by Allie Therin
It settled into place like a familiar shirt, like it was shaped to fit Rory now. He got to his feet, hoping his face didn’t look as nervous as he felt.
“You must practice, Rory. This is our best place.” Sasha waved around them. “There are no homes or people on this beach, and no ferries or ships to be seen right now. The wind is gentle today, dancing on the waves. Create a partner for it.”
Rory chewed his lip some more. “Every time I’ve brought the wind, it’s wrecked something,” he said, as Pavel came up behind him. “I’ve never actually tried to call it on purpose.”
“And that is why this time will be different,” said Pavel, his voice quiet and gravelly and his accent thicker than his sister’s.
“What if I make another tidal wave?”
Sasha held up the vial in her hand. “Then we use one of Pavel’s old potions and hope it cancels some of the magic. Or I pick you two up and run,” she added dryly.
Rory snorted. But Sasha was right, there was no one else around, no houses nearby, no people. They’d all taken their first day off work in years to come as early as they could, because Rory had to master this, and that meant practice.
He still took off his cap, just in case, the nice one Arthur’d bought him back in February that Rory was never, ever gonna lose. He tucked his hat under his arm, took a breath, and let the magic in, light as he could, like he was reaching back into the past barely a minute. Like skipping a rock, he told himself. Just a breeze skimming the water’s surface.
He felt a breeze rush past his cheek. Then, out in the waves, there was a small splash.
His eyes widened behind his glasses. “It worked? It actually—no it didn’t!”
The three of them hit the beach just as a second, much more powerful gust of wind whistled over their heads. Rory’s eyes watered as he squinted at the water, just as the wind dove into the waves beyond the rocks, revealing the rocky bottom like he’d blown into a glass of milk with a straw.
Rory registered the black specks in the air just in time to cover his head as a flurry of fish hit the shore around them, smacking his head and neck, cold and slimy.
He wiped himself off, cursing. He looked from the creatures flopping on the rocks next to him to Sasha, who had trash in her hair, to Pavel, who had mud on his face, and cringed.
“Oops.”
Chapter Two
It was late afternoon when Rory got back to Hell’s Kitchen, the ring in its box in his pocket where it was going to stay, because he was hopeless and no one needed him to meet Baron Zeppler as the Useless King of the Uncontrolled Wind. The one small mercy: when he’d thought about Arthur, the ring had come right off for him.
He opened the antiques shop’s front door. “I’m back, Mrs. B,” he called over the jangling bell.
Mrs. Brodigan was alone in the shop, standing behind the cash register counter, the kettle on the hot plate and two mugs already out. “Hello, dear.” She smiled, genuine but with something uncertain around the edge. “I’m glad you’re here.”
Her voice was warm as ever, but there was a note in it that made Rory’s shoulders tense. “What’s going on?”
She had tea out with the mugs, the good tea, the expensive one from Ireland that her fella Mr. McIntyre brought her. “I was hoping to talk to you.”
His heart began to pound. “Is someone making trouble?” Could be all sorts of trouble—unhappy customer, unhappy paranormal, unhappy police who’d finally discovered there was no Rory Brodigan, just a Theodore Giovacchini who’d run away from the Hyde Gardens Asylum four years back.
But she shook her head. “It’s not trouble,” she promised, as she poured hot water over tea bags. “Not like that.”
She held out a mug and he took it, the hot drink comforting in his usually cold hands. She always used tea to soften hard news, and Rory always fell for it. “Then what?”
She took a breath. “Mr. McIntyre has asked me to marry him.”
Rory’s eyes widened. “But that’s great news,” he said, his heart brightening for her.
She smiled, more genuinely. “It is,” she said. “I want to say yes.”
“You haven’t said yes yet? Come on, why not? He’s crazy about you, and you adore him—”
“Because I also want to close the shop.”
Rory’s world screeched to a halt.
She half smiled, half winced, and set her mug down. “I’ve run this place since I came to America, dear,” she said gently. “And I’m ready for a new adventure.”
Rory opened his mouth, then closed it.
“I want to marry Patrick and move to Boston with him. He has a daughter there, and his first grandchild on the way. We might even travel a bit; I’ve barely seen any of my new country. But of course, it’s not just about me.”
Not just about her? What did she—oh. Rory swallowed and forced himself to straighten up and find a casual tone of voice. “You’re not worried about me, are you?”
“You’re my nephew,” she said. “Of course I’m worried about you.”
Her nephew. He waved his hand, like this was fine, his throat wasn’t closing. He was not going to be the thing that stood between Mrs. Brodigan and happiness. Not in a million years was he gonna tie her down. “You don’t gotta worry. Let’s close the shop. You get married and run off into the sunset with Mr. McIntyre.”
She didn’t look convinced. “And what are you going to do if you’re not working here?”
He scoffed. “I got about a million things I can do,” he lied. “I got magic, Mrs. B. I’ll be fine.”
“And you have Arthur,” she said, looking a little mollified as she picked her tea up again. “And you have Miss Robbins, and Mr. Zhang, and the Ivanovs.”
“’Course I do,” he lied again. Because he didn’t, not for this. They couldn’t take care of him when they all had families they needed to take care of, and he loved Mrs. B like a real aunt, but she was gonna have a real family of her own again.
