As the small domed tower of City Hall loomed in front of them, John suddenly stopped. “So you do dream of the war.”
Arthur glanced around. They were completely alone in the small park where the Victorian fountain had stood before it’d been shipped off to the Bronx. “Is it really so surprising?” he said tightly. “I’ve never claimed those were the best years of my life.”
John was staring straight ahead and pointedly not looking at him. “Cleaning up Coney Island has been a nightmare. I’ve had everyone from the mayor to the ladies’ societies on my case. But hang it all, I can’t focus or care about it all.” Before Arthur could do more than utter a noise in surprise, John said, “I’ve barely slept at all the last few days, because every time I close my eyes, I dream about you in the war.”
Arthur’s eyes widened.
“It’supsetting,” John burst out, with enough emotion to give a knife edge to the words. “The dreams are brutal—battles, freezing trenches, attacks on civilians.” He looked at Arthur then, his face pale and worn beneath the brim of the fedora. “But then you appear, alone in a cell, as young as you looked the day you went off to Germany, and I—it’s too much.”
Arthur swallowed hard, pushing away the memory before it could assume its form. The ghosts of six years’ past still lurked in the corners of his mind, like monsters in the dark just beyond the streetlight’s glow. What a strange thing for John to dream of, but then, dreams were strange. Arthur didn’t want to look into the dark, but he made himself offer. “Maybe if you tell me about the dreams, they’ll stop?”
John ran a hand over his face. “It’s always the same. Your cell is too small and there are no windows. There’s no bed, so you’re sitting on the concrete floor. Your left eye is blackened and your lip is cut, and the only other thing in the cell is the book in your hand.”
Every hair on the back of Arthur’s neck rose. A sickening shiver went down his spine and he tasted bile. “What book?”
“Jekyll and Hyde.”
It took all of Arthur’s self-control to keep his expression steady.
John shook his head with frustration. “I must sound mad. A grown man, carrying on about dreams—”
“It doesn’t sound mad to me.” Arthur’s heart was pounding uncomfortably fast.
John’s shoulders dropped a fraction. “I wasn’t going to say anything, but then I remembered the stories of the soldiers and their dreams, and thought,Ace might know what to do.” He put a hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “Nothing like that actually happened to you, did it? I know you have that medal, but you said—”
“Your brain is very imaginative,” Arthur said quickly.
“I suppose so.” John removed his hand and rubbed his forehead. “They’re altogether too vivid for comfort, as real and detailed as you and I speaking right now. I spent last night in my study, so I wouldn’t wake Emma or the children if I screamed. If I believed in magic, I’d think I’d been cursed.”
John was practical and steady as a smooth sea, never prone to exaggeration or fancies. He could be overbearing and self-important, but he’d never bullied his younger siblings. Arthur could remember being eight and wanting to play every sport known to man, and nineteen-year-old John patiently teaching him a proper boxing stance, how to throw a right cross.
Arthur plastered a reassuring smile on his lips. “I can help,” he promised. “But I need to start by borrowing your office phone.”
John smiled wryly, relief in his eyes. “Going to call one of your interesting friends, are you? Is one of them a curse-breaker, by any chance? An Egyptologist who knows a thing or two about pyramids and mummies?”
Arthur kept the smile glued to his lips. “You wouldn’t believe the half of it.”
Chapter Twelve
Before digging into eight days of missed work, Rory had gone up to the Meyerses’ apartment to give Lizbeth her letter. She’d squealed like he’d brought her a pony, and what he’d thought would be a five-minute drop-off turned into two hours as she demanded he tell her everything about the countryside and her new friend.
Mrs. Meyers sent him back to the antiques shop with a tin of jam-filled rugelach. He grabbed the mail from the lobby on his way in and took it to the counter with the old cash register. As he set the stack down, the ring on his finger caught the light. He frowned at it, then grabbed it and gave it a hard yank.
It didn’t budge.
He sighed and shoveled a cookie into his mouth as he started sorting the bills.
“Ahem.”
Rory swore loudly, dropping his stack to scatter on the ground.
Zhang’s flickering astral projection raised an eyebrow. “Italian?”
Rory jerked his thumb toward the office. “I’m not gonna swear in English in front of Mrs. B.”
“What’s that, dear?” Mrs. Brodigan poked her head out of the office and scanned the shop. “Who are you talking to?”
Rory gestured in front of him, where she’d see nothing but empty space. “Zhang’s here. Sort of here. Here his way.”
