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Magic in Manhattan Collection

Spellbound
Starcrossed
Wonderstruck

Allie Therin
 TABLE OF CONTENTS

Spellbound
By Allie Therin

Starcrossed
By Allie Therin

Wonderstruck
By Allie Therin
To save Manhattan, they’ll have to save each other
first…

1925

New York

Arthur Kenzie’s life’s work is protecting the world from the supernatural
relics that could destroy it. When an amulet with the power to control the
tides is shipped to New York, he must intercept it before it can be used to
devastating effects. This time, in order to succeed, he needs a powerful
psychometric…and the only one available has sworn off his abilities
altogether.

Rory Brodigan’s gift comes with great risk. To protect himself, he’s become
a recluse, redirecting his magic to find counterfeit antiques. But with the
city’s fate hanging in the balance, he can’t force himself to say no.

Being with Arthur is dangerous, but Rory’s ever-growing attraction to him

begins to make him brave. And as Arthur coaxes him out of seclusion, a
magical and emotional bond begins to form. One that proves impossible to
break—even when Arthur sacrifices himself to keep Rory safe and Rory
must risk everything to save him.

One-click with confidence. This title is part of the Carina Press Romance
Promise: all the romance you’re looking for with an HEA/HFN. It’s a
promise!

This book is approximately 75,000 words

Arthur and Rory’s story continues in book two,
coming soon from Carina Press!
Spellbound

Allie Therin
For anyone who’s ever needed a lifeline
out of the dark.
 CONTENTS

Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three

Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three
Acknowledgments

About the Author

 CHAPTER ONE

The antique watch was a fraud. Not crafted by some eighteenth-century

Swiss fella on a mountain but by a surly doll in a dank room, swilling gin
and tap water.
Rory reached deeper into the watch’s past.
The flapper with the cloche hat and black bob sets the gin on the rickety
table and bends close to the gooseneck lamp. There’s a folded newspaper on
her table, beneath an ashtray, a gold-plated bronze chain, and a fake
crystal watch face. She clamps her cigarette between her teeth, lipstick
staