though we shall have rain the next two days. But not to worry! The sun will come out again by Sunday morning.” She offered a weak little smile. “You can count on it, Mr. Grimm.”
As though to cast doubt on her prediction, thunder rumbled overhead, so close, it might be a beast seated on this very rooftop. Miss Talbot uttered a little squeak and hastily thrust Nigel’s mug into his hands before springing to her feet. She stood a moment, clutching the front of her borrowed robe, eyes uplifted to the ceiling, cheeks rather paler in the stove light than they’d been moments ago.
As soon as the storm’s growl trailed off into a low murmur, she turned a rather strained smile Nigel’s way. “Well, Mr. Grimm,” she said, her hands reaching to test her clothing on the drying line, “it has been a pleasure, but I fear I really must be going.”
“What? Now?” Nigel rose.
“Yes, indeed, I must.” She tossed the words over her shoulder as she gathered armfuls of skirt, jacket, blouse, and underthings. “Mrs. Boggs sets a strict curfew, you understand, and my roommate, Bryony, is working late tonight, and won’t be home to sneak me in through the fire escape, so you see . . .”
Still prattling, she made for the counter, even as another roll of thunder grumbled across the sky. She froze a moment, thenshook her head, and cast Nigel a nervous glance. “I’ll just pop upstairs and change then. Won’t be a tick!”
Nigel opened his mouth to protest but shut it again quickly. After all, any urging of her to remain—alone, with him, in his shop, in her current state of undress—would certainly come across as creepy. So he merely stood in the nook, listening to the sounds of his own slippers flap-flapping up the stairs.
The door to his apartment opened and shut.
He let out a little blustering sigh before running a hand down his face.
Then he peered into his empty mug. Clumps of tea leaves oozed unappetizingly down the insides. What exactly had she seen? Something dreadful, judging by her reaction. Something regarding his future. Oddly enough, he wasn’t particularly curious to find out more. He’d faced dire destinies aplenty in his time and found the prospect of another singularly uninspiring. But he would like to know if something about it had featured Miss Talbot herself. And, if so, why it had driven her to flee his presence so abruptly?
Did this mean she wouldn’t be taking the job after all?
He chewed the inside of his cheek, catching Debbie’s narrow gaze. “Perhaps I should clean up?” he said lamely.
