But no Wesley.
Arthur’s stomach turned.
Soft cooing came from the seated crowd as two adorable children came down the aisle in wedding clothes. The little girl was perhaps four, like Harry’s twin girls, gleefully tossing huge, haphazard clumps of flower petals every few feet with no care for aesthetics. Rory would have been smiling.
Wesley would have rolled his eyes at her lack of decorum, if he’d even bothered to notice her. If he’d beenhereat all.
As the children passed, Arthur sat back in his pew with a frown. What was he doing here? He should have been with Jade, Zhang, and Rory, tracking relics and paranormals, not wasting his time here where no one was glad to see him, just angry if he didn’t show up.
The organ increased in volume, more of the wedding party walking down the aisle. Arthur stared blankly forward, not letting his turmoil show on his face. It was possible that Wesley had simply been loath to show his face after kissing Arthur at the Waldorf, but Wesley finding a shred of shame would be a first. So why was he missing?
He wanted to storm from the church; to apologize to Rory for running off like a coward, to find Hyde, to figure out where Wesley had gone. But the governor was unlikely to be impressed if Arthur pushed his way out of a crowded church in the middle of his son’s wedding procession. The guests wouldn’t be impressed either, and Arthur’s family would have to bear the brunt of his rudeness.
Could Wesley have decided to investigate the death of his valet a little more closely and gotten in trouble? Arthur’s frown deepened, but his gut told him no. He was certain Wesley knew nothing of magic: the man laced every other sentence with backhanded insults without bothering to hide it; secretive and duplicitous he was not. Maybe he’d decided he just didn’t feel like attending the wedding; a lord could do what he liked and people would make his excuses. Maybe he was angry at Arthur and sulking in his hotel room. Maybe Arthur should just be glad he didn’t have to face Wesley fresh from a fight with Rory.
Arthur closed his eyes, trying to find an inch of private mental space in the packed church. How were he and Rory ever going to make it work if they couldn’t disagree without ending up on different sides of Manhattan? How much longer did he have to perform for society before he could try to save that same society from magic they didn’t even know about?
And hang it all, where was Wesley?
Rory’s hands were shaking as he fumbled with the lock on the side door of the antiques shop. The front door was still shut tight, the lights off, and he was praying it was as deserted as it looked.
Let the shop be empty. Let Mrs. B be enjoying her day off. Let Lizbeth be upstairs, safe with her mom.
He inched the side door open, hearing nothing from within the shop. “Hello?” He stepped inside and quietly closed the door behind him. “Lizzy? Mrs. B?”
The shop was still, the dim light of a winter afternoon slanting through the window to hit the antiques on the shelves, causing them to cast strange shadows. Upstairs, footsteps moved around the Meyerses’ apartment.
Rory’s sneakers were nearly silent on the wooden floor as he walked to the back of the shop and poked his head around the pocket door to find the office empty too.
He let out a quiet breath of relief. And now he’d catch the first train outta town. If Hyde and Shelley and whoever was making his magic wonky knew about him, they’d follow, and stay far away from Lizbeth and Mrs. Brodigan, far away from Arthur and Jade and Zhang and Rory’s stupid mistakes.
But as Rory took his first step away from the office, he heard the side door. He drew a breath. “Who’s there—?”
His words were cut off as the side door slammed shut and a handsome white man strode into the shop like he owned the place.
“You. Boy.” He pointed at Rory. “Where’s Mr. Brodigan?”
The fella was tall as Arthur, clean-shaven, with brown hair and gray-blue eyes. Nice suit. Stuck-up expression. English accent. Rory reached for the cover story Mrs. Brodigan’s sister had created the night he’d run from the asylum. “Uncle Seamus died four years ago.”
“What?” The man looked like he thought Rory was stupid. “He’s not dead.”
“Yeah he is,” Rory said defensively. “Spanish flu got a lotta people. You don’t need to go rubbing it in.”
The man narrowed his eyes. “Is there a Mr. Brodigan at this shop who isn’t dead?”
Oh.“Um...” Rory fidgeted. “Well. There’s me.”
The man stared at Rory. “You.”
“Yeah.”
“You’re an antiquarian?”
“I mean, I work here, so...sure. I guess.”
The man swept his gaze over Rory, taking in the glasses and shaggy curls, then the patched clothes, stained coat, and secondhand tennis shoes. “You must be joking,” he said, like a man who’d just discovered his priceless watch was counterfeit. “You can’t possibly be Arthur’s Mr. Brodigan.”
Rory’s hackles went up. “Look, fella, I don’t know who you are but—awhell.” Because Rory was suddenly sure hedidknow exactly who this English prick was. “You’re Ace’s former flame.”
