by Allie Therin
Oh. Rory turned his face into the pillow as his smile grew. Outside the window, the wind whistled almost happily, and he pressed backward, just a little closer into Arthur’s warmth. “I know you got weird taste in fellas. Who thinks someone’s a pain and keeps coming back for more when you coulda left me in the snow?”
Arthur’s arm tightened around Rory again, and when he spoke, Rory felt the ghost of breath. “There was a moment tonight when I thought you were at the bottom of the Hudson.”
Rory’s heart lurched. “I didn’t—”
“I know.” Arthur swallowed. “Just—maybe I can’t put my aura in your magic, but you’re not the only one who’s choosing this. All right?”
His voice was slightly raw and he was still holding Rory tightly, like Rory mattered, like he was something worth keeping close. Like maybe Rory wasn’t the only one who’d lose a piece of himself if he lost Arthur.
Rory found Arthur’s hand with his own, and threaded their fingers together over his own heart. “All right, tesoro,” he said softly. “Anything for you.”
Chapter Ten
Arthur was not too proud to admit a profound sense of relief when Harry arrived in the monastery office just after dawn.
“Jones was gracious enough to bring me over in the boat,” Harry said, as one of the monks led him into the guesthouse’s downstairs hall where Arthur and Rory were waiting, the pair of them sitting at opposite ends of a wooden bench like they hadn’t just spent the night stuck together like two pillows in the same case. “The ice is broken, the river’s flowing, and it was faster to cross over myself than hire a car to drive you forty miles to the bridge and another forty miles home, you complete and utter ass.”
“Good morning to you too,” Arthur said mildly, getting to his feet.
“Don’t good morning me.” Apparently they’d triggered Harry’s angry parent mode. “Calling to say you’re stranded at the monastery across the Hudson, how the devil—”
Arthur pointedly cleared his throat. “Fairly certain that individual isn’t here,” he said, for Rory’s sake, even if he fully sympathized with Harry’s cursing. In Harry’s shoes, he’d also be equal parts baffled and livid.
Harry gave him a dark look. “What on earth were you thinking, going out on the ice without knowing it was safe? I was up half the night worrying—”
“It wasn’t his fault.”
Arthur and Harry both turned in surprise.
Rory had stood too. He’d paled and was leaning his weight on the wall, but he was looking Harry straight in the eyes. “It wasn’t Ace’s fault,” he said again. “I’m the idiot who went out on the ice. Ace was rescuing me.”
Harry’s eyes narrowed. “You went out on the ice? Alone?”
“Um.” Rory bit his lip.
Oh, Arthur couldn’t bear that guilty look on Rory’s face. “Harry—”
Harry held up a hand. “I’m sure Mr. Brodigan can answer my question.”
Rory grew yet another shade paler, but he held his chin up. “Yeah, I did, so don’t bust Ace’s chops, okay? I’m the idiot, I’m the one you wanna yell at.”
“Don’t yell at him, I told him you were nice,” Arthur said quickly.
But Harry was already leaning in closer to Rory, whose eyes had gone huge behind his glasses. “You are going to tell all my children what you did,” Harry said, in a tone that brooked no arguments, “and how sorry you are. You’re about to become the cautionary tale to scare them from ever doing what you just did. I might tell all the village children about you.”
Rory swallowed. “Yes, sir.”
“Good.” Harry straightened, thankfully looking less apoplectic. “Arthur, help your friend to the boat. Jones is waiting.”
* * *
“Told you no one likes me when I try to talk to them.”
Arthur made a face as he helped Rory navigate the lawn. The storm had stopped during the night but left nearly eight inches of snow behind, making it slow going downhill to the edge of the river, even if Rory was thankfully putting more weight on his ankle. Arthur had made a large donation to St. Francis and kept the bandage, with Rory’s ankle now wrapped inside his shoe.
Harry was ahead, nearly to the runabout moored at the small wooden dock built out over the water, which sparkled in the early morning’s sun, the light catching the tiny waves and glittery chunks of ice as they floated past.
