Arthur narrowed his eyes. “What good work you’re doing,” he said, with saccharine sincerity, as Westbrook reached for the snuffer. “After all, I’ve heard a bastard has no hope on Judgment Day. Then again, it’s hardly the abandoned child’s fault, is it, so I can’t imagine the judgment awaiting the man who made him that way.”

He was gratified to see Westbrook flinch.

Arthur made it back to Syracuse by dinnertime. He and Rory had agreed to meet at the Italian restaurant closest to their hotel, and Arthur found it pleasantly noisy inside. Three tables had been pushed together in the middle to accommodate a big family, one toddler making an enormous mess as she gleefully ate spaghetti with her bare hands.

Rory was already there, deep in a copy of The Further Adventures of Zorro, oblivious to the world.

Arthur’s heart lurched, and he wanted so badly to kiss him. Instead, he dropped into the small wooden chair across from Rory, which creaked under his weight. “I haven’t read that one.”

Rory looked up. “Hey,” he said, lighting up. “Did you get it?”

Arthur gestured to his briefcase. “I didn’t touch it,” he admitted, too quietly for anyone to overhear. “I know I’m not magic but, well, I’ve got your magic in my aura, and I just thought better safe than sorry.”

“Smart.” Rory pushed a menu across the table.

Arthur pushed it back. “Order for me.” When Rory furrowed his brow, Arthur added, “It’s your food, your culture, and there’s probably nothing on that menu I won’t enjoy.” He pointed at the toddler, who had an entire meatball in one tiny fist and was eating it like an apple. “I mean, look at her. I want that to be me.”

Rory grinned. “You’ve never had meatballs?”

“I’ve had meatloaf.”

“Not the same.” Rory waved the waiter over, an older man who gave the toddler an indulgent smile as he passed the big table. Rory ordered for them in a blend of English and Italian, and Arthur’s heart hurt all over again.

As soon as they were somewhat alone again, the words burst out of him. “Did your father have you beaten for speaking Italian?”

Rory’s eyes widened.

“I’m sorry.” Arthur rubbed his face. “I shouldn’t have asked, and I certainly shouldn’t have just blurted that out—”

“It’s okay.” Rory looked shaken by the question, but he said, “Yeah, he did, me and another boy. Just the one time. I didn’t ever speak it at his church again.”

Arthur swallowed. “It’s barbaric.”

“It happened to lots of kids,” said Rory. “Still does, doesn’t it? For all kinds of languages, Seneca, Spanish, Russian, Chinese, you name it. Church told us we were supposed to be Americans now.”