by Allie Therin
“Yeah, Ace, I’m okay,” Rory said, meaning every word. “I’m safe with you. I belong with you, like I didn’t know I could belong with anyone.”
“Me too,” Arthur whispered, and stole the rest of Rory’s words with another kiss.
* * *
The early sun streamed in through the window on the third floor, catching dust in the beam of light. Arthur’s arm was slung over Rory, who had tucked up against him, back to Arthur’s chest. He could feel Rory’s heartbeat under his palm, his slow, peaceful breaths as his fingers skimmed Arthur’s forearm, light as butterfly wings.
“I never felt like this before.” His voice was rough from sleep, his city accent thicker than ever.
Arthur smiled and tightened the arm around Rory. “Like what? Like you’ve suddenly got yourself a six-foot ball and chain?”
Rory huffed affectionately. “The opposite,” he said, slipping his hand under Arthur’s against his chest and entwining their fingers. Arthur could just make out the small, enchanting smile on his face. “I’ve never felt this weightless. Like I’m in control of my magic, my life, for the first time. Like I don’t have to be afraid. Like having you has set me free.”
Oh. Arthur squeezed his hand with his larger one, emotion thick in his throat. “I thought you were brave, you know,” he said softly. “When we first met. You were brave in the antiques shop when every day was a struggle to leave your room, and you were brave last night when you saved my life. I have always admired your courage.”
“Me?” Rory squirmed over onto his back, his shoulder now hanging off the mattress, and Arthur couldn’t even make more space because the bed was so small he was already pressed against the wall. “You’re the one who hunts magic even though you got none of your own, because you want to protect everyone else. You’re brave enough to hitch yourself to a paranormal.”
There were no glasses to hide Rory’s sleepy, long-lashed brown eyes, smudged with remnants of yesterday’s kohl liner. His curls were tangled around his face, and Arthur couldn’t resist tugging one. “A paranormal partner,” he said, stressing the word. “Because that’s what you are, and I swear to you, Teddy, I do know that. And I mean, Christ, you can call a bleeding tornado—you don’t need to be overprotected. Maybe I won’t even worry about the terrible drivers and let you walk on the outside edge of a New York sidewalk.”
Rory’s lips quirked up. “No, you won’t.”
Arthur winced. “No, I won’t,” he admitted. “But I’ll try.”
Rory was still smiling, though. “Speaking of New York.” He reached up and ran his hand over Arthur’s stubbled jaw. “Do we need to take the first ship back to deal with that pomander?”
Arthur hesitated. It was a beautiful, peaceful morning. There were no more torn auras or overwhelming magic, just the two of them, stronger together, their entwined lives stretching out in front of them. Maybe, finally, they had time.
“Well, we’re already here, in Europe,” he pointed out. “And we have, possibly, earned at least a short respite. We could stay in Paris for a few weeks, enjoy the world’s fair. And when we do go, we could take a ship back from another port. Here in France, or in Spain. Or Italy.”
Rory’s smile grew. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, that sounds really good. But what about you? What do you want?”
“Anywhere and anything,” Arthur whispered honestly, leaning down for the kiss, “so long as I’m with you.”
Epilogue
Three weeks later...
“Ace, come on, we got a train to catch!” Rory called out to the hall. He was gonna miss their room in Paris, but they’d be in Milan by evening, then their ship back to New York left next week from Palermo—the same port his mom had left from twenty-five years earlier.
Arthur’s footsteps came down the hall, then his voice. “Don’t you want your mail before we leave?”
Rory furrowed his brow. “How am I getting mail in Paris?”
Arthur stepped into the doorway, a stack of letters in his hands. “Mrs. Brodigan—sorry, Mrs. McIntyre—asked my brother Harry for an address. I used Wesley’s.”
Rory snorted. “You made your ex collect and send our mail?”
“He probably makes his butler do it,” Arthur said, passing Rory the biggest envelope in the stack.
It was addressed to him above the Kensington address, Mrs. B’s handwriting so familiar from four years together in the antiques shop. A huge lump formed in Rory’s throat, and for a moment he missed her so much his eyes stung. “I can’t wait to see her again,” he said, tearing it open eagerly. “I’ll never forgive Zeppler for making me miss her wedding—oh.”
In with the letter were two photographs. The first was a posed picture, Mrs. B in a chair with her new husband behind her, and her new stepdaughter next to her. The daughter held a small bundle of blankets, a tiny face barely visible.
There was a note with the picture in the familiar handwriting. They asked my suggestion for Ellie’s middle name. I hope you know what a comfort you were during my most difficult years, and that no matter where life takes us now, you will always be my nephew.
Rory turned the picture over to see the adults’ names written in someone else’s penmanship, along with Ellie Theodora, born April 29, 1925.
“Oh geez,” he blurted, passing the picture to Arthur before he did anything embarrassing like actually cry.
Arthur’s face softened as he saw the picture. “That is absolutely lovely,” he murmured. He craned his neck to see the second photograph in Rory’s hand, and broke into a huge smile. “Oh, that was going to be Jade’s birthday present to you! Stella must have sent it to be forwarded. Look how well it turned out.”
