* * *
Rory stared north in horror as the high-pitched whistle echoed off the hills. “No,” he said out loud. “No no no—”
On the hills on either side of the Hudson River, the bare trees lining the hills were already swaying and creaking. The temperature was dropping so fast Rory could feel it.
There were houses on the hilltops, people everywhere, kids everywhere—
The whistling became louder as the wind approached like rushing water from a broken dam. Rory had accidentally called his hounds and someone was gonna get hurt—
“Down,” he yelped, in desperation, throwing his hands out and down, toward the ice.
The wind obeyed.
It rammed into the ice at Rory’s feet with the force of a giant’s hammer striking an anvil. The frozen river vibrated like a tuning fork, knocking his legs out from under him. His head smacked against the solid river, and he swore, clutching at his head as his eyes watered with the wind and pain.
Then he heard the crack.
Choking panic shot up his throat. He rolled to his stomach and staggered to his feet just in time to see cracks arcing across the surface of the ice like a glass window hit with a rock.
“Oh shit,” he whispered, just as the ice at his feet split apart.
Rory turned and sprinted for the bank on Harry’s side of the river, his sneakers slipping and sliding on the ice. But the ice split right in front of him. He yelped in fear and scrambled to turn around, staggering toward the opposite bank.
Don’t look back, don’t look back.
He ran as hard as he could as the ice around him broke with heart-stopping snaps.
He was gasping for air as the opposite bank came into view. There was a louder snap, too close. Pulse pounding in his throat, arms flailing, he prayed for the snow-covered ground and leapt, just as the ice beneath his feet split.
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?”