As the kids scampered off toward the nanny, Rory made his huff that was almost a laugh. “You’re terrible. Now Mrs. Ivers is gonna have them underfoot in her kitchen, asking what whiskey is.”
His dark eyes were bright, almost a match for the black, round frames of his glasses, and his olive skin was flushed pink from the cold. Arthur was probably staring at him too openly but he’d barely seen Rory since they arrived and his eyes were starved for the sight. “There’s not a drop in this law-abiding house. Trust me, I checked.”
Rory huffed again, but he was almost smiling. “You ever consider just obeying the law in the first place?”
Not when you’re around. Arthur pushed down the unhelpful thought. The nanny was taking the children inside, but there were still plenty of groundsmen in view, shoveling snow around the side of the house maybe ten yards away. As usual at the estate, Arthur and Rory weren’t alone. “What else am I supposed to drink?”
“Hot things?” Rory suggested. “Apple cider, hot chocolate?”
Spoken like someone who’d come of age during Prohibition and never heard of a hot toddy. But as Arthur eyed Rory, he felt a pang in his chest as he realized it might be more than that. Rory had no hat, no gloves, and only seemed to own the one ragged coat. Early February in upstate New York was bone chilling, and Rory’d been playing with children in the snow. No wonder his mind went straight to hot drinks.
“You should go in,” Arthur said. “Get one of those hot drinks. It’s frigid out and that coat is adequate for fall at best.” He hesitated, then couldn’t help adding, “I know a tailor who could make you a warmer—”
“No.”
“But—”
“We talked about this.”
“No, I pointed out you never took payment for scrying the ring and you told me to go chase myself.”
Rory wrapped his arms around himself. “I’m not taking money I didn’t earn. You’re not a handsome wallet.”
Arthur would never have thought he’d want to be used for his money, but here he was, wishing Rory was just a little shallower. Could Arthur get away with buying a coat as a late Christmas present? Did he celebrate Christmas, was he Catholic? Early birthday, perhaps? Oh hell, Arthur didn’t even know when his birthday was. “You could let me do something for you once in a while.”
“You did, you brought me to this pretty place.” Rory’s gaze went down the hill, over the treetops to the Hudson River below. “I never knew the river could freeze like that.”
Arthur sighed. Rory seemed to think the matter was settled. He should say something about his call with Jade, about the German paranormals in Boston who weren’t paranormals at all. But Rory was still gazing at the view like he was memorizing it. Arthur could tell him on the trip back to Manhattan tomorrow. He’d let Rory enjoy his last day here. “This far north of the city it freezes so solid you can drive on it. It’s only about half a mile. Harry sent pictures once.” That’d been during the war, when Arthur had been stationed in France and shared the photographs with his equally frozen platoon.
Rory looked impressed. “Could we drive across it now?”
“The ice dealers have, but they’re braver than me,” Arthur said, shaking his head. “It’s likely solid enough, but why? There’s nothing but woods over there, and they’re exactly the same as the woods over here.” He offered an apologetic smile. “I’d drive you, but it’s forty miles to the nearest bridge and I’ve promised to be at my brother’s fundraiser.”
Confusion flitted across Rory’s face. “But Harry lives here.”
“Not Harry,” said Arthur. “John.”
“John’s the one between you and Harry?”
“No, that’s Will. John’s the oldest.”
Rory wrinkled his nose. “I thought it was Alice.”
“She’s the next-youngest after me.”
“Then how old’s Mary?”
Arthur opened his mouth, then paused. “You know all my brothers’ and sisters’ names.”
Rory hunched his shoulders. “Obviously I’m not good at keeping them straight yet—”
“But you know their names.”
“Well, yeah,” said Rory. “They’re your family.”
Arthur wasn’t sure what to say. No one else he’d slept with had ever even tried to learn.
“You don’t have to apologize,” Rory grouched. “I know your family needs you and I’m good at staying outta the way.”
Arthur felt a sharp twist in his chest. “That’s not—no one’s asked you to stay out of my way. I was looking forward to seeing you at the appraisal.”
Arthur hadn’t meant it critically, but Rory scowled and stuck his bare hands in his coat pockets. “How am I supposed to tell your fancy brother that only four of his compasses are real?”
“Exactly as you just told me? You can speak to my brother, you know. He’s just a man who’s soft for his family.”
“I know, it’s not—” Rory’s jaw tightened and he looked away. “That last compass isn’t French, it’s Italian,” he said, not meeting Arthur’s eyes. “Maybe ten years old. Sorry I don’t got better news.”
Arthur’s heart sank. Oh, well done, Ace. You’ve managed to make him even more ill at ease. He rubbed his forehead. “Nothing for you to apologize for,” he said, trying to soften his tone. “Harry’s father-in-law bought it last fall, when he took Celeste and the children to France. Hardly your fault he was—how do you put it?—taken for a ride.”
That got him a grudging smile. “Sounds silly when you say it with your accent.”
“Swindled by a knavish charlatan, then. However you say it, you aren’t to blame.” The groundsmen weren’t in hearing range, but Arthur still lowered his voice. “When did you even find time to scry?”
“This morning, just before dawn.” Rory also spoke softly. “When the house was quiet.”
Which of course meant Rory had gotten up before dawn to scry for a man he was too skittish to look in the eyes. “You weren’t worried about being too deep in your magic to hear someone coming?”
“Pavel kept a lookout.”
“Pavel?” Arthur felt a stab of hurt. “You could have asked me.”
Rory glanced around, eying the groundsmen. He turned back to Arthur, voice barely a whisper as he said, “What would your brother think if he caught you up with me before dawn?”