Rory glanced down, and his eyes widened. It was the candid photograph taken the night they celebrated his birthday at the Magnolia. Stella stood on stage, with their friends clustered at the foot, ready to toast. Zhang’s arm was around Jade, their happy faces turned to each other and so close their noses nearly touched. Pavel and Ling were just next to Rory, glasses raised, while Sasha was looking up at Stella on stage. Arthur was on the right side of the photo, and photo-Arthur’s affectionate gaze was on a shocked and happy-looking Rory in the middle of the group.
“We’re framing that,” Arthur said.
Rory couldn’t stop staring. “I’ve never seen a picture of myself.”
“And now you know how handsome you really are.”
That made Rory roll his eyes but grin. “Me, handsome? Look at you.” He waved the picture in his hand. “This is staying with me forever.”
“Good,” Arthur said. “You should have pictures to keep of everyone who loves you.”
Rory set the picture on top of the suitcase and grabbed Arthur by the tie. “Come here.”
“Weren’t you just needling me about a train?” Arthur teased, as he let Rory pull him down to lip level.
“We’ll make it,” Rory promised, and pushed him down to the bed.
* * *
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Loved Wonderstruck?
To find more of Allie’s books or join her email list, visit her website at www.allietherin.com.
Acknowledgments
I owe the deepest thanks to so many amazing people:
To C, who fights my battles and makes me laugh—the world is better for having you in it, and I’m so grateful you’re in my life;
To my kind and brilliant sister, who puts up with last-second texts about magic and helps me break through any wall;
To my family and friends, who’ve been my light during the COVID-19 pandemic;
To Victoria, who’s been there for me—and Rory and Arthur—since the beginning;
To my talented translator, Cristina Massaccesi, who goes the extra mile and offers such insightful translations;
To my agent, Laura Zats, for lifting up my self-esteem and bringing down my anxiety, and looking out for me at each new author step I take;
To my editor, Mackenzie Walton, who may or may not be an actual wizard but certainly works magic on my words;
To everyone at Carina Press, Kerri, Stephanie, Ronan, and the art, marketing, and production teams, for helping me bring Arthur and Rory into the world;
And to T, who has left me wonderstruck every day since he was born. I love you bigger than the sun.
About the Author
Allie Therin is a writer and avid reader of sci-fi, fantasy, and romance. She also is, or has been, a bookseller, an attorney, a parks & rec assistant, a boom operator, and a barista for one (embarrassing) day. Allie grew up in a tiny Pacific Northwest town with more bears than people, although the bears sadly would not practice Spanish with her.
Allie loves to hear from readers! Find all the ways to connect with her at her website, allietherin.com.
In 1920s Scotland, even ghosts wear plaid. Welcome to a sexy, spooky new paranormal historical series from debut author Ella Stainton.
Keep reading for an excerpt from Best Laid Plaids
Chapter One
Joachim
Fifeshire, Scotland, 1928
Joachim kept a brisk pace up the interminably long path to Rosethorne House, no matter that his ankle might give out before he got there. The steel tip of his walking stick twanged, punctuating each step in the way he’d grown accustomed in the ten years since the end of the Great War. Gravel drives like this were the worst; bloody slippery underfoot and hard to catch purchase. He mopped his brow once he stopped on the wide sandstone steps that led to a front door of oak that could have graced a medieval castle.
Rosethorne House, my arse.
It was an estate and a rather formidable one. Sixteenth-century foundation, though a storybook facade had been added sometime in the past two hundred years. Ivy and some sort of flowering vine trailed between small diamond-paned windows, which glittered in the sunshine.
After traveling for three hours on the train up from the university town of Durham in the north of England, and another hour and a half on the bus from Edinburgh, Joachim’s resolve flagged. He was much too shabby to be a guest in a place like this.
Bollocks. When he’d concocted the scheme to venture into the lowlands of Scotland to gather research for his PhD, Stuart Graham, his mentor and friend who made the arrangements, could have at least warned that he belonged to a wealthy family. But Joachim had never been a coward—had he? He pressed the doorbell before he answered that question.
Less than thirty seconds later, the door opened wide. A smart black-suited man—the butler?—looked the weary traveler over with such liveliness that Joachim’s ears pinked. Really, Stuart, you could have warned me to buy a new blazer at the least.
Joachim introduced himself and asked for his host. “He should be expecting me?”
Dammit, he shouldn’t have ended on that questioning note, but the unseasonable April heat coupled with the dusty hike from the bus stop left him all out of sorts. He did his best to surreptitiously slick down his wavy hair, difficult without a comb and mirror.
The butler ushered Joachim into a wood-paneled hall and held out an arm for his stuffy wool overcoat and hat, which he handed over with relief. Sniffed himself furtively. Didn’t smell as slovenly as he looked, thank heavens.
“Ah, yes. Master Ainsley is in the parlor awaiting your arrival.”
The answer settled some of the gnawing in his belly; for the past two hours, he’d whiled away the final leg of his trip worrying that Stuart’s quirky at best—barmy as a Bedlamite at worst—younger brother would refuse to give him accommodations for the night.