“I would prefer he was nice to you. He usually is.”
“S’all right. He was worried about you and I’m the one who put you in danger. He took it better than I would’ve; in his place, I’d have blown me right back across the Hudson.”
Arthur scoffed but smiled. “Cute.”
Rory glanced up at him. He was back in his own coat this morning but with no cap, and his sleep-tangled curls were loose and almost in his eyes. “Who’s being cute?”
Are you ever not, Arthur was tempted to say, except Rory did look serious. “It’s not like you’d actually use magic on someone because of me.”
Rory looked away. “I don’t know what I’d do to someone who put you in danger,” he said quietly. “But I don’t think it’d be nice.”
Arthur glanced down to Rory’s left hand, where they’d covered the ring with Arthur’s gloves. A ring that started tempests. A ring Rory still couldn’t remove. Have you ever—seen something you can’t explain? Mansfield’s lawyer, Edgar Barnes, had asked him. Or—someone?
Arthur had seen quite a lot of inexplicable somethings and someones, thank you, and he very much wanted to be back in Manhattan, where he could be certain Mansfield’s estate hadn’t given Edgar Barnes any funny ideas about the paranormals in Arthur’s life. But Rory was still limping. “Are you okay to travel today?”
“It’s just a sprain,” Rory said, like the idea of taking it easy with an injury was ridiculous. “It’ll be fine. Mrs. B and I need to get back and get the shop open, and you’ve got to talk with your brother. Your other brother. One of your other brothers.”
Arthur quirked a smile that faded almost instantly at the memory of the strain on John’s face, at John’s strange question.
Do you still dream of the war?
“Did Harry say we’re taking a boat back to his place?” Rory said, before Arthur could ruminate further.
“To the marina up the road. I’m sure his car is waiting there.” At that, Rory seemed to shrink into his coat, and Arthur frowned. “Have you ever been on a boat before?”
Rory shook his head. “My mom took one to get here. Said it took two weeks and she threw up the whole time.”
Arthur’s chest twisted with sympathy. “The Atlantic crossing isn’t easy.” He thought about it every time he made the trip, how people took ill even in the luxury of first class, and the far worse conditions suffered by so many others. “But the river’s barely half a mile wide at this point; you’re unlikely to have time to get seasick.”
Rory was still unusually stiff as Arthur helped him onto the small pier, the wood planks echoing under his boots as they walked over the water to where Harry was waiting on the dock. Harry also owned a yacht but Arthur loved this sleeker runabout, which had a powerful outboard motor and varnished golden wood with trim as red as his Cadillac.
The runabout had two rows of leather seats, like a car. Jones, the older Black man who managed the marina, was already in the boat, standing in the front behind the steering wheel and adjusting the gages.
Harry gestured to the back seat. “After you,” he said to Rory, still looking a little less friendly than normal.
Rory hunched his shoulders but didn’t say anything. As he started to climb into the boat, it rocked beneath him, and Rory promptly went green. Arthur couldn’t help himself; he offered his arm and Rory clamped onto it with both hands.
“First time on a boat,” Arthur said quickly to Harry. “And he has a sprained ankle.”
>
Harry glanced at where Rory was still clinging tourniquet-tight to Arthur’s arm. His expression softened slightly. “Just...get him on the boat,” he said with a sigh.
Arthur stayed on the dock while Rory held on to his arm. Once Rory was settled in the back seat, he let go and immediately grabbed for the side of the boat. Arthur wished he could hold his hand across the river. Instead, he offered what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “We’ll be across in no time,” he promised.
Rory swallowed. He glanced at Harry, then back at Arthur. “I, um, I can’t swim.”
Arthur’s heart clenched. Mindful of their audience, he said, “I can.”
Rory’s shoulder relaxed, just a fraction.
“And we can give the boy a life jacket,” Harry said dryly, and pointed to where Jones was already opening a small compartment under a seat. “Jones does know what he’s doing.”
“Thanks, Mr. Kenzie,” Rory said, sincere and heartfelt, not a trace of his usual grouchiness. He was too pale, his gloved hands still attached in a death grip to the side of the boat. “I’m real sorry about all this.”