He forced a smile. “I got so many options. You don’t have to worry about me at all. Marry your fella. I’m so happy for you.” The last part was the truth, and he didn’t have to force his smile as he said it.
She smiled back, tentative but hopeful. “You are?”
“So happy.” He set his tea down and took her hand. “Mr. McIntyre’s the luckiest man in the world, getting you,” he said tightly. “You’re the best family anyone could ever have.”
“Oh, lovey, stop, you’re going to make me cry,” she said, her voice thicker, and squeezed his hand. “This isn’t a forever goodbye. We’ll see each other—we’ll keep in touch—”
“’Course we will.” Rory let her hand go. Would they? Did anyone really keep in touch when they found a new family?
“And I’m not leaving you in the cold,” she said, as she wiped at her eyes. “I don’t know how I would have made it these last four years without you. You’ve never let me pay you what you’re worth, so I’ve set something aside every month. It’s not much, but it’s rightfully yours.”
“What? No,” he said, shaking his head firmly. “No, you gotta keep that, even if you’re married. Especially if you’re married. Everyone oughta have a savings that’s only their own, just in case.”
She gave him a watery side-eye. “That’s rather cynical of you, dear.”
“Sometimes people bail on the ones they’re supposed to take care of,” he said, voice strained. His emotions were already too raw; he didn’t want to think about his dad right now. “You keep the money, I got—Arthur.”
She raised an eyebrow. “You’ve only grudgingly let Arthur buy you two things, a hat and your glasses.”
“Yeah, maybe, but I’m gonna ask him for lotsa help now, so you can go get married.” And God help him, he needed to stop lying to Mrs. Brodigan. “I need you to keep it, because I need to know that you’re gonna be all rig
ht.”
She sighed. “We’ll talk about it,” she promised.
Sure they would. Rory made himself smile again. “Guess we better figure out how we’re gonna sell all this stuff.” He could be useful still. Then after that—he didn’t need to be needed by Mrs. Brodigan anymore. That was fine.
“Patrick will help us,” she said, and her faith in her new man was reassuring. “Selling items, cleaning, closing out the books, there’s so much to do.”
“Great.” He bit his lip.
Because among all the things he’d need to do was find a newspaper and the want ads.
* * *
Rory spent the last of the afternoon and most of the evening packing antiques into boxes and dusting shelves he already kept dust free. He made a Going Out of Business sign to put in the window in the morning that might prompt some bargain hunters to come in.
As he was locking the front door, Mrs. Brodigan came back in through the side door. “You’ve got another postcard from Arthur.”
Rory nearly tripped over his own feet in his scramble over to her. She passed it over with a soft smile.
The air was still chilly on his walk home to his boarding house. He bought copies of the Sun and the Post off a newsie and left most of the papers on the main table for the other tenants to read, pulling out just the ads and taking them up to his room, where he sat cross-legged on his bed and spread them out on his quilt.
Help Wanted.
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 he was cynical. 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?”
“Just remembering Rory’s face when he talked about the pomander’s history.” Arthur kept staring into the falls. “He’s got to top Baron Zeppler’s most wanted list now. I know the New York paranormals are keeping an eye on things, but having no word is difficult.”
“I’m sure,” Jade said, with sympathy. “And I’m sure if Rory had any idea where you were going to be at any given time, he’d send letters. Maybe he could send a telegram?”
At two cents a word, the novel Arthur was longing to read would cost Rory a week’s rent. Even a three-word note would take his subway fare. Arthur wasn’t that selfish. “I’ve tried to call,” he said. “But his landlord just snaps at me and hangs up. And Rory never seems to be at the antiques shop. It’s as if the place is keeping unusual hours these days.”
Jade patted his arm. “He must love your postcards.”
Arthur scoffed. “Coded words, noth
ing more.”
“Not to a psychometric.”
Arthur’s world did one of its shifts. “What now?”
“Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten.” Arthur’s face must have given him away, because Jade broke into a grin. “You did! How on earth do you keep forgetting your innocent angel is actually a frighteningly powerful paranormal?”
“Christ.” Arthur covered his face with his hands, but he was smiling. “He might be reading the past of every postcard and seeing me mail them.”
“No might about it,” she said. “I’m certain he misses you too, but you’re basically sending him moving pictures of yourself every few days.”
“I certainly would have been more creative if I’d remembered.” He straightened, still shaking his head with a mix of fondness and embarrassment. He glanced sideways at Jade, then said the thing that was really on his mind. “His birthday is Friday.”
“The day after tomorrow?” Jade pursed her lips in thought. “The day after the full moon.”
Arthur winced. “We could drive back to New York from here in a day,” he said hesitantly. “But it would be asking you and Zhang to tolerate a long trip after a long night—”
“We’ll do it.”
Arthur’s heart lightened. “You will?”
“Of course we’ll do it, Ace, we care about him too,” Jade said firmly. “Maybe I can think of something special to celebrate.”
“You are such a lovely friend,” he said with feeling, a fresh pulse of affection for her as they stood side by side and watched Niagara Falls.
“Nonsense.” She nudged him with her elbow. “How could I miss the chance to tease you?”
He blinked. “Tease me about what?”
Her mouth turned up in a wicked smile. “Your boyfriend is turning twenty-one.”
Arthur choked.