But he was expected, and Joachim inhaled deeply and plastered a smile on his face as he was led down the hall toward the tinny sound of a gramophone belting out Let’s Misbehave.
Odd choice of music for an intellectual.
Though perhaps not so peculiar when said scholar had annihilated his reputation as one of the Empire’s most learned folklorists by publicly insisting that he chatted with ghosts.
On a daily basis.
A sitting room worthy of Sir Walter Scott greeted him. A fireplace large enough to house a small family crackled, flanked by sterling sconces in a similar grand ratio that radiated a warm glow. The room sported two enormous wooden chandeliers, their electric lights turned off, and heavy green draperies were pulled shut instead of allowing the sunshine in.
Such a waste on a day like this. They were few and far between in Britain.
In front of the hearth, a well-shaped leg balanced on a log. It belonged to a kilt-clad man, poking at the fire, which to Joachim’s mind, didn’t need tending. A black-spotted setter thumped its feathered tail once as greeting.
“Excuse me, Sir, your guest has arrived.” The butler cast another impertinent stare Joachim’s way before disappearing back down the hall.
Sir continued to thrust his poker at the fire, causing a flurry of sparks to chase up the flue like fireworks. Was that a giggle? Joachim watched with increasing annoyance for an entire minute. His ankle wobbled with the need to sit.
The setter dragged its body off the Persian rug and pressed its head against Joachim’s thigh. He patted the dog once but grunted dissent when it nosed his groin. His host twitched like a ghost walked over his grave.
“Good heavens, how long have you been there?” The iron poker rattled to the floor. “Heel, Violet. That’s not the polite way to meet our guests, is it?” The dog sat down and looked for all the world as though she disagreed.
But Joachim could merely gawp, his wits chased away by the sheer physical beauty of his host facing him now. Within a half second, his hand was firmly pumped and grasped in long fingers that would be elegant if not for the bitten-down nails.
“I’m Ainsley Graham, but I reckon you know that, or you wouldn’t be here, would you?” The supernaturally good-looking man beamed as he continued to not only hold on to Joachim’s right hand, but to cover the knot of their palms with his other.
In the dim light, Joachim was unable to make out the color of the gentleman’s eyes, which traced down his body even more intimately than the butler’s had. Silky, overlong hair drooped artfully over his smooth brow and shone like sunlight through a goblet of claret. His wide smile curved higher on the right.
This expensively dressed ginger was simply the most magnificent creature Joachim had ever encountered in his life. Astonishing, since his brother Stuart often looked as though he’d rolled out of bed five minutes before hurrying to the university, with half his hair sticking up.
“I’m Joachim Cockburn, how do you do?” His mouth was as dry as the Mojave.
The infamous Dr. Graham’s gaze drifted down toward Joachim’s hips. “Cockburn?” His grin hinted at a leer. “One can only hope from the right reasons.”
Before Joachim could scowl, Ainsley Graham sauntered to an already open crystal decanter and poured two drams of whiskey. Or dram and a half, really. He pushed one into Joachim’s hand and set his own down untouched, gesturing for his guest to sit.
Relieved to get off his ankle, Joachim chose the corner of a sofa farthest from the fireplace and balanced his walking stick against the arm. Even with at least ten other options, his host sat so close on the same sofa that the spicy scent of his eau de cologne tickled Joachim’s nostrils and made him sneeze.
Queer. Yet, at a different time and place it would be more than welcome. Stuart’s brother, he reminded himself and took a longer drink than he ought. Running his finger under his collar, Joachim gasped from the whiskey’s sharp bite an
d set it down on a side table with a thud.
“I’m pleased that you got the telegram about my arrival. I worried that you’d wonder why a stranger showed up on your doorstep.” His laugh was forced but Ainsley Graham appeared not to have heard him. In fact, his focus was so intent on something behind Joachim’s head that he turned to look to see what it could be.
Graham shook his head once and raised his eyes back to Joachim’s. Gray, perhaps? Or blue? It was too dark to tell but they were light and wide and so thickly lashed it was a wonder he could even prop open his eyelids.
“Oh, I’d have been pleased to let you in, even without a telegram.” The redhead turned his body sideways, drawing his bare knee along Joachim’s thigh.
Damnably close.
Yet Joachim was unable to squirm away, even if he’d actually wished to. There was no room. “Er, well... Dr. Graham—”
“Ainsley, please. Doctor sounds as though I should be decked in tweed and wear a monocle.” He flicked over Joachim’s tweed blazer and he shrugged, not in the least embarrassed. Or not showing it at any rate.
“All right, Ainsley.” Joachim did his best to smile and behave as though his host’s body wasn’t pressed against his hip. And moving closer with each breath.
Ainsley ran his fingertip across the bridge of the sofa near enough to touch Joachim’s shoulder. “What did you say your first name was again? I’m afraid I was too caught up in your pronunciation of your surname to give it proper due.”
Blast the man. They did tend to say Coe-burn in Scotland, didn’t they? Joachim hadn’t been razzed so much in the army. Well, at least not since his time in the army. His nostrils flared and he swiveled his head to glare at his host, whose lips were pursed into a seductive pout.
