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 would 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.”