by Allie Therin
Chapter Six
It was twilight by the time Arthur and Harry got back to the estate. The wind had picked up, blowing through Arthur’s car with an unexpected chill. Light white flakes dotted his windshield. “I don’t remember hearing about a front coming in. I thought maybe we’d finally get warmer, but it’s beginning to snow.”
“February is the ficklest of months.” Harry squinted behind his glasses as Arthur brought the car down the driveway, staring at a gap where the trees had been cleared to provide a view. “The ice broke on the Hudson. The river’s flowing again. The ice dealers will be surprised.”
“Doesn’t that happen around this time of year?”
“During a temperature drop, this suddenly? Not usually.” Harry made a face. “Nature, I suppose. I just don’t like it when it does things I don’t expect.”
They’d made it just in time for dinner. Arthur was sorely tempted to blow off the formal family event to go eat downstairs with Rory, propriety be damned.
It’s your last night in Hyde Park for some time, he reminded himself. You’ll have Rory all to yourself when you return to Manhattan. You can take an evening to be an uncle.
Nine-year-old Victoria was the last to arrive, which was odd. The oldest of Harry’s lot and the only one who spoke their mother’s native French, she was a serious, reliable girl with thick black hair in barrettes. She climbed into her seat on Arthur’s right. “Uncle Arthur,” she said, pinning him with the same soft brown eyes and glasses as her father, “where is Rory?”
Arthur blinked at the unexpected question. “Having his dinner downstairs, I’d imagine.”
“No, he isn’t,” she said firmly. “He’s missing.”
Arthur stilled. Just because someone wasn’t where they were expected to be didn’t mean they were missing. But children often picked up on things adults overlooked and Victoria in particular was not one to exaggerate.
He glanced at Harry on his left, but all of his attention was on his wife, Celeste, a pretty, pale woman with light brown eyes and brown hair in a neat twist. The two of them were stealing a soft-voiced moment to catch up after a day apart, while the nanny settled Robert into his high chair and Frederick made faces to make the twins laugh.
No one else was listening, so Arthur leaned in toward Victoria and said, more quietly, “What makes you think he’s missing?”
“Because he promised to practice jacks with me before dinner but I couldn’t find him anywhere.”
Arthur furrowed his brow. “Could he be working somewhere and have lost track of time?”
“No.” Victoria folded her arms. “He knows it’s important. He said the other kids used to make fun of how his mother talked too.”
Arthur blinked at the non sequitur. “I—”
“Rory said that kids can be mean, but when someone speaks English with a funny accent, it just means they’re smart, because they’ve learned English when they grew up speaking something else. And he promised to practice jacks with me so I’ll know how to play with the other girls.”
Oh. A stab of sympathy twisted Arthur’s chest. Celeste was Quebecois and did have a noticeable French lilt to her English. He’d forgotten children could learn the cruelty to mock something as harmless as a parent’s accent.
“Rory wouldn’t break his promise,” Victoria said. “So you see, he’s missing.”
She was right. Arthur couldn’t imagine Rory would ever break his word to a nine-year-old little girl.
Harry cleared his throat, drawing Arthur’s attention. “Who’s missing?”
Arthur got to his feet. “I’m sorry, something’s come up,” he said, and strode away for the staff stairs down to the basement.
* * *
The staff hurriedly started to get to their feet as Arthur walked into their small basement dining room. He waved them to sit, more impatiently than he should have. “I’m not here to interrupt your dinners, don’t get up.”
He looked around the packed room, seeing the groundsmen crowded at the table closest to the fireplace, the Ivanovs squished in at the table with the nanny and the maids. But Victoria was right: Rory wasn’t eating dinner. He wasn’t in the kitchen at all.
Arthur frowned.
“What’s wrong, dear?” came the voice at his side, and Arthur looked down to find Mrs. Brodigan. “You look worried.”
“Have you seen Rory?”
