He stood on the platform and waited patiently as the tailor took his measurements. As his gaze wandered around the shop, from French advertisements to a display of ties, his mind replayed a conversation they’d all had on the ocean liner.

You’re not the only one who gets to worry. Especially when you keep ending up handcuffed by paranormals in tuxedos.

Excuse you. What paranormals in tuxedos?

I meant when you’re in a tuxedo—like at the Wonder Wheel. Or on that ship in Philly.

So it only happened the one time. The two times. Look, if it happens a third time, then you can say it’s a habit.

Arthur frowned. But that was Rory bringing up a strange coincidence, wasn’t it? It didn’t mean anything.

“All right, sir?” the tailor asked, in his thick French accent. When Arthur blinked, the tailor added, “You are fidgeting.”

Oh, hang it all, Arthur was far tenser than normal, his muscles flexing as he shifted his weight from foot to foot. He shook himself and tried to smile. “The last two times I wore a tuxedo, things didn’t go well for me. But I’m being silly. Ignore me.”

The tailor gave him a look like Arthur was daft, then did ignore him and went back to work. A few minutes later, Arthur paid up front and then took the tailor’s recommendation for a barbershop a few blocks away.

The barbershop was in the first floor of a four-story building, in between a chocolatier and a bank. Arthur stepped inside the tasteful, pristinely clean interior to find it packed. It would be a long wait, but by the time Arthur could find a place with a shorter line, he’d be nearly served here anyway.

There was a waiting area with several chairs and a tufted leather couch, every seat full. Newspapers were stacked on a small side table, but it wasn’t like he could read the French, so he leaned against the shop’s glass window and schooled his expression to perfect calm despite the nausea in his gut.

With a moment of quiet, his brain decided to race, latching onto the question he had no answer to: how was he supposed to tell Rory about his aura?

Well, Teddy, apparently sometimes when someone without magic gets a little too close to some very bad magic, it can shred our auras, who could have guessed? By the by, how do you feel about ’til death do us part—literally?

Arthur swallowed.

A man’s voice interrupted Arthur’s thoughts. “Monsieur?”

Arthur looked over to see an unassuming man in a barber’s apron, light brown hair and clear blue eyes. He had a patient expression, like he’d had to prod Arthur more than once to get a response.