She sighed. “A congressman’s son,” she admitted. “So perhaps he is used to getting what he wants, when he wants it.” Her eyes were on Rory, a little sad. “And I suppose he’s unlikely to discover you. You try so hard to stay unnoticed.”
Rory wrapped his arms tight around himself. “That’s how it’s gotta be. And since no one knows ’bout me, I can do a job like this for him.”
“Your house locks the doors at ten—”
“If I can’t scry the letters by then, I’ll go home,” he lied. The shop would be cold, but there were worse places to sleep than the armchair. She still looked reluctant, so he added, “I’m really not a boy anymore.”
“Spokenexactlylike a little boy.” But her shoulders relaxed and her smile crinkled her crow’s feet again. “All right, lad, I promised I wouldn’t coddle you anymore. I told you about the job so you could make the call and I’ll let you make it.”
Yes.“I call it good.” Rory set the canteen next to the cash register and took the box from her. It was a beautiful piece and pleasantly heavy, solid mahogany he’d bet, with intricate vines carved along all the edges and a fierce bear in the center of the lid. “The box too?”
She shook her head. “Just the letters inside.”
He traced the bear’s carved fur, feeling the ridges beneath his finger, then opened the box. “Allof them?” He stared at the stack, which reached the top of the box. “Bybreakfast?”
“If it’s too much—”
“Everything’s Jake.” Because yes, it was enough letters to fill a whole night in the shop, but he’d be spendingallhis nights here if he couldn’t make rent. He closed the box with a snap. “See you in the morning.”
But Mrs. Brodigan still looked troubled. “It’s a lot, dear, and work doesn’t need to become another excuse for you to always be alone.”
Rory huffed. “Better than blowing all my scratch going out when no one wants a short guy in glasses anyway.”
“Nonsense—”
“Nonsenseis exactly what comes outta my mouth half the time and I don’t need anyone else to hear it.” He folded his arms. “Scryers aren’t good company, Mrs. B.”
She sighed. “I like you just fine, dear, even when you’re a storm cloud.” She smiled at Rory’s scowl. “I’ll close up,” she said, and with a pat on his arm left him to it.
Rory pulled the office’s pocket door shut behind him, muffling the sound of Mrs. Brodigan’s familiar steps as she puttered around the shop. He set his newsboy cap on the side table, freeing his shaggy curls before he tucked his legs up under him in the armchair and considered the box.
Ritzy. But then, this was some political big-timer paying double for a rush job, so he was gonna be ritzy too. Rory ought to scry the box and see what all he could learn aboutterribly apologeticMr. Kenzie—
Except they’d only been asked to appraise the letters and it wouldn’t be fair play. So with a last admiring glance at the bear, he opened the box again.
Geez, there had to be two dozen letters. No envelopes either, just ancient pieces of folded paper, yellowed with age and spotted where the ink had run. He picked up the top one and unfolded it. Signed by a Frederick Douglass and dated April 1856, it looked authentic enough—but then, Rory had seen some good forgeries come through the antiques shop in the last four years.
He set the box on his ancient footstool that once must have been a very nice match for a completely different chair. He settled into his seat and carefully set the pads of his fingers on top of the letter’s handwriting.
Scrying was like turning a radio dial, searching for just the right notch until suddenly the signal came in clear, static transformed to music. It was always so easy to welcome the music in—
Not always so easy to turn the radio back off. Rory tried not to think about that as he closed his eyes and let the magic sweep him into the letter’s past.
The man in the bowler hat sits at a desk in a room that smells like fish. A phonograph lazily spins in the corner, scratching out Margaret Young’s “Hard-Hearted Hannah.” The man sticks his tongue between his teeth as he dips his fountain pen in the inkwell. Carefully, he puts the nib to a piece of yellowed paper and scratches out an “1856” in the top right corner.
He lifts his head and considers the paper. After a moment, he sets the pen down, dabs his finger in water, and deliberately smears the wet ink on the six. He wipes his finger on an ink-stained towel folded on the corner of the desk and picks up his pen—
Well,thatletter was as real as a wooden nickel. Did Kenzie already suspect he had a forgery? Was that why he’d come to Brodigan’s in the first place?
A distant jingle startled Rory, the sound of the front door’s bell ringing behind Mrs. Brodigan as she left for the night. He glanced at the clock and groaned. It was hard to keep track of present time when he scried, and he’d let himself get distracted and spent longer than he’d meant watching the vision of that letter’s past.
He set the forgery on his side table and reached back into the box, withdrawing the second letter off the stack. He unfolded it to find it was also signed by Frederick Douglass, this time dated October 1855.
Huh.
He emptied the box of all its letters and found them all signed by Frederick Douglass, all dated between 1855 and 1857, some duplicates of each other. He spread the letters across his lap, the chair, and the footstool, and pursed his lips.
There was no way all twenty-two of the letters were going to be real. Had this sap bought an entire lot of dodgy historic letters, hoping to get lucky? But why would a congressman’s son need to pay double for some Hell’s Kitchen shop to rush-appraise the lot?
