Rory had come to the shop early enough that morning to catch eight-year-old Lizbeth Meyers on her way to school. She’d cried, refusing to be consoled even by the new set of jacks he’d bought her, and made him promise to come visit.

“And you better send letters like Victoria,” she’d added severely, wiping her nose.

Rory had furrowed his brow—he wasn’t the one moving away and would still live in Hell’s Kitchen, but he let it go. “Victoria Kenzie, Arthur’s niece? She still your pen friend?”

“She’s my best friend.” Lizbeth had pointed threateningly at Rory, her eyes puffy and red. “And you tell Mrs. B to write me too. I want lots of letters.”

That had been two hours ago. And now Lizbeth was at school, and they’d said goodbye to Mrs. Meyers, and there was a For Lease sign in the window and the shop was bare. Rory had no more time left. It didn’t matter that he wasn’t ready; this part of his life was over, moving on without him like a train leaving him behind on the platform.

“But this is not goodbye for us,” Mrs. Brodigan said firmly, straightening. “There are more mysterious forces in the world than even your magic, dear. I’m certain we’re meant to see each other again. We’re family.”

About halfway down the street was Mr. McIntyre’s car. Mrs. Brodigan’s husband-to-be was waiting patiently behind the wheel, and Rory thought he could see a smiling young woman in the passenger seat.

He nodded. “Family. Yeah,” he managed to say.

Mrs. Brodigan hugged Rory then, and he hugged her back.

She pulled back a moment later, her eyes still too shiny. “And what kind of aunt would forget your birthday?”

She’d remembered? “I figured, with everything going on—”

She held out an envelope. “I’ve split it down the middle, the money I saved for you and the money we made on sales. It’s not as much as you deserve, but that means you’ll take it.”

Rory shook his head. “No, you keep—”

“Young man, this is your birthday present.” She pressed the envelope into his hand. “Not another word.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, his manners taking over automatically. He’d minded his mom for thirteen years; he could tell a man to go to hell forever, but women were another story.

“Can we take you to lunch?” she said. “Patrick and Maggie would love to get to know you.”

“Nah,” he said quickly. “You get going to Boston.”

She frowned. “We’ve always done dinner together on your birthday—”

“I got plans,” he lied.

She smiled and patted his arm. “Write to me,” she said, “while I’m off on my next adventure and you’re off on your adventures with Arthur.”