It was the rare shy side of Rory that turned Arthur to putty, and it looked like even Harry wasn’t completely immune. “Yes, well,” Harry said gruffly. “Next time, stay off the ice, all right?”
As Jones reached over to the back seat and helped Rory put on a life jacket over his layers, Harry stepped a little closer to Arthur. His gaze was still on Rory. “Victoria will be glad he’s safe. She was terribly upset last night. Apparently she likes him.” He furrowed his brow. “I didn’t think she liked anyone.”
“There’s more to Rory than he lets people assume,” Arthur said.
“I suppose.” Harry was quiet for a moment, then said suddenly, “He stuck up for you.”
“Beg your pardon?”
“He hasn’t said two words to me all week, but when I started to yell at you, he threw himself between us like a shield.”
Arthur looked back at Rory, snug in his life jacket but still clutching the side of the boat. He wasn’t complaining, though, just watching the sparkling water with wide, nervous eyes. “I did tell you he was brave.”
He and Rory had to be careful, but it was a small boat; someone needed to sit in the back seat with Rory, and it made more sense for him than Harry, who was older, or Jones, who was steering. Arthur stepped into the boat as gingerly as he could, mindful of the motion but too big to stop it from rocking completely.
Rory glanced up from where he’d been staring over the side of the boat into the water.
“Hi,” said Arthur.
Rory’s answering smile was shaky but grateful and real. “Hey.”
Arthur glanced back at Harry, but his brother had already climbed into the front seat and gotten into a conversation with Jones. Arthur inched closer to Rory and stretched out one leg until it met Rory’s, enough to pass as accidental in the small space in the boat but a line of warmth and support all the same.
“All right?” he said lightly.
Rory glanced up, and his eyes were bright with heart-melting warmth. “Better now.”
* * *
The boat brought them to the marina, and Harry drove them back to his house from there. Rory slouched in the back seat and tried not to call any attention to himself. Arthur’d said he could be himself, even around his family, but it was still probably smarter to keep his trap shut until he got off Harry’s bad list, if that ever happened.
They drove under the trees up the estate’s long driveway. As they pulled up to the garage, the house’s side door burst open and nine-year-old Victoria came running out. “Did you find him?”
“Aw, Vicky.” Rory scrambled out of the car, hopping as his ankle brushed the ground and twinged. “I’m so sorry.”
Victoria stopped right in front of him. “Did you hurt your foot?”
“Yes, he did.” Harry stepped out of the front, Arthur getting out of the other side. “And Mr. Brodigan is going to tell all of you exactly how it happened and why you shouldn’t go out on the ice.”
Victoria raised her eyebrows. “You went out on the ice?”
Rory winced. “I shouldn’t’ve. I know we didn’t get to practice jacks. I didn’t forget, I just—”
“I made Frederick practice with me,” she said. “We’ll play the next time I see you.”
“Um.” Rory shot a glance at Harry, who likely didn’t ever want to see Rory again, but the man was already directing his staff to start loading Arthur’s car with their bags. “Yeah, course we will.”
“Good.” She politely but pointedly held an envelope out. “Uncle Arthur says you’re returning to the city today. Will you deliver this for me, please?”
Rory took it, and found it embossed with Harry’s Hyde Park address but hand-addressed to Miss Lizbeth Meyers in better penmanship than Rory’d ever have.
“You said she is eight and in the same year in school as me.” Victoria hesitated. “Father corresponds with many people by letters. Do you think Miss Meyers would want—”
“You bet she would,” said Rory. “Lizbeth’s like you, real clever. She’d love a letter.”
Victoria broke into a bright smile, showing teeth she hadn’t grown into yet, her happiness making Rory smile back. “Thank you, then,” she said, before turning and going to Arthur, saying something that made the other man laugh before he followed her into the house.
As Rory moved to shut the car door, he found Harry still at the car, eyes on him. He flinched, but what was he gonna do, run off on this ankle? He made himself meet Harry’s gaze across the top of the car. “I really am sorry I was so much trouble.”
