A gray-haired woman noticed him. “Can I help you, lad?”

“Um.” Just talk like a normal person, who goes into churches all the time, who definitely never had magic kick on ’cause they picked something up off an altar.

Rory swallowed. “I’m here for the wedding?”

The woman gave him a puzzled look. “I don’t think we’re having any weddings today.”

“It just got rescheduled here a couple days ago,” said Rory.

“Did it?” The woman still looked confused. After a moment, though, she offered him a kind smile. “I don’t recall seeing any notes about that, but why don’t I go and have a look?”

Rory folded his arms and watched her leave. He stood for several long moments, standing by the stone wall in the cool air. Finally, he reluctantly walked forward enough to take the seat in the back pew, crossing himself out of habit.

He rested his hat in his lap and looked across the rows in front of him. At least half the pews had someone in them, their heads bent in prayer. The ceiling stretched above him, light filtering in from high windows. To the side of the altar, there was a stand of lit votive candles flickering.

He’d been sitting for only minutes when the hairs on the back of his neck rose.

“Theodore Giovacchini,” a man’s voice whispered. “Nice to meet you.”

Arthur drummed his fingers on the steering wheel as he sat, unmoving, in traffic that was every bit as congested as in Manhattan. He’d mostly only ever been in Cambridge, and only by duress, when Yale played Harvard. He hadn’t really thought through what his New York self should do with two hours in Back Bay. Just be grateful it wasn’t snowing, probably.

A few minutes later and he’d only gone half a block. “Christ, this city should keep the horse and buggy.”

He leaned out the window, trying to see the road up ahead, when a sharp pain cut across his heart, an echo of the burn from Niagara Falls. He sucked in a breath, but the next instant, Rory’s magic flared up, like sizzling miniature lightning bolts against his skin.

The pain vanished.

Arthur frowned.

Odd.

He sat back against the driver’s seat, rubbing his chest over his heart as a group of casually dressed pedestrians with Red Sox pennants threaded their way across the street through the unmoving cars. One of them banged on the hood of the Cadillac with a whoop and then continued on his way.

“Hooray,” Arthur said dryly. “Boston.”

He inched the car forward, toward the end of the block—

The pain sliced through him again, sharper, strong enough to make him gasp. He gripped the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turned white as Rory’s magic flared again, more insistently.