The ring’s magic was bound to his now, the way the amulet was bound to Gwen and the Venom Dagger to Ellis. Rory hadn’t gotten visions when Ellis used his dagger, and no one got stabbed until Ellis used it. So maybe Pavel wouldn’t get visions if Rory opened the ring, and maybe the wind wouldn’t blow until he wanted it to.
But he hadn’t opened the ring box since Coney Island. He wouldn’t have chanced it in Manhattan around all those people. And he couldn’t possibly open the ring box here in the house, not near the kids, not in a million years.
But in the city, there was nowhere to go where he’d be alone. Here, they were in the country, on a big estate, where he could walk until he got far away from any people.
He glanced at the closed door.
If the ring held answers for Pavel, he needed to scry it today, before they went back to Manhattan. He’d have to walk far, far enough that there was no risk to the house or anyone in it, and that would take a while.
But Arthur was busy with Harry, Mrs. Brodigan with Mrs. Ivers, the Ivanovs with each other. Harry’s oldest kids wouldn’t be home from school until the afternoon, and he could be back in time to keep his promise to play jacks with Victoria.
If he stepped out for a few hours, there was no one to even notice.
Chapter Four
John’s fundraiser was being hosted by local donors, a lunch in a private hall above the hamlet’s nicest restaurant. The hall was spacious, with carved moldings around the ceiling and around the narrow windows that let in the afternoon’s weak light. The tables were set with white cloths and covered with a selection of appetizers—baked ham, candle salad, salmon mousse cups—and a bar was set up to serve soda pop and punch.
Arthur grudgingly took a ginger ale from the bartender and stood next to Harry. He recognized most of the faces in the room: friends of his parents, friends of his brothers and sisters. None of his own friends, and no one who might have something useful to say about a dead mogul’s estate.
He could think of only one reason John would have been so insistent that Arthur show up, and that was to ingratiate himself with a predictable kind of guest. “So which of this lot is the football fan I’m supposed to chat up?”
Harry subtly gestured at a young white man in a well-tailored suit. “My money’s on Walter. He’s the governor’s middle son, the one getting married next Saturday. You’re going, aren’t you?”
“No, I have a prior commitment.”I’ll be finally enjoying a moment alone with the adorable paranormal I’ve somehow snagged.
Harry furrowed his brow. “I could have sworn Mother said you were going.”
Not unless the fate of the world is at stake.Arthur smiled politely at a passing woman. “I’m afraid not. So. Football?”
“Yale fan, even.”
“You lot do remember I dropped out of Yale, yes?”
“Toenlist,” Harry said. “We’re proud of that. And finishing school in London just makes you interesting.”
Arthur sighed into his drink. “I want to be the boring one. If I’m the most interesting person in the conversation, then I’ve chosen the wrong company.”
Harry inclined his head toward the other end of the hall. “I see Stevens standing over there. His sister went to Vassar and she’s interesting. Well traveled. Single.”
“Who’s single?” A large white man Arthur vaguely recognized—Richards, that was his name, had gone to Harvard with Will—stepped up next to Harry. “Is it Ace? You’re always single, aren’t you?”
Arthur kept his expression as bland as the mousse cups. “The world is full of beautiful women. Why tie oneself down?”
Richards clapped Arthur on the bicep. “Now you’re on the trolley. Mind you, that’s what Thomas always said, and you know the rumors there.” He dropped his voice to a juicy whisper. “He likes the masquerades in Harlem, have you heard of them? Where the men dress like women and the women like men? Shameful what some people get up to.”
It was far from the first time Arthur had heard judgment like that. It was always galling, but today it landed extra sharp, perhaps because he would so much rather have been at one of those but could never go, lest anyone connect him to his family. “So what if he does?” Arthur said, before he meant to. “Surely we all have bigger concerns than parties?”
Harry and Richards both stared at him. Damn. He hadn’t meant to take therun-his-mouthpage out of Rory’s playbook.
“You don’t actually condone that sort of thing, do you?” Richards looked uneasy. “You were a soldier, and didn’t you play football?” he added, like those two things meant anything at all.
“Arthur spends a lot of time abroad,” Harry cut in. “He forgets America is different.”
If they’re not hurting you or anyone else, why should it matter what someone else wears or who they want to kiss?Arthur bit it back. “Europe, you know. It’s a wonder I didn’t show up raving and naked.”
Richards laughed, sounding relieved. “You need a wife,” he said heartily, clapping Arthur on the arm again. “Stay stateside, get yourself a nice girl, get your head on straight. What’s your type?”
Arthur faked a smile. “Vixens,” he said flatly. “With pretty curls and fiery tempers.”
