“We were in Chelsea.”
“And Chelsea doesn’t have scones?”
“Next time,” he promised.
“Oh,” she said delicately. “So you’re planning to dodge work again because you’re with Mr. Kenzie?”
Rory gave her a flat look as he leaned against the cash register counter. Ever since his temper had cooled, something about Arthur had been needling him. “You gotta talk loud to snap me outta scrying, right?”
“I practically have to shout in your ear,” said Mrs. Brodigan. “Why?”
“’Cause I was scrying, but I knew when Ace showed up.” He furrowed his brow, then shrugged. “He’s big. Maybe he’s got big feet and loud steps.”
“Perhaps.” She was looking Rory over. “Whatever Mr. Kenzie is, he’s good for you. You’re not scowlingandyou don’t look frozen to the bone. Did your handsome man make you take a cab?”
“He’s not mine.”Sure be nice if he was.“He thinks you gotta take cabs everywhere. Bet he goes out a lot—did I tell you he’s got a whole big kitchen to himself but all he’s got are empty cabinets?”
As he said it, Rory frowned. Arthur had braved the freezing dark before dawn to care for Rory’s fingers. Why didn’t he care for himself enough to keep food in the kitchen? Why didn’t someone else care that his kitchen was empty?
“Bachelors.” Mrs. Brodigan clucked her tongue. “But then, it is a shame such a thoughtful man has no one thinking of him.” The bell jingled as the shop door opened then, and she winked at Rory. “Back to business, duck.”
Business, Arthur had said, smile gone, shoulders heavy.It’s always business.
Except Rory was thinking of Arthur, and he wasn’t thinking about business.
Chapter Eighteen
On Friday, Arthur was in a cab making its way south on Broadway. His fingers were clasped beneath his chin and his leg was bouncing with nerves.
He was going to Mansfield’s home tomorrow for the mayor’s gala. But they still didn’t know why Gwen and Mansfield were working together to get the relic. They still didn’t know how to steal it. And Rory was still in Manhattan where the relic’s magic could reach him, or Gwen or Mansfield could find him, and yesterday Rory had found that lead sculpture with a burn mark—
But no. Several people had seen a man matching Philippe’s description on a ship that set sail from the Port of Le Havre, and a crowd had seen the ship go up in flames in the harbor. Arthur had questioned the harbormaster himself.
Plenty of things could have burned the statue. Philippe was gone.
Arthur let his head fall against the back seat with a sigh.
The cab passed City Hall and the Woolworth Building to pull up several blocks south at Bowling Green and 26 Broadway, where the previous sixteen stories of the Standard Oil Building were now topped with a new steel frame stretching to thirty-one stories high. The second remodel had been underway since 1921 and the press had endless questions about the progress for Arthur’s eldest brother, John, president of the New York City Board of Aldermen. Arthur had offered to go round for a site check and report back.
Earl Humphries was in charge of the construction crew, a bald white man with an easy smile and a long history of helping Kenzie politicians navigate city developments. When he saw Arthur, he broke into a big smile. “Ace! I’d recognize you anywhere. Can you still throw a football to Jersey?”
Arthur held up a pack of chewing gum. “You still chewing this to stay off the smokes?”
Humphries’s smile became a grin. “Good lad.” He took the gum and clapped Arthur on the biceps. “Guns like these, you coulda won the war yourself. Come on, let’s send you up.”
Ten minutes later, the crew was breaking for lunch on the ground and Arthur was 300 feet in the air, alone with the beams and the birds and the whistling wind. He’d gone up with the flyboys twice during the war and he was still amazed by the world from a height. Tiny people, milling far below; Bowling Green and Battery Park, stamp-sized patches of green grass and persistent white snow; the ocean and the Statue of Liberty in the distance.
It was terribly romantic, and so naturally he was up here alone.
He pushed the thought away. He’d thrown enough pity parties with booze and silent nights in his empty flat. He would deal with the relic in New York and then he’d go abroad, Paris again or maybe the Netherlands, somewhere he could at least get a date without a risk to his family.
Of course, Paris and the Netherlands wouldn’t have Rory.
You don’t have Rory now, he chastised himself.There is no point in pining. He may or may not like men, but he’s made it clear he doesn’t particularly like you. Rory would likely be glad to see you go.
A shrill alarm briefly split the air, followed by the creak and squeak of a second construction lift making the long journey up the building’s side. Odd, the crew should have at least twenty more minutes for lunch. Arthur liked Humphries; he didn’t want to have to report that the crew was being rushed, perhaps overworked—
But it wasn’t the crew.