She furrowed her eyebrows. “Not since this morning. But he must be around here somewhere.” She paused, concern flashing in her eyes. “Mustn’t he?”
Arthur pursed his lips. “If you see him, tell him I’m looking for him, would you?”
“Of course,” she agreed. “You might check his room, if you haven’t already. He’s spent quite a bit of time hiding down there.”
Hiding from having to make civil conversation with Harry? Certainly. Hiding from playing jacks with nine-year-old Victoria? Never.
If Rory was in his room and hadn’t come out, he might have been sick. Or, in Rory’s case, worse than sick.
Shit.
Arthur quickly backtracked from the dining room and out to the hall, the ceiling uncomfortably close to his head as he hurried to the other end of the basement. He knocked on the door of the room Rory had been given. “Rory?”
No answer.
He tensed, and inched the door open. “Teddy, are you all right?”
He’d braced himself to find Rory in the room, stuck in a vision.
But the room was empty.
Arthur furrowed his brow and opened the door all the way.
He hadn’t been down here again since the day they’d arrived. As he stood in the doorway of Rory’s room, his throat tightened. It was perfectly tidy, the bed made, Rory’s bag tucked away underneath. It was about half the size of the children’s rooms upstairs, with a single window just under the ceiling that showed the driveway in the last of the day’s light.
Arthur set his jaw. It wasn’t a bad room. Harry wasn’t callous toward his staff, and everyone had clean rooms with decent furniture and plenty of heat in the winter. Frankly it was several steps above Rory’s actual living space at his boardinghouse.
But it paled in comparison to the luxury of the room Harry had given Arthur, the best second-floor guest suite with a painted ceiling, private bathroom, and giant corner windows overlooking the Hudson River. Useless guilt rose in Arthur. Yes, he’d had to get four guests into his brother’s home without raising too many questions, and he certainly couldn’t afford any scrutiny about why he might have brought one guest in particular, not with his family breathing down his neck about his increasing age and long-standing lack of a partner.
But a man he was sleeping with still deserved better than the basement while Arthur himself slept in gilded luxury.
As Arthur’s eyes adjusted to the darkness of the room, a small scrap of paper came into focus on the bedspread. He strode into the room and picked it up. A message from Mrs. Brodigan was written on one side, a clever bit of wording designed to convince Rory he could accept a gift.
Arthur flipped it over. Another message was lightly penciled on the back, in a shakier hand.
Went for a walk.
“A walk?” Arthur sat on the edge of Rory’s neatly made bed, next to a small box that was just the right size to hold the compass Harry had offered Rory. He stared at Rory’s handwriting on the note, his stomach twisting with unease. Rory didn’t take breaks, let alone walks. And even if Rory had understandably wanted to enjoy the countryside one last time before they went back to the city, he would have come back to keep his promise to Victoria.
Soft footsteps fell in the hall, and a moment later, Pavel poked his head around the doorframe like a curious cat.
Arthur swallowed. “I can’t find Rory,” he quietly admitted.
Pavel furrowed his brow. Even lighter footsteps came down the hall, a
nd then Sasha was looking into the room as well. “Arthur? What are you doing down here?”
He deserved her surprise. It wasn’t like he’d been able to come check on them at any other time, too busy meeting Harry’s friends and the host of other things that had kept him busy. “I’m looking for Rory. Have you seen him?”
“Not since this morning.” She looked at Pavel, who shook his head.
Arthur held up the paper. “His note says he went for a walk.”
Sasha’s eyebrows flew up. “He must be back by now then, yes? It’s dark and has grown very cold.”
Arthur quickly got to his feet. “I’m going to search the house and grounds.”
He stepped to the door, but Sasha held up her hand. “Wait. Please.” She turned to Pavel and spoke in urgent Russian. The only word Arthur could make out was Rory.
As soon as she finished, Pavel looked around the room, then pointed at the box on the bed. Arthur lifted the lid, revealing the brass compass nestled in a bit of silk.
