Starcrossed (Magic in Manhattan)

by Allie Therin

  “I’m quite sure mine is the lion’s share of benefit from our association,” Arthur said, which made Mrs. Brodigan’s eyes soften.

  “Arthur does seem to find the gems,” Harry agreed, oblivious to their unspoken conversation. “The Russian brother and sister you recommended have been very helpful. I admit, I wasn’t expecting you to send half the League of Nations here, ready to work, but it’s gone well. At least, with those who show up.” Arthur’s jaw tightened at the dig, but Harry went on. “Speaking of your unusual friends, did you make your call?”

  “Yes, and I still need to return to the city tomorrow. But don’t worry,” Arthur added with a huff, as Harry started to protest, “I’m coming to John’s fundraiser.”

  Arthur eyed the compasses in their glass case. Did one of them have a lodestone guiding its needle? Why would Luther Mansfield have had such a thing in his collection, and would anyone at the fundraiser know anything about it?

  Outside the library window there was a piercing shriek like a joyful hellspawn, making both Arthur and Mrs. Brodigan startle. Harry himself didn’t twitch.

  “Speaking of children,” Arthur said dryly. “Yours are as well-mannered as ever.”

  Harry only smiled, unperturbed. “I moved to the country so they could run free as wild horses.”

  Mrs. Brodigan put a hand over her heart, looked thoroughly charmed. “How lovely.”

  “Lovely rubbish,” said Arthur. “Don’t listen to a word. He’s a soft touch, yes, but he also has more children than limbs. This is the cowardly surrender of a zookeeper overrun by the monkeys.”

  Harry tactfully ignored him, turning to Mrs. Brodigan and dipping his head politely. “You were saying that you’ve appraised all the compasses? Already?”

  “Brodigan’s is pleased to provide rapid appraisals,” Mrs. Brodigan said, neatly leaving out the part that their appraisals were quick because Rory had magic up to his eyeballs. “Shall we start at this end, with the Portuguese one? It’s a lovely compass and quite authentic, by the way.”

  As Harry and Mrs. Brodigan began to chat, Arthur let his attention wander and his gaze drift out the large windows, which framed a view of the snowy back lawn and the forest beyond. Bare trees lined the hill down to the Hudson, the frozen river visible between the skinny brown trunks, and in the distance the Catskill Mountains could be seen against the cloudy sky.

  Arthur had spent plenty of happy summer days here as a child and it was still lovely in winter. His parents had offered his own cottage retreat at one point, but despite loving the trees and mountains, he’d only wanted his small flat in the city, where the constant stream of noise could keep him company. It wasn’t as if he planned to stay in America for long.

  Though America was, unfortunately, home to one very charming American.

  His thoughts were interrupted by another happy shriek. Arthur glanced at the lawn and saw eighteen-month-old Robert in his thick wool coat toddling awkwardly but eagerly toward a wiry figure in a much rattier coat and patched newsboy cap.

  Arthur narrowed his eyes. “Excuse me,” he said, and headed for the library door.

  Chapter Two

  Arthur found the nanny sitting on the terrace steps down to the lawn, looking relaxed for a change. And why not? Her hellion charges were thoroughly occupied climbing Rory like a tree. It was, in fact, aggravatingly charming; Robert on Rory’s shoulders and pulling on his curls while the four-year-old twins with their matching plaid coats and pigtail braids each clung to a leg. Rory was even smiling, damn him; Arthur didn’t need him to be cuter.

  “I’m never getting my antiques dealer back, am I?” he said to her.

  “You’ve better luck trying now, before the older two get home from school,” she said. “Victoria’s already got a promise for jacks.”

  Arthur shook his head, grudgingly amused. Still, did Rory ever stop working?

  He strode down the steps to the group, and as he got close, he called, “Have the invading forces finished conquering Italy?”

  Four heads swiveled in his direction. Rory’s eyes widened, his gaze sweeping over Arthur. “Nice suit.”

  His voice was strangled. Arthur had been taking advantage of the country to dress more casually, in soft linen shirts and tweed jackets, usually leaving his hat in his room. But today he’d dressed back in his city clothes for the fundraiser, a fedora and three-piece suit, jet-black with a white shirt and red tie. Rory seemed to approve. How flattering.

