There were no glasses to hide Rory’s sleepy, long-lashed brown eyes, smudged with remnants of yesterday’s kohl liner. His curls were tangled around his face, and Arthur couldn’t resist tugging one. “A paranormal partner,” he said, stressing the word. “Because that’s what you are, and I swear to you, Teddy, I do know that. And I mean, Christ, you can call a bleeding tornado—you don’t need to be overprotected. Maybe I won’t even worry about the terrible drivers and let you walk on the outside edge of a New York sidewalk.”

Rory’s lips quirked up. “No, you won’t.”

Arthur winced. “No, I won’t,” he admitted. “But I’ll try.”

Rory was still smiling, though. “Speaking of New York.” He reached up and ran his hand over Arthur’s stubbled jaw. “Do we need to take the first ship back to deal with that pomander?”

Arthur hesitated. It was a beautiful, peaceful morning. There were no more torn auras or overwhelming magic, just the two of them, stronger together, their entwined lives stretching out in front of them. Maybe, finally, they had time.

“Well, we’re already here, in Europe,” he pointed out. “And we have, possibly, earned at least a short respite. We could stay in Paris for a few weeks, enjoy the world’s fair. And when we do go, we could take a ship back from another port. Here in France, or in Spain. Or Italy.”

Rory’s smile grew. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, that sounds really good. But what about you? What do you want?”

“Anywhere and anything,” Arthur whispered honestly, leaning down for the kiss, “so long as I’m with you.”

Epilogue

Three weeks later...

“Ace, come on, we got a train to catch!” Rory called out to the hall. He was gonna miss their room in Paris, but they’d be in Milan by evening, then their ship back to New York left next week from Palermo—the same port his mom had left from twenty-five years earlier.

Arthur’s footsteps came down the hall, then his voice. “Don’t you want your mail before we leave?”

Rory furrowed his brow. “How am I getting mail in Paris?”

Arthur stepped into the doorway, a stack of letters in his hands. “Mrs. Brodigan—sorry, Mrs. McIntyre—asked my brother Harry for an address. I used Wesley’s.”

Rory snorted. “You made your ex collect and send our mail?”

“He probably makes his butler do it,” Arthur said, passing Rory the biggest envelope in the stack.

It was addressed to him above the Kensington address, Mrs. B’s handwriting so familiar from four years together in the antiques shop. A huge lump formed in Rory’s throat, and for a moment he missed her so much his eyes stung. “I can’t wait to see her again,” he said, tearing it open eagerly. “I’ll never forgive Zeppler for making me miss her wedding—oh.”