“Is that Rory’s?” said Sasha.
“As of this afternoon, yes.”
“Give it to Pavel.”
Arthur didn’t understand, but Sasha and Pavel so rarely asked for anything. He held out the compass box to Pavel, who took it, then held out his hand again.
Arthur blinked, then passed over the one thing he was still holding: Rory’s note.
Pavel turned on his heel and strode right out of the room.
“Pavel, wait—”
“Come.” Sasha was following her brother. “He will help you.”
Arthur chased after them, across the hall and into their room. “How can he help—oh.”
Because the note in Pavel’s hand was yellowing and burning without fire, almost like aging, Rory’s ink fading and then disappearing.
Arthur quickly shut the door.
“Alchemy,” Sasha said quietly. “His magic is transmuting Rory’s note.”
The more the paper changed, the more pinched and strained Pavel’s face became. “Is it hurting him?” Arthur whispered, concerned.
“It exhausts him,” she whispered back. “Normally, he lets his ingredients change as they will. But now, he’s forcing magic to do his bidding.”
A moment later, Pavel’s right palm held a small pile of ash. Arthur swallowed, watching the hand tremble as Pavel set the compass box on the dresser. He opened the top of the box, then held his right hand over it and unhesitatingly tipped his palm to let the ashes fall.
Arthur made a noise of surprise, automatically moving forward. But the ash was disappearing into the compass as if the compass’s brass was a sponge. Within seconds, every trace of the ash had vanished and all that remained was the compass, its needle spinning in rapid circles.
It spun several times...and then slowed to a stop, but not on north.
On west.
Pavel tapped the compass face. “Rory,” he said, thickly accented, his voice deeper and more gravelly than expected.
And then he stumbled. Arthur darted forward, but Sasha was already there.
“Pavel!” She caught her brother before he hit the ground.
Arthur drew in a breath. “Is he—”
Pavel looked up, meeting Arthur’s eyes with his own exhausted ones. “Rory,” he said again, more insistently.
Worry rose in Arthur’s throat, hot and nearly choking. “Let me ring for a doctor—”
Pavel shook his head rapidly.
“Doctors have questions we cannot answer.” Sasha carefully helped Pavel down onto the bed. His eyes were already closing.
“Will he be all right?”
“Yes.” She said it confidently enough that Arthur’s anxiety receded a fraction. She glanced back at Arthur, her expression torn. “But he will be weak for some time. I should come with you, but—”
“No. No, we’ll split this, you stay with Pavel.” Arthur glanced at the compass, not quite daring to believe what Pavel had implied. “Is this pointing to Rory now?” He grabbed the compass out of the box, holding it too tight in his hand. “How can I ever repay you?”
“You can find Rory,” Sasha said firmly. “He is our friend too.”
Arthur turned to go, but Pavel’s hand closed around his wrist. He paused, feeling Pavel’s arm tremble as Pavel looked meaningfully at the top dresser drawer.
Sasha reached in and pulled out something wrapped in a white handkerchief. Arthur took it from her, feeling a vial inside. “Another potion? What it is?”
Pavel tapped his own temple with a finger of his free hand.
“What does that mean?” Arthur asked, as Pavel released his wrist. “Think? Concentrate? On what?”
But Pavel’s eyes had closed and he didn’t answer. Sasha looked on as Arthur peeked in the handkerchief and saw a flash of orange, the exact same shade as a potion he’d had on him at Mansfield’s gala, one that Gwen and Ellis had stolen.
“Do you happen to know what this does?” he said to Sasha.
“He makes several now from oranges,” she said apologetically. “But he’d never give you something that could hurt you.”
That would have to be enough. With another heartfelt thanks, Arthur stuffed the vial in his jacket pocket, then hurried out of the room.
Chapter Seven
“One step. Come on.”
