Wonderstruck

by Allie Therin

  “So grown up!” Jade said, far too amused. “Still seven years younger than you, of course—”

  “No, stop it—”

  “But he’ll finally be old enough to vote. That must make you happy, right, soldier?”

  “Not another word.”

  Chapter Three

  They snuck back to the falls the following night, Arthur, Jade, and Zhang in his physical body, outfitted with raincoats and flashlights. The power and thunder of the water falling under the moonlight put goose bumps on Arthur’s skin.

  The elevator at street level at the top of the falls was, of course, closed for the night. Zhang kept watch for security as Arthur picked the padlock. Jade, whose telekinesis was precise enough she could start a car engine, managed the lift’s controls as the three of them descended 125 feet to the base of the falls.

  “There is a hydropower tunnel,” she said, as they stepped out of the lift onto the viewing platform. “But I think we want to stay as close to the water as possible. I’m not sure how far the veil of power will extend.”

  Arthur looked up the falls, a silvery sheen that extended up toward the sky. “Zhang was able to get his projection at least partway into the tunnels earlier.”

  “But the moon is in play now,” said Jade. “And we’re hoping it’s strengthened the magic-dampening effect.”

  “It has.” Zhang’s eyes were closed. “I can only go as far as the door.”

  Jade rubbed her hands. “That’s promising.”

  Zhang opened his eyes, nodding. “There may be deeper parts of the tunnels where magic still works, but I can’t get to them. Let’s aim for the window that overlooks the falls.”

  The pomander was in its heavy lead box, tucked in Arthur’s coat pocket. He hadn’t forgotten what it was like when it was out of its box, the terrible scent that had choked his throat and made him retch. He wasn’t looking forward to opening it again. “Well, we should know fairly quickly if the falls’ dampening effect works on the pomander,” he said grimly, “because this relic reeks.”

  The lock on the door to the tunnels gave way easily enough to Arthur’s lock picks. There wasn’t anything to steal, after all; the locks were only a safety measure designed to keep out daredevils and thrill seekers.

  They turned on their flashlights and stepped inside, the gray rock shiny and wet in the beams. Arthur hadn’t been here since childhood, and the new tunnel built last year was longer than the old one he vaguely remembered from the tour his family had taken. It was strangely quiet in the deepest parts of the tunnels, the pounding water distant.

  But as they turned down a long tunnel and approached the back of the waterfall, the volume grew again. Finally, they were standing at the end of one tunnel, just behind the guardrail that separated the last few feet of tunnel from the opening cut like a window into the rock directly behind the falls.

  Arthur’s flashlight beam danced over the streaming water just beyond the rock’s edge. “How’s your magic, you two?”

  “I’m trying to lift off Zhang’s hat,” Jade said wryly, “and it won’t budge.”

  “I can’t project at all,” Zhang added.

  Arthur put the flashlight beam on his watch. “It’s just oh-three-hundred now,” he said. “Moon is at its zenith.”

  “We’ll need to get close as we can to the water,” Jade said, but in the edge of the flashlight, Arthur saw her make a face.

  “Something wrong?” Zhang asked her.

  Her expression turned almost sheepish. “I don’t like unpleasant scents.”

  Zhang blinked. “Scents? Really?”

  “You’re a telekinetic, bootlegging ex-spy,” said Arthur.

  “I like perfume!” she protested. “Flowers, fresh fruit, those sorts of things. Not...” She waved a hand in the general direction of Arthur’s pocket. “You know. That thing. I already know the scent made grown men vomit.”

  “I was one of them,” Arthur muttered. “For what it’s worth, when Hyde opened it on that ocean liner in Philadelphia, it hit me much harder than it hit him. I was vomiting; he was barely slowed. And it became easier to bear when Rory remade the link, so perhaps being paranormal will give you protection.”

  “Hyde’s magic had been altered by Baron Zeppler and a relic, though,” said Zhang. “He’d lost his ability to shift back to fully human form, but his magic was likely stronger than ours and gave more protection. And down here, where our magic’s dampened, we may not have any extra protection at all.”

  “So we’re all going to hate it.” Jade sighed. “Come on. It’ll be worse if we put this off.”

  She’d dressed in combat boots, not her usual heels, and climbed gracefully over the railing that kept viewers from the slippery rocks closest to the falls. Arthur followed, then Zhang, and the three of them huddled on the rocks as the spray from the falls soaked their coats and faces.

  Arthur pulled out the pomander’s box. He set it carefully on the rocks. “Brace yourselves,” he said, raising his voice over the thundering water, “because if the falls aren’t powerful enough to dampen its magic, the smell could knock you over and right out of the tunnel.”

  Taking his own advice, he gripped the soaked and slippery rocks of the circular tunnel mouth as best he could with his left hand, and then opened the box with his right.

  The stench of rotting flowers burst into the tunnel, as sickly sweet and choking as it had been the night on the ocean liner. He heard Zhang retch and Jade choke as his own stomach promptly revolted with so much force his hand slipped on the rocks.

  He still might have caught himself, except a slash of unfamiliar pain suddenly cut across his chest.

  He gasped. His arm seized up and he was tumbling forward, toward the opening and the waterfall, as the much more familiar sensation, the sizzle of Rory’s magic, erupted against his skin.

  A hand closed on Arthur’s arm. “The box!” Zhang called, as he yanked Arthur back, away from the edge.

  There was a hiss of pain from Jade as she slammed the lid of the pomander’s box shut. A moment later, the smell was gone, disappeared into the mist of the unending water.

  Arthur was breathing hard. He rubbed his chest, but the strange pain had vanished, almost as if it had been driven away by the static electricity of Rory’s magic.

  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 suppose vomit behind Niagara Falls has 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 my best friend.” Lizbeth had pointed threateningly at Rory, her eyes puffy and red. “And you tell Mrs. B to write me too. I want lots of letters.”

