Alone in his room, he let himself sigh. He could ask Sasha and Pavel if the Taussigs needed help in their pharmacy, but they’d already taken in the refugee Ivanovs, and if they had money to spare, Sasha and Pavel wouldn’t be sharing a closet-size room in the Taussigs’ apartment while their teenage son, Levi, slept on the couch. The Robbinses had a speakeasy, and the Zhangs had a restaurant, and Rory was good at all kinds of kitchen and restaurant work, but they also had their own families to take care of.
Who did he really have, if he didn’t have Mrs. Brodigan?
He could have sworn he felt a sudden tug in his magic. He glanced at the postcard on the bed, a colorful city scene with shopping, cars, and people.Rue Sainte-Catherine, the postcard proclaimed, and then, in smaller letters,St. Catherine Street. He ran a finger over the picture, then turned it over.
He’d already read the message four times, but his eyes drank in Arthur’s beautiful penmanship again.
Mr. Brodigan:
I hope this missive finds you well. We’re in Montreal, a beautiful city if lacking in the company I truly crave. Still no success, but Niagara Falls will be our next stop, and we are hopeful. Please continue to take very good care of my antiques; I’m afraid I have a reputation for being overprotective.
Yours, AJK
Niagara Falls. Wow. Rory would’ve loved to see them. He put his finger on Arthur’s signature, then closed his eyes and let the magic rush in, drowning himself in the postcard’s history.
Arthur signs his name. He’s so handsome, even with tired eyes. He’s looking at the postcard, and then, in a whisper, Arthur says, “Miss you.” He touches Rory’s name, then with a sigh he drops the postcard into the mail slot—
Rory came back to the present, where he was alone, clutching the postcard too tightly.
He’d put the card with the others in their special spot in his trunk, carefully wrapped so they wouldn’t get bent or nibbled on by the mice. He went into their pasts more than he should, craving those glimpses of Arthur as he, Zhang, and Jade searched for a way to destroy the pomander.
As if to punctuate his thoughts, there was a scurrying in the walls. The mice were getting bolder, making noise even though folks were still awake. The roaches, of course, were always bold. The air in his room was stale from the boarded-up window, and he’d never replaced the locks after Baron Zeppler’s group of paranormals had come looking for him in February.
It wasn’t like he’d miss this boarding house if he got kicked out. But if he didn’t have his income from the antiques shop, he wasn’t gonna make rent anywhere, and where was he gonna sleep if he couldn’t make rent?
Arthur’s postcard stared back at him.
Kept safe in Rory’s trunk with the postcards and his Italian compass was the maintenance key to Arthur’s apartment that Rory had once stolen. Arthur had mailed it back to him just after he left with Jade and Zhang.
You are welcome here, he’d written in the letter, because Arthur was generous, and had taken a stranded Rory in, offering his own bed before they’d even slept together.
But Rory’s own words to Mrs. Brodigan replayed in his mind.
Everyone oughta have a savings that’s all their own, just in case.
That’s rather cynical of you, dear.
Sometimes people bail on the ones they’re supposed to take care of.
Rory carefully set the postcard to the side where he wouldn’t crush it. Maybe hewascynical. He trusted Arthur as much as he could possibly trust another person. But he still needed his own money, because sometimes even the people you were supposed to be able to trust with your life bailed on you, and it wasn’t Arthur’s job to take care of him in the first place.
He turned back to the want ads spread around the bed. Bank clerks, office boys, automobile painters, boat builders—he didn’t know how to do any of that. A few ads for salesmen, but he hated sales.
Wanted—waiter to start immediately. Must be neat.
The restaurant was a nice one in Midtown, maybe a thirty-minute walk if he pushed it. Neat, though; he’d have to mend some clothes.
He chewed on the end of his pen for a moment, then circled the ad.
Arthur had been to Niagara Falls a handful of times, mostly on the American side. Now, in Ontario, he stood on the viewing platform and watched the horseshoe-shaped Canadian falls thunder over the rocks and drop thirteen stories, filling the air with mist. Far below, a tour boat floated in the water, and several families with excited children were milling on the platform at the base of the elevator, waiting for their turn to tour the scenic tunnels under the falls.
Jade stood on his right, also watching the falls from under a pretty umbrella. “Is Zhang having any luck?” he asked her.
“Not too much security,” she said. “We should be able to come back tomorrow night and slip behind the falls.” She made a face. “But I’m not going to be much help, because Madame Legrand was right on both counts; the falls are one of the natural phenomena that impact magic, and they do neutralize the magic around them. Jianwei’s astral projection can’t go through them.”
Arthur straightened, heartened. “So maybe this plan has a chance.” A chance to destroy the pomander and its magic that could enslave non-magic minds, that Rory had been so determined to hide the key to its lock that he would have withstood torture.
“The full moon is tomorrow. Not much time left to prepare.” Jade glanced at him. “You look particularly broody,” she said gently. “Is something on your mind?”
