What the hell had that been?
Jade had scrambled forward, taking Arthur’s hand in her own and helping to pull him deeper into the tunnel. “Thank you,” Arthur managed to say to them both.
Zhang squeezed his arm and let go. “Any time.”
They moved back from the tunnel’s mouth, close enough to the guardrail to get out of the worst of the splashing. “How did that compare to the last time you were around the pomander?” Zhang asked, settling next to Jade. “Did the scent seem any less?”
“It nearly sent you tumbling to your death,” Jade said, looking like she’d had a scare. “So my guess is no.”
“Unfortunately not.” Arthur sat back against the wall of the tunnel, breathing in the welcome clean scent of the water misting his face. His heart was still racing and his skin was prickling, but the sensation was muted, like a lightning storm under a blanket. “I can feel Rory’s magic.”
Zhang’s eyebrows flew up. “Is that normal?”
“I wouldn’t say normal, exactly, but I do feel it sometimes,” Arthur said. “Except the times I have, it’s always been far stronger than this.” He ran his hands over his own arms, the lightning bolts more of an echo than their usual miniature storm. “The waterfall is working.”
“But it’s not strong enough to fully suppress Rory’s relic-enhanced, insubordinate magic.” Jade sighed. “And not enough to suppress the pomander.” She gave Arthur a look of concern. “It hit you hard.”
“I supposevomit behind Niagara Fallshas never been on my to-do list,” Arthur admitted.
“It’s hardly your fault,” said Jade.
Zhang looked deep in thought. “You’re very far away from Rory right now,” he said, and really, Arthur was quite aware of that already. “I’m just guessing here, but the waterfall could have initially buried Rory’s magic.”
“And then Rory’s magic woke right up when your aura was exposed to four-hundred-year-old violation magic,” Jade added. “I’m glad for that.”
“Me too,” Arthur said softly. The prickles of Rory’s magic were starting to fade, like a storm rolling on into the distance, and Arthur felt a fresh pang of loss.Don’t go yet, he thought, with a desperate edge, like it could hear him. He ran his hands over his arms again, willing the magic to stay sparking in his veins.I’m not ready to lose you, don’t go.
Zhang let his head fall back against the railing. “So what now?”
“We go back to New York as planned.”
Arthur turned in surprise, but Zhang was already nodding at Jade’s words.
“We need to do further research,” Jade continued. “We need to plan. We can do both of those things in New York.” She gave Arthur a small smile. “And we can celebrate Rory’s twenty-first birthday while we’re at it.”
Thank you, Arthur mouthed at her, as he felt Rory’s magic settle.
He missed the prickles, but as the rock behind him seemed less cold, all of a sudden, he realized he was far warmer than he should have been in the cold tunnel with his face and coat soaked with waterfall spray.
And that was Rory’s magic, reminding him it was still around. Because maybe Rory couldn’t send telegrams or postcards, but he never left Arthur alone.
Chapter Four
They closed the antiques store for good on the morning of Rory’s birthday. He and Mrs. Brodigan—soon to be Mrs. McIntyre, with Mr. McIntyre’s daughter planning the wedding in Boston—stood together on the sidewalk, watching as the movers carried the last of the empty shelves out.
“I hate goodbyes,” Mrs. Brodigan mumbled, dabbing at her eyes. “Even to a place.”
Rory just nodded, his throat too tight to speak. He was already dressed in his waiter’s uniform, secondhand black trousers and vest, with dress shoes a size too big. The bow tie was in his pocket, his buttoned-up coat hiding the uniform so Mrs. Brodigan wouldn’t know he’d bought new clothes with money he didn’t have. The last thing he wanted to tell her was that he hadn’t gone to his friends for a job like he’d promised; he’d found a new gig at a restaurant instead, and it was awful, long hours with a sharp boss and no breaks.
Exhaustion had settled in like a permanent companion as he worked ’round the clock between his new job at the restaurant and getting the antiques shop ready to close. They’d given Mrs. Brodigan’s desk and Rory’s armchair to the Meyerses upstairs and the cash register to the Taussigs as a spare. Everything else had been sold or given to charity.
Rory had come to the shop early enough that morning to catch eight-year-old Lizbeth Meyers on her way to school. She’d cried, refusing to be consoled even by the new set of jacks he’d bought her, and made him promise to come visit.
“And you better send letters like Victoria,” she’d added severely, wiping her nose.
Rory had furrowed his brow—he wasn’t the one moving away and would still live in Hell’s Kitchen, but he let it go. “Victoria Kenzie, Arthur’s niece? She still your pen friend?”
“She’s mybestfriend.” Lizbeth had pointed threateningly at Rory, her eyes puffy and red. “And you tell Mrs. B to write me too. I wantlotsof letters.”
