Alone in his room, he let himself sigh. He could ask Sasha and Pavel if the Taussigs needed help in their pharmacy, but they’d already taken in the refugee Ivanovs, and if they had money to spare, Sasha and Pavel wouldn’t be sharing a closet-size room in the Taussigs’ apartment while their teenage son, Levi, slept on the couch. The Robbinses had a speakeasy, and the Zhangs had a restaurant, and Rory was good at all kinds of kitchen and restaurant work, but they also had their own families to take care of.

Who did he really have, if he didn’t have Mrs. Brodigan?

He could have sworn he felt a sudden tug in his magic. He glanced at the postcard on the bed, a colorful city scene with shopping, cars, and people. Rue Sainte-Catherine, the postcard proclaimed, and then, in smaller letters, St. Catherine Street. He ran a finger over the picture, then turned it over.

He’d already read the message four times, but his eyes drank in Arthur’s beautiful penmanship again.

Mr. Brodigan:

I hope this missive finds you well. We’re in Montreal, a beautiful city if lacking in the company I truly crave. Still no success, but Niagara Falls will be our next stop, and we are hopeful. Please continue to take very good care of my antiques; I’m afraid I have a reputation for being overprotective.

Yours, AJK

Niagara Falls. Wow. Rory would’ve loved to see them. He put his finger on Arthur’s signature, then closed his eyes and let the magic rush in, drowning himself in the postcard’s history.

Arthur signs his name. He’s so handsome, even with tired eyes. He’s looking at the postcard, and then, in a whisper, Arthur says, “Miss you.” He touches Rory’s name, then with a sigh he drops the postcard into the mail slot—

Rory came back to the present, where he was alone, clutching the postcard too tightly.

He’d put the card with the others in their special spot in his trunk, carefully wrapped so they wouldn’t get bent or nibbled on by the mice. He went into their pasts more than he should, craving those glimpses of Arthur as he, Zhang, and Jade searched for a way to destroy the pomander.

As if to punctuate his thoughts, there was a scurrying in the walls. The mice were getting bolder, making noise even though folks were still awake. The roaches, of course, were always bold. The air in his room was stale from the boarded-up window, and he’d never replaced the locks after Baron Zeppler’s group of paranormals had come looking for him in February.

It wasn’t like he’d miss this boarding house if he got kicked out. But if he didn’t have his income from the antiques shop, he wasn’t gonna make rent anywhere, and where was he gonna sleep if he couldn’t make rent?