Rory raised an eyebrow. “Oh yeah?”
“He dropped by this morning.”
Interesting.
Rory checked the side door of the antiques shop and found it unlocked. The shop inside was already warming. Mrs. Brodigan was behind the counter, her kettle on the hotplate she’d stuck next to the cash register. She smiled when she saw him. “There you are.” She set their two mugs on the counter, eying him. “You look a bit colder than usual.”
Rory shrugged. “Cold outside.”
She raised an eyebrow. “And your friend Arthur didn’t have something to say about you walking a long way in the cold?”
He gave her a flat look. “I’m not gonna make Ace pay for everything.”
“Dear, his clothes cost more than this shop. He can afford your cab.”
“It’s not about that,” said Rory, as the kettle whistled. “You can’t rely on other people for money, Mrs. B. Not even someone as rich and nice as Ace.”
“Hmm.” Mrs. Brodigan poured the water over the pouches of tea, a new kind he didn’t recognize. “And what if you were the one rattling alone in a lovely Central Park flat with money to burn and Arthur was sleeping with rats?”
Rory took a sharp breath. The thought of Arthur cramped on the dirty sheets in Rory’s room, pillow over his head to muffle the scurrying in the walls—“Don’t even joke about that.”
“Who was joking?”
“I’d never let Ace sleep in a dump like mine,” he said, with feeling, as he picked up one of the mugs. “You got new tea.”
“It was a gift. And don’t change the subject.”
“A gift, huh?” Despite the drink’s heat, Rory couldn’t resist taking a sip. “From who?”
“We were talking about you.”
“Yeah, but someone got yougoodtea.”
“It was a very thoughtful gift.” Mrs. Brodigan did look pleased. “You know, I’ve never asked you where a nice Italian boy picked up a taste for Irish tea.”
English, originally. Rory stared into his cup, memories surfacing. His dad had been proud of his English roots and drank several cups of tea a day, never coffee like his mom and uncle had preferred. Every now and then, his dad would send for Rory to come to his tiny office at the church, and he’d always had a mug of tea for Rory too.
In hindsight, it’d probably been his dad’s way of being just nice enough to keep Rory from getting angry and telling everyone the truth. But Rory’d been so lonely, he’d been grateful for whatever scraps of attention he was given and kept his mouth shut. No one ever noticed their resemblance. He’d been told to use only his mother’s name, even though he wasn’t allowed to speak Italian at the church. It didn’t matter that Rory had his dad’s hair color and his nose and slim build; his skin was a shade darker and his name saidimmigrantand that’s what people saw.
Those visits had always ended with a new chore list for Rory to earn his keep and the unsubtle reminder that it was only his dad’s generosity that kept him off the streets. Rory probably shouldn’t like the taste of tea, but he did.
“You like spaghetti, don’t you?” he said, instead of explaining. “Good food’s good food.” He raised his mug. “You never said who gave you the fancy tea.”
She smiled, small and private. “Mr. McIntyre.”
It took Rory a second, and then he finally placed the name. The fella who’d brought in a counterfeit watch, who’d taught Mrs. Brodigan to drive. “He’s still hanging around?”
“Don’t get any ideas.” But she was humming happily as she took her mug back into the office.
Rory lingered at the counter. Far as he knew, this was the first fella she’d given the time of day to since Mr. Brodigan died. If this Mr. McIntyre was decent and she liked him, he’d be glad for her. After all, he’d never thought he’d find anyone half as special as Arthur.
What if Arthur was the one sleeping with rats?
Rory swallowed. Without meaning to, he closed his eyes, and reached for his magic. Not for the past of the mug in his hands, but for the link to Arthur’s aura, a quick reassurance it was still there.
Irritated, he opened his eyes.I don’t need to already be missing him. I’ve got work and he’s got stuff to do.
Like see Lord Fine.