  “I’ll take that. Who needs a hello?”

  Rory rolled his eyes, although he still looked a little wide-eyed. “Hi, soldier.”

  Oh, the little shit. And Rory hadn’t even registered he’d just gotten Arthur reflexively hot and bothered; he’d said it with the complete innocence of an inexperienced twenty-year-old who had no idea how many times Arthur had been picked up in a bar with that line.

  Arthur made himself shake it off. Not now, not surrounded by Harry’s children. And their nanny. And all of Harry’s bloody staff.

  “Rory surrenders,” he said to the little girls tugging on Rory’s legs. “May I have him returned, please?”

  “What’s Italy?” Eleanor demanded, letting Arthur take her hand and guide her and her twin sister, Evelyn, to their feet.

  “A place that manufactures unfairly enchanting smiles.” He ignored Rory’s sudden blush as he reached for Robert. “Come on, General, treaties have been signed.” The toddler came happily, babbling cheerful nonsense as Arthur lifted him from Rory’s shoulders and set him gently on the ground. “Off you get. Tell the cook to give you graham crackers or whiskey or whatever it is children eat.”

  As the kids scampered off toward the nanny, Rory made his huff that was almost a laugh. “You’re terrible. Now Mrs. Ivers is gonna have them underfoot in her kitchen, asking what whiskey is.”

  His dark eyes were bright, almost a match for the black, round frames of his glasses, and his olive skin was flushed pink from the cold. Arthur was probably staring at him too openly but he’d barely seen Rory since they arrived and his eyes were starved for the sight. “There’s not a drop in this law-abiding house. Trust me, I checked.”

  Rory huffed again, but he was almost smiling. “You ever consider just obeying the law in the first place?”

  Not when you’re around. Arthur pushed down the unhelpful thought. The nanny was taking the children inside, but there were still plenty of groundsmen in view, shoveling snow around the side of the house maybe ten yards away. As usual at the estate, Arthur and Rory weren’t alone. “What else am I supposed to drink?”

  “Hot things?” Rory suggested. “Apple cider, hot chocolate?”

  Spoken like someone who’d come of age during Prohibition and never heard of a hot toddy. But as Arthur eyed Rory, he felt a pang in his chest as he realized it might be more than that. Rory had no hat, no gloves, and only seemed to own the one ragged coat. Early February in upstate New York was bone chilling, and Rory’d been playing with children in the snow. No wonder his mind went straight to hot drinks.

  “You should go in,” Arthur said. “Get one of those hot drinks. It’s frigid out and that coat is adequate for fall at best.” He hesitated, then couldn’t help adding, “I know a tailor who could make you a warmer—”

  “No.”

  “But—”

  “We talked about this.”

  “No, I pointed out you never took payment for scrying the ring and you told me to go chase myself.”

  Rory wrapped his arms around himself. “I’m not taking money I didn’t earn. You’re not a handsome wallet.”

  Arthur would never have thought he’d want to be used for his money, but here he was, wishing Rory was just a little shallower. Could Arthur get away with buying a coat as a late Christmas present? Did he celebrate Christmas, was he Catholic? Early birthday, perhaps? Oh hell, Arthur didn’t even know when his birthday was
. “You could let me do something for you once in a while.”

  “You did, you brought me to this pretty place.” Rory’s gaze went down the hill, over the treetops to the Hudson River below. “I never knew the river could freeze like that.”

  Arthur sighed. Rory seemed to think the matter was settled. He should say something about his call with Jade, about the German paranormals in Boston who weren’t paranormals at all. But Rory was still gazing at the view like he was memorizing it. Arthur could tell him on the trip back to Manhattan tomorrow. He’d let Rory enjoy his last day here. “This far north of the city it freezes so solid you can drive on it. It’s only about half a mile. Harry sent pictures once.” That’d been during the war, when Arthur had been stationed in France and shared the photographs with his equally frozen platoon.

  Rory looked impressed. “Could we drive across it now?”

