Rory narrowed his eyes and took a step forward. “It’s none of your business either way,” he said tightly. “But Arthur’s it for me.”

“Hope you mean that,” Ellis said enigmatically, as the door opened itself to reveal Jade, her arms full of clothes and her eyes concerned.

“Your voices were raised.” Jade looked his way. “Are you all right, Rory?”

Rory snorted. “I should be asking you that,” he said. “I still don’t trust these two.”

Ellis just gave him a dark look, flopping down to sit on the edge of the bed.

Jade jerked her head. “Come on,” she said to Rory. “We’ve got your costume.”

Gwen was out in the hall. Rory found himself herded back in the bathroom, sitting awkwardly on the edge of the clawfoot bathtub. He watched her warily as she dug in a large makeup case. She was an enigma he didn’t know what to do with.

She had spared Jack Mercier’s life in London.

Just like she’d once spared his.

Gwen held up a black pencil. “Stage makeup from Carmen. Are you ready?”

“I bet you’re only doing this to mock me,” Rory asked darkly.

But Gwen only scoffed. “Why on earth would I?” she asked. “I know you don’t believe this, but I don’t actually want anything bad to happen to any of you.”

He pursed his lips. Did she mean that? She’d tortured Arthur’s aura to get Rory to scry a relic for her.

But he could still remember the Delaware River rising to meet him before he hit so hard he snapped his neck. Could remember the panic of plunging beneath pitch-black, ice-cold water, and the current that had rushed him up to the surface, holding his head above the waves until Arthur could save him.

“Are you ready?” she asked patiently. “I’ll need you to lose the specs.”

The cold Delaware River was very far away from a warm bathroom in Paris, but Gwen had saved his life that night when it would have been easier to let him die.

With a huff, he took off his glasses. He held them in one hand as Gwen started lining around his eyes with kohl.

“You’re not actually Irish at all—you’re Italian, is that right?” Gwen asked. “But your father’s surname is Westbrook; that’s English.”

Rory snorted, short and bitter. “And I’m using a fake Irish last name instead of his.”

“Oh,” she said, sounding genuinely apologetic. “It’s like that, is it? I’m sorry.”

Rory sighed. “You didn’t know,” he grudgingly admitted. “My dad hates the Italians in America. He hates all immigrants.”