Rory braced himself and awkwardly jumped up the hill to the next tree trunk, wincing as his foot brushed the ground. He’d come down funny on the icy riverbank and now his ankle was throbbing, weirdly hot, and wouldn’t hold his weight. He clung tight to the tree, snowflakes dotting his bare head as he panted hard, sweating despite the freezing cold—cold that was his own stupid fault, because the wind he’d called had come from the north and brought snow with it.
The sun had set and there was barely any moonlight, the snow only a soft glow in the uncomfortable dark. Behind him, the Hudson River was flowing, the ice he’d crossed on now shattered and swept downriver.
He’d had to pick: follow the river or look for a road. Following the river would’ve meant hoping to find a spot where his idiot wind hadn’t broken the ice, but Rory wasn’t testing the ice again. Arthur’d said they could drive over here, so he’d put the river to his back and tried to limp his way west, up the steep and slippery hill, crossing his fingers for a road and maybe a town. There had to be one eventually, right? He wasn’t gonna be stuck out here forever because he’d been stupid with the ring?
Rory glared at his left hand, where the gold and jewels on his fourth finger were just visible. He leaned hard against the tree, and, like he’d tried more than a dozen times already, he grabbed the ring with his right hand and yanked.
It still wouldn’t budge.
Rory swore uselessly as he tugged as hard as he could, gritting his teeth against the pull on his joint. But it didn’t matter; the ring was stuck. And maybe it was stuck because his hands were painful and swollen from the cold, but Rory wasn’t counting on being that lucky.
He bit his lip. Where was he gonna put it if he got it off anyway? The lead box was lost to the river, just like his cap. It was a miracle he hadn’t lost his glasses too. The wind was still blowing, not the gale that’d broken the ice, but hard enough to make him shiver. For all he knew that was still his fault too.
He rested his forehead against the scratchy bark. At least he wasn’t stuck in the ring’s past. If he reached for the link, he could feel Arthur; back at Harry’s by now, less than a mile away. He was probably having dinner upstairs, with no idea that the idiot who’d hitched his magic to his aura had gotten himself stuck on the other side of the Hudson River. Might as well have been the ocean for all that Rory could get back across.
A snowflake landed on the back of his neck, melting and sliding under his collar, making him shiver. The snow was only coming harder, and tired as he was, he needed to keep moving. No one w
ould know to be looking for him; he was on his own to find a way back.
He glanced up the icy, sloped hill, gauging the distance to the next tree against the persistent throb in his ankle and his aching muscles.
He’d move on. In a minute.
* * *
Arthur stopped in the coatroom just long enough to grab his warmest outerwear, a raccoon coat that nearly reached his ankles, which he occasionally wore to football games. He switched his brogue wingtips for boots and swiped a fur hunting cap, wool scarf, and thick gloves from Harry’s stash.
The groundskeeper had a flashlight collection, and now the beam of the handheld cylinder cut through the skeletal trees like a headlight on a country highway as Arthur navigated the woods down the snow-covered hill. He followed the compass west and slightly south, but as the night stayed too quiet, fear began to prick at Arthur’s skin.
The compass was leading him to the river.
The flashlight beam illuminated the white spots of the light snowfall as he swept it from side to side. Step after step and still no Rory, just the wind in his ears and the snow beneath his feet and the Hudson River, growing louder with every step. And when Arthur burst out from the trees onto the empty riverbank, his heart plummeted.
The ice had broken today.
He shined his flashlight on the compass, but there was no question that it was pointing directly at the river. But Rory couldn’t have—why the blazes would he ever have gone out onto the ice?—and if he’d been on it, when it broke—
He took a measured breath, forcing himself to stay calm. “If he’d fallen through the ice, the current would have carried him downstream.” Arthur said it out loud, into the night, his voice steady and sure. He had to believe. He would make himself believe. “The compass would have taken me south. And he’s not lying at the bottom of the river, because I would know. I don’t care if I’m mundane as a rock: if Rory’s magic was gone from my aura, I would know.”
