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, and 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—”