  That had been two hours ago. And now Lizbeth was at school, and they’d said goodbye to Mrs. Meyers, and there was a For Lease sign in the window and the shop was bare. Rory had no more time left. It didn’t matter that he wasn’t ready; this part of his life was over, moving on without him like a train leaving him behind on the platform.

  “But this is not goodbye for us,” Mrs. Brodigan said firmly, straightening. “There are more mysterious forces in the world than even your magic, dear. I’m certain we’re meant to see each other again. We’re family.”

  About halfway down the street was Mr. McIntyre’s car. Mrs. Brodigan’s husband-to-be was waiting patiently behind the wheel, and Rory thought he could see a smiling young woman in the passenger seat.

  He nodded. “Family. Yeah,” he managed to say.

  Mrs. Brodigan hugged Rory then, and he hugged her back.

  She pulled back a moment later, her eyes still too shiny. “And what kind of aunt would forget your birthday?”

  She’d remembered? “I figured, with everything going on—”

  She held out an envelope. “I’ve split it down the middle, the money I saved for you and the money we made on sales. It’s not as much as you deserve, but that means you’ll take it.”

  Rory shook his head. “No, you keep—”

  “Young man, this is your birthday present.” She pressed the envelope into his hand. “Not another word.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said, his manners taking over automatically. He’d minded his mom for thirteen years; he could tell a man to go to hell forever, but women were another story.

  “Can we take you to lunch?” she said. “Patrick and Maggie would love to get to know you.”

  “Nah,” he said quickly. “You get going to Boston.”

  She frowned. “We’ve always done dinner together on your birthday—”

  “I got plans,” he lied.

  She smiled and patted his arm. “Write to me,” she said, “while I’m off on my next adventure and you’re off on your adventures with Arthur.”

  Before he could protest that he hadn’t been invited on any adventures, she was gone, walking down the street to Mr. McIntyre’s car. The young woman got out of the passenger seat, so pregnant she couldn’t button up her coat. She was beaming for Mrs. Brodigan, who was smiling too, and the two women embraced as Mr. McIntyre scooted into the middle of the front bench seat, making room for Mrs. Brodigan to drive.

  Rory smiled wistfully. He stepped close to the building, next to the faded letters that still spelled out Brodigan’s Appraisals, and watched her drive away.

  * * *

  He made it to the hotel restaurant just before it opened for lunch. Next to the kitchen was an office for the restaurant manager and a short row of lockers. Rory always brought the lock from the inside of his boarding house door, and he quickly stopped by the lockers to secure the one thing he was wearing that he cared about, his newsboy cap from Arthur, along with the envelope of cash Mrs. Brodigan had just given him.

  “You’re late,” snapped Mr. Baker, the manager, as Rory made it out on the floor.

  Rory wasn’t. But he bit his retort back, because waiters were easy to find in New York and he needed this job.

  It was a hugely busy Friday, every table full for lunch, and even the afternoon brought in business. Mr. Baker was too cheap to pay for enough staff, so Rory had to practically sprint around to take care of everyone, because patrons wouldn’t care he was overworked, they’d assume he was slow because he was lazy and leave even smaller tips. He took orders, refilled drinks, and carried trays of oyster cocktail and pea soups, sole gratiné and lamb with mint jelly.

  The lunch crowd bled into late afternoon. His feet hurt in the too-big dress shoes before dinner even started, and after four hours of dealing with the dinner crowd, he was aching to crash on even his lumpy boarding house bed. All he wanted for his birthday was to get out of here.

  But as he was hanging up his apron, Mr. Baker poked his head out of the office. “You’re on dishes.”

  “What?” Rory snapped, before he could stop himself.

  “Mind your tone,” Mr. Baker warned, and pointed at the kitchen. “Get in there. Dishwasher quit.”

  Of course the dishwasher’d finally quit; she’d been paid even less than the waiters for twelve-hour days in a hot,
stuffy kitchen. “It’s nine thirty.” Rory gritted his teeth. “And I’ve been here since lunch.”

  “And you still want to be here tomorrow, right?” Mr. Baker said icily.

  Washing the dishes would take hours; long past ten, when his boarding would be locked, and now he no longer had the shop to sleep in. If he kept working, where was he gonna spend the night? The street?

  He had the money from Mrs. Brodigan, enough to cover a couple months’ rent. He could quit right now, go home, and look for a better job.

  But what if that money ran out before he found something else?

  Rory hesitated. If his rent money ran out, then buried in his trunk was another lifeline from Arthur—the maintenance key to his apartment. And the note, you are welcome here.

  Except—what if Arthur came back and found he had to support Rory, that Rory had become his burden? He already let Rory keep his magic in his aura—was Rory really planning to ask Arthur to keep him in his house too?

  Baker was sneering at him, certain that Rory had no other options but to take his abuse.

  Rory swallowed down his arguments. He’d figure out where to sleep when he got off work. With a deep breath, he turned away and went into the kitchen, where dishes were stacked in teetering piles next to the sink. He let out his breath in a long sigh and got to work.

  He’d been washing dishes for more than an hour, lower back aching, sweaty from the heat and steam, when the air in front of him flickered.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  Rory nearly dropped the sudsy, slippery plate.

  Zhang’s glowing astral projection was in the sink, his torso rising out of the soapy water to eye level. “What are you doing?” he said again.

  Rory blinked hard. “You’re back!” Wincing at how loud his voice was, he glanced over his shoulder, but the kitchen was empty and everything silent. Well, silent except for the glowing man in his sink, and Zhang was the most welcome thing Rory’d seen in weeks. “Aw geez, it’s so good to see you,” Rory told him. “And if you’re back, is Arthur—”