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“Oh, dear,” Henry said.
Evie looked horrified. “Oh no! I could’ve sworn I told you it was the four of us.”
“I brought pastries,” Henry said in apology. He held up a box tied with string.
“It’s fine. I’m sure it’ll be fine,” Jericho said. “There are certainly plenty of rooms.”
A sheepish Evie moved closer to Jericho. “I’m awfully sorry, Jericho. But Sam wasn’t about to miss out on the card reading, and Henry needed some country air and—oh, I hope it’s not a terrible bother.” She kissed Jericho on the cheek, and Jericho didn’t care what he had to tell Marlowe. He was just glad to see his friends—especially Evie.
Sam whistled. “This is some fancy prison they got you in, Freddy. Or do I call you Sir Frederick now?”
“You call me Jericho. For a change,” Jericho said.
While the others settled in, and after Jericho had explained apologetically to the less-than-thrilled Ames that there would be extra guests for the weekend, Jericho waited in the ballroom. He stared at the fancy oil painting of Marlowe’s dead ancestors, a long line of stern, pale men posed atop horses or beside hunting dogs. They all had the same expression in their eyes: a simple acceptance that they were the masters of their fates and nothing would get in the way to change that.
“Must be nice,” Jericho said.
“What must be nice?” Evie said, sweeping into the room like the sun inching across a cold floor.
“Having you here is nice,” Jericho said, grinning. “Even if I have to put up with Sam, too.”
He crossed the room with the relaxed gait he’d now come to own and stood beside Evie. She smelled good, like rosewater and vanilla. He had a strong urge to kiss her, and he wondered what she would do if he swept her up in his arms and did just that. “I’ve missed you.”
He guided her to the chaise and sat beside her, their knees nearly touching. “Here. A welcome gift.” Jericho placed a folded paper figurine in Evie’s hand.
“A dog?” Evie asked.
“A wolfhound,” Jericho corrected. “Evie, meet Evie.”
Evie laughed. “Gee, this is swell!”
“Sorry. I couldn’t quite figure out how to give her a proper ascot,” Jericho said, and the two of them laughed as if they were drunk. Gently, Jericho brushed a wayward curl out of Evie’s eyes, and he saw her catch her breath. Jericho thought that if Nietzsche was right about the eternal recurrence and that one’s life repeated, unfolding in the same fashion throughout all time, then he would be glad of living this moment over again, with the sun shining through Marlowe’s pretentious stained-glass windows and falling on Evie’s upturned cheeks in a wash of color.
“Amor fati,” he said.
“What’s that mean?” Evie said. It wasn’t the reflection from the windows, Jericho realized. Her cheeks were really flushed.
“It means love of fate.” Impulsively, he wrapped his fingers in hers and pulled her close. He kissed the top of her head, inhaling the scent of her hair. It smelled clean; it smelled hopeful.
“You seem so… different,” Evie said, gazing up at him. Her stomach did that twirling thing. What was it about Jericho that attracted her so? She didn’t know entirely, and she was tired of trying to explain it to herself. It just was. Especially with the way he was looking at her now.
“I feel different,” Jericho said. “I feel terrific, in fact. This new stuff Marlowe’s been giving me has made me much stronger. Less…” Afraid, he wanted to say. He was the new Jericho, and the new Jericho wasn’t waiting for life to come to him. “Well, I feel really good. It’s almost like… like I’m part Diviner now.”
“What do you mean?”
“I can hear the maids talking all the way down in the kitchen sometimes. And I can run for miles without tiring. Yesterday I lifted a steel cabinet over my head.” Jericho laughed and leaned in to Evie with a conspiratorial grin. “You can see why I needed some companionship.”
“And how!” Evie said, laughing, too. She hadn’t realized how much she’d needed to get away from New York and gossip and ghosts. And even though she knew they had a mission, seeing Jericho felt like a small respite. She wished she could call Mabel right now—Mabesie, you’ll never guess where I am!—and then she’d pos-i-tute-ly swear to turn all of Marlowe’s fancy ceramic figurines on their heads just to make her happy. But Mabel hadn’t spoken to Evie since their fight, and thinking about it would only make her sad. She was determined not to be sad this weekend.
“So this is where the party is. Sorry I missed it,” Sam said, barging through the doors. He gave Evie and Jericho a long sideways glance. Then he walked around the room as if studying it.
“Are you casing the joint, Sam?” Evie said, annoyed by his interruption.
“No. I’m having déjà vu.” Sam folded his arms and squinted at the meticulous oil paintings of pinch-mouthed men.
“Again?” Henry quipped, coming into the room along with Ling.
“Because you were here before,” Evie said. “I remember it from reading your mother’s photograph. This is where she brought you when you were little. Right over there—that’s where Rotke tested you with the cards.”
