“That one.” He pointed at the painting of five ballerinas, their tutus pink and blue, hands clasped as they twirled in a single circle on a dark stage.
Arthur wrinkled his nose. “That one’s a mimic of Degas’s style but clearly not an authentic work,” he said as Rory approached the painting. “The brush strokes are all wrong, the viewpoint pedestrian.”
Rory’s gaze stayed on the painting. The dancers were so lively, almost as if they were actually moving.
“In fact, it’s really the odd piece out.” Arthur’s voice was growing fainter. “Every other piece of art in this room is authentic with a capitalA—”
Rory cocked his head, gaze drawn into the dark center of the dancers’ circle like the swirling vortex of a whirlpool.
“—from the sculptures to the Fabergé egg.” Arthur sounded very far away as Rory reached out to touch the center of the painting. “But Mansfield must have chosen that work for a reason—”
And the dancers began to twirl…
He’s on the dark wooden stage, ringed by the ballerinas, their faces nearly featureless, their skirts billowing gracefully, their arms linked to keep Rory in the center. Time slows, or maybe stops, or maybe stops mattering as they turn, around and around and around—
“—ory?”
There’s music, nimble and quick, and he doesn’t know the instruments but he doesn’t need to—it spins around him too as the dancers twirl faster—
“Christ. Rory!”
The dancers’ arms are linked, their movements blurring as they pick up speed in a circle from which there’s no escape—
“Teddy.” Arthur sounded distressed and miles away. “The painting’s a trap, get out—”
“Rory, shake it off!” Zhang’s voice layered over Arthur’s, intense and urgent. “They’re coming, Mansfield and his security. Ace needs you, do you understand? He can’t hear me. Mansfield is coming and he doesn’t know—”
Ace.
He has to leave the circle, has to find Arthur. But the ring of dancers is too tight—
There was a pounding on the door. Muffled voices, angry and shouting.
There was a sharp burst of Chinese. “Rory,” said Zhang, “get your head on and get out of that painting—”
“Theodore, please—”
The dancers’ circle closes in, tight as a manacle, spinning faster—
Arthur’s lips pressed against Rory’s.
Rory gasped, yanked out of the dancers’ menace so fast his head still spun. Only now he was seeing blue eyes, not blue sashes, and a familiar face frantic with worry.
“Arthur—” Rory grabbed for Arthur’s face. “Ace—”
There was a loud pounding on the door. “Who the hell is in here? This is my house, I’ll call the police—”
There was swearing from Zhang, but Rory had eyes only for Arthur, who was holding him so hard he might have left fingerprints on Rory’s skin. “Where are you?”
“New York,” Rory scrambled to say. “New York, 1925.”
“Oh thank Christ.” Arthur half lifted Rory off his feet as he pulled Rory across the library to the giant window framing the street lights and dark Central Park beyond.
“Open this door!” The pounding increased, like a jackhammer on a sidewalk, then a loud slam, like a body ramming the barricaded door. “You’ll be under arrest, if I leave enough of you for the police to scrape up and take to jail!”
Rory’s heart leapt to his throat. “Mansfield,” he said hoarsely. “He’s gonna know I’m magic. He’s gonna knowyouknow about magic, Ace, what’s he gonna do to you?”
“I don’t care.” Arthur’s voice was sharp, a battlefield tone no one would have argued with. “Stay in the present. Eyes on me, not the door, not the painting, onme, no matter what I do.” He snapped the window’s lock free. “Zhang, it’s Plan B. Go.”
