Gwen’s gaze darted over Arthur again, and yes, there it was, the distress he’d seen the day before. She noticed him watching her, and quickly turned to slide the pocket door closed, cutting off the sound of the others in the middle room.

“Sebastian’s popped off to find the cart selling meat for the cats, or because Molly at the pub gives him scraps for the dogs,” she said, too lightly. “I don’t know why he thinks he’s subtle; there are twenty strays who haunt our alley.”

“While I appreciate the attempt at innocuous conversation, I think we can agree to skip it, yes?” Arthur folded his arms. “You keep looking at me like something’s terribly wrong. And you didn’t look at me like that back in January, despite the fact that something was, actually, demonstrably wrong because I was chained to the Wonder Wheel and tortured for information on Rory. What’s going on, Gwen?”

To her credit, she didn’t try to deny it. Instead, she leaned against the wall, her gaze darting over him again, lingering not on his face but over his heart. “Have you been around the pomander relic again?”

Arthur’s stomach twisted. He kept his emotions carefully off his face. “Why would you ask that?”

“I’ve seen a lot of magic.” Her voice was little more than a whisper. “I’ve seen Baron Zeppler’s magic. I’ve seen the magic in the amulet and the ring relics. But the pomander is different. Its magic is some of the strongest—and vilest—I’ve ever seen. No one should ever have created a relic with violation magic.”

She glanced at the closed pocket door. “When we were on the ship, in Philadelphia, Rory’s magic was everywhere, dancing like a lightning storm. It had just rewoven itself into your aura and you were lit up like Piccadilly.”

Her eyes came back to him. “But now, looking at you in this room, I can see it plain as day: the pomander’s magic has torn your aura.”

Arthur stared.

“I’m sorry,” she said, still quiet. “But I thought you would want to know.”

Torn his aura—no, that wasn’t possible. “But that can’t be,” he said, shaking his head. “There’s nothing wrong with me, I feel fine—”

He cut himself off, putting his hand to his chest.

Did he feel fine? Or had the pain at Niagara Falls, in Boston, been something far worse than he’d imagined?

“You’re not fine,” she said softly. “You’re very, very far from fine.”

“But I don’t understand,” said Arthur, fingers clenching against his chest. “How could I be walking around with a torn aura—”

Except he knew the answer, didn’t he?