The cold Delaware River was very far away from a warm bathroom in Paris, but Gwen had saved his life that night when it would have been easier to let him die.
With a huff, he took off his glasses. He held them in one hand as Gwen started lining around his eyes with kohl.
“You’re not actually Irish at all—you’re Italian, is that right?” Gwen asked. “But your father’s surname is Westbrook; that’s English.”
Rory snorted, short and bitter. “And I’m using a fake Irish last name instead of his.”
“Oh,” she said, sounding genuinely apologetic. “It’s like that, is it? I’m sorry.”
Rory sighed. “You didn’t know,” he grudgingly admitted. “My dad hates the Italians in America. He hates all immigrants.”
“Except himself,” she said dryly, as she moved on to the other eye, “because all of America’s white people were immigrants at one point. And if he hates them so much, what was he doing shagging one? No wonder you don’t use that hypocrite’s name.”
Rory shrugged, but he felt a little better. All his life, people had said bad things about his mom for coming to America. It soothed an old wound to hear people as smart as Arthur and Gwen say his father had done wrong.
A few minutes later, he was in front of the dingy mirror, looking at his reflection in consternation. He had powder all over his skin and dark circles drawn around his eyes like a raccoon. “I’msupposedto look like this?”
“Yes,” Gwen said impatiently. “Now don’t touch it, you’ll mess up all my work.”
“Yeah, and you’d probably kill me,” Rory said, without thinking.
Gwen froze, her hand on the bathroom doorknob. They stood for a moment, the silence awkward and tense.
Finally, she looked over her shoulder. “We’ll meet you in the cabaret’s lobby—”
“I never said thanks for saving my life,” Rory blurted, at the same time.
Gwen’s eyebrows furrowed.
Rory stuck his hands in his pockets. “I mean, yeah, I’m still sore about everything that happened on Coney Island. And you were gonna make me come to England so you could keep that pomander away from Baron Zeppler.” He hunched his shoulders. “But the secrets in my mind would be safest from Baron Zeppler if I was dead, and you could’ve let me drown in the Delaware and solved your problem. And you didn’t.”
“I’m not one of the good girls, Rory,” Gwen said quietly. “Don’t go thinking of me as one.”
“I didn’t say I did.” Rory leaned back against the sink. “But I’ve got subordinate magic too, and I’ve had some bad days because of my magic.Realbad. I might already be dead, if I hadn’t met Ace.”
She opened her mouth, then closed it, like she’d wanted to say something but swallowed it down.
“I’m just saying that yeah, you got a past, and I don’t know what your plans are now,” said Rory. “But I don’t know what I’d do if I was choking on magic. And I don’t think you’re as bad as you pretend to be.”
She bit her lip. “We’ll meet you downstairs,” she said, and disappeared out the door.
Chapter Twenty
Arthur’s first choice of tailors was still in the same shop on the same Paris street he’d been in two years ago, and had a tuxedo in stock that could be altered to fit him in an expensive three-hour rush job.
He stood on the platform and waited patiently as the tailor took his measurements. As his gaze wandered around the shop, from French advertisements to a display of ties, his mind replayed a conversation they’d all had on the ocean liner.
You’re not the only one who gets to worry. Especially when you keep ending up handcuffed by paranormals in tuxedos.
Excuse you. What paranormals in tuxedos?
I meant whenyou’rein a tuxedo—like at the Wonder Wheel. Or on that ship in Philly.
So it only happened the one time. The two times. Look, if it happens a third time, then you can say it’s a habit.
Arthur frowned. But that was Rory bringing up a strange coincidence, wasn’t it? It didn’t mean anything.
“All right, sir?” the tailor asked, in his thick French accent. When Arthur blinked, the tailor added, “You are fidgeting.”