  “The ice dealers have, but they’re braver than me,” Arthur said, shaking his head. “It’s likely solid enough, but why? There’s nothing but woods over there, and they’re exactly the same as the woods over here.” He offered an apologetic smile. “I’d drive you, but it’s forty miles to the nearest bridge and I’ve promised to be at my brother’s fundraiser.”

  Confusion flitted across Rory’s face. “But Harry lives here.”

  “Not Harry,” said Arthur. “John.”

  “John’s the one between you and Harry?”

  “No, that’s Will. John’s the oldest.”

  Rory wrinkled his nose. “I thought it was Alice.”

  “She’s the next-youngest after me.”

  “Then how old’s Mary?”

  Arthur opened his mouth, then paused. “You know all my brothers’ and sisters’ names.”

  Rory hunched his shoulders. “Obviously I’m not good at keeping them straight yet—”

  “But you know their names.”

  “Well, yeah,” said Rory. “They’re your family.”

  Arthur wasn’t sure what to say. No one else he’d slept with had ever even tried to learn.

  “You don’t have to apologize,” Rory grouched. “I know your family needs you and I’m good at staying outta the way.”

  Arthur felt a sharp twist in his chest. “That’s not—no one’s asked you to stay out of my way. I was looking forward to seeing you at the appraisal.”

  Arthur hadn’t meant it critically, but Rory scowled and stuck his bare hands in his coat pockets. “How am I supposed to tell your fancy brother that only four of his compasses are real?”

  “Exactly as you just told me? You can speak to my brother, you know. He’s just a man who’s soft for his family.”

  “I know, it’s not—” Rory’s jaw tightened and he looked away. “That last compass isn’t French, it’s Italian,” he said, not meeting Arthur’s eyes. “Maybe ten years old. Sorry I don’t got better news.”

  Arthur’s heart sank. Oh, well done, Ace. You’ve managed to make him even more ill at ease. He rubbed his forehead. “Nothing for you to apologize for,” he said, trying to soften his tone. “Harry’s father-in-law bought it last fall, when he took Celeste and the children to France. Hardly your fault he was—how do you put it?—taken for a ride.”

  That got him a grudging smile. “Sounds silly when you say it with your accent.”

  “Swindled by a knavish charlatan, then. However you say it, you aren’t to blame.” The groundsmen weren’t in hearing range, but Arthur still lowered his voice. “When did you even find time to scry?”

  “This morning, just before dawn.” Rory also spoke softly. “When the house was quiet.”

  Which of course meant Rory had gotten up before dawn to scry for a man he was too skittish to look in the eyes. “You weren’t worried about being too deep in your magic to hear someone coming?”

  “Pavel kept a lookout.”

  “Pavel?” Arthur felt a stab of hurt. “You could have asked me.”

  Rory glanced around, eying the groundsmen. He turned back to Arthur, voice barely a whisper as he said, “What would your brother think if he caught you up with me before dawn?”

  “I’d hardly be a decent lookout if I let Harry catch you scrying,” Arthur said, matching his whisper. “Don’t you think I’d protect your magic from being discovered? We can hide your psychometry. It’s not like you brought your tempest-starting ring.”

  Rory’s expression did a funny twitch. Almost like guilt. “Um. About that—”

  “There you are, Arthur.”

  Arthur turned to the porch to see Harry standing at the top of the stairs, baby Robert in his arms.

  “Are you driving to the fundraiser or am I?” Harry tilted his head in a practiced sort of way as Robert poked at his glasses. “Oh, and Mr. Brodigan. One of the compasses was counterfeit, and Mrs. Brodigan mentioned that if I was going to toss it, you might like to have it instead?”

  Rory’s eyes went big as dinner plates. “I—I, uh—yeah, but—”

  “Wonderful.” Harry gently loosened Robert’s chubby fist from the temple of his glasses. “Consider it yours.”

  “Oh,” Rory stuttered out. “That’s—I—Igottago,” he blurted, and took off, vanishing like a ghost around the side of the house.

  Harry raised an eyebrow at Arthur. “Does he always behave a feral alley cat?”

  “He’s quite brave, actually,” Arthur said despairingly. “The first time I met him, he told me to screw off. About six times.”