But Harry shrugged. “You made my daughter smile. For that, I’d forgive far greater transgressions than a moment of idiocy.” He hesitated, looking awkward for the first time before he said, “I’m sorry if I was sharp this morning.”
“No big deal, you don’t gotta apologize,” Rory said hurriedly. “I was stupid and you were worried about your brother.”
“I was.” Harry pursed his lips. “I still can’t believe Arthur went out on the ice. He knows better.” He hesitated again. “You two must be closer friends than I’d realized. How did that happen?”
Harry’s tone was puzzled, not accusing, but Rory’s stomach still dropped into his shoes. “Nah,” he said, as firmly and fast as he could. “Mr. Kenzie is a great customer for Aunt Leena. She’s a widow, you know. Lost Uncle Seamus to Spanish flu, runs the whole antiques shop by herself. Course he’s gonna look out for the only family she’s got left.”
Harry blinked, and then his confusion cleared. “Oh. Oh, of course, yes, rescuing a widow’s only nephew certainly sounds like something Arthur would do.”
“And Mr. Kenzie said he was a soldier.” If Harry Kenzie struggled to see how someone like Rory could be Arthur’s friend, Rory would hide behind another explanation. Because Arthur had said Rory should be himself, so Rory was gonna be the wall that kept Arthur and his secrets safe. “Bet that soldier thing sticks with you. I bet he would’ve run out there to save anyone.”
The last of Harry’s confusion cleared up. “A very fair point,” he said, shaking his head with a fond expression. “He’s been all brawn and bravery since he was a baby.” Harry tapped the roof of the car. “Safe travels,” he said, already turning away.
“Thanks,” Rory said, and watched Harry make his way into the house without giving him a backward glance.
Chapter Eleven
Rory tried to stay awake, he really did.
But with the Ivanovs staying at Harry’s place until Saturday to finish the garden walls, Rory had the back seat to himself to stretch out, back against one door, his ankle propped across the long bench seat and Arthur’s huge coat draped over him like a blanket. Add in the rumbling of the engine and Arthur’s deep voice as he chatted with Mrs. Brodigan, and Rory was as
leep before they’d left the village limits.
He woke to find the dense buildings of the city, the softer light of late afternoon slipping between the buildings of Hell’s Kitchen. “Nonsense,” Mrs. Brodigan was saying in the front seat, as Arthur pulled the Cadillac to the curb in front of Brodigan’s Appraisals. “There’s still plenty of afternoon left. I have things to do here and you have an appointment to keep. At least you know it won’t be magic with your brother.”
“Is that supposed to cheer me up?” Arthur said. “Felicitations, you’ve been entangled in a dire political emergency, an alderman caught at a speakeasy or perhaps the mayor wore the wrong sort of hat.”
He sounded wry, his fancy accent extra fancy, like Mrs. Brodigan’s Irish brogue brought out the English in his speech. Rory rested his head against the back seat in contentment. He could listen to Arthur like music on a record.
“You could try to sound pleased about that,” Mrs. Brodigan said with amusement. “Now really, I can manage without your muscles, dear. If you’d like to take Rory to his boardinghouse—”
“Nah,” Rory spoke up. “I got stuff to do here.”
Arthur looked over his shoulder, cheekbones and shadowed jaw lit by the dim lights on the street. Geez, he was too handsome for a shabby place like Hell’s Kitchen, like a falcon in a flock of pigeons. “Have a good nap?”
Rory had. Sleep came easier when Arthur was close. “I thought we’d be here by lunch,” he said instead.
“The roads were in a terrible state,” said Mrs. Brodigan. “Last night’s snow, you know.”
“Yes,” said Arthur. “That snow the unexpected north wind brought in.”
Rory narrowed his eyes.
“Our Mr. Kenzie here is late to his appointment with his brother, but he’s insisting he’ll assist us in Hell’s Kitchen and be later still,” she said. “Perhaps you can talk some sense into him, dear.”