  “Charming,” Harry said dryly. “Well, if the boy has a backbone, I’ve yet to see it. At this point, I barely believe he has a voice.”

  Arthur swallowed. It doesn’t matter what Harry thinks of Rory. You don’t need them to get along. It’s not as if you could ever tell Harry any truths about Rory anyway. Focus on the fundraiser, on finding someone who might know something about Mansfield’s estate. “I’m driving. Let’s go.”

  Chapter Three

  The mansion’s side stairs led to the basement and a kitchen bigger than the restaurant Rory’d once worked in. There were copper pans hanging from the low ceiling, a giant gas cookstove with five burners and a barrel-door warming oven on top, and a dumbwaiter to take the meals up to the butler’s pantry on the first floor. The staff dining room was across the hall, with windows to the grounds and a big fireplace. It wasn’t fancy like the dining room where Arthur and the family ate, but there was lots of space, and Rory’d been eating out of tins in his boardinghouse room so long that getting the chance to eat decent food he helped make himself, it was hard not to eat himself sick.

  Right now the kitchen smelled like beef stew and baking bread, nice to come into from the snow. Rory made a beeline for the cook, Mrs. Ivers, a short woman with salt-and-pepper hair.

  “Let me take over.” He jerked a thumb toward the door. “We’re leaving tomorrow. I’m sure you and Mrs. B want some time.” Mrs. Brodigan and Mrs. Ivers were immigrants from the same part of Ireland. It was sweet to hear them together, even if Rory was never gonna see the appeal of cabbages and bacon.

  Mrs. Ivers smiled brightly. “You’re a good lad.”

  The kitchen’s small windows faced the long driveway, and as Rory stirred the stew he caught a flash of moving red. Arthur’s Cadillac, Arthur behind the wheel and Harry in the passenger seat. Harry, who’d just given Rory an Italian compass like it was no big deal, like it wasn’t worth more than all of Rory’s other possessions combined.

  He bit his lip and watched the car disappear down the driveway, feeling a twinge in his magic as Arthur got farther away, in the link that let him find Arthur when he’d been heading all the way to Brooklyn.

  What’d it do to someone without magic, to have something anchored in their aura?

  Arthur said he never felt anything, but Rory suspected Arthur wouldn’t’ve owned up if it did bother him. Not if he thought Rory needed it.

  Rory finally t
urned away from the window, picking up the pot holder. He opened the lowest oven door to find the loaves golden all over, so he pulled them out and set them on the burner just as boots stomped in the hall.

  Pavel came in just a moment later, craning his head to look over Rory’s shoulder at the bread with obvious interest. “It’s gotta cool or it’s gonna fall apart when it’s cut,” Rory told him.

  Pavel didn’t look very impressed by that, but he turned away and instead took an orange from the basket sitting on the wooden table.

  “Thanks for letting me borrow your brother this morning,” Rory said, as Sasha appeared with several potatoes.

  “I was not far,” she reassured him over her shoulder, as she set the potatoes down in the sink. She and her brother had the same brown eyes and honey-brown hair, though hers was long and kept back with a kerchief.

  Rory looked at Pavel, who was methodically stacking orange peels in neat piles on the edge of the wooden table. They were alone, but he still dropped his voice to a whisper. “Is he gonna use those in a potion?”

  Sasha nodded. “He gets restless if he goes too long without alchemy. I would not be surprised if he makes the potion this afternoon.”

  The orange peels made Rory think of the orange potion at Coney Island, teleporting Gwen and Ellis to safety while sticking Rory with the mess. “What Pavel can do’s amazing.”

  “Yes,” she said softly. “But not worth the price.”

  “No, I know,” Rory said, with feeling. “Believe me, I know.”

  She glanced his way. “Yours is a similar magic, yes? Seeing history is subordinate, Ace and Jade call it. Maybe you understand.”

  Rory understood a little too well. He opened his mouth, but there was a loud clattering in the hall as more staff came in the side door, and he and Sasha both shut their mouths. But as Rory looked for a knife for the bread, his mind was spinning.

  Baron Zeppler had tried to use Gwen’s magic to unlock the Venom Dagger, and had cast her so deep into her own magic she’d seen nothing but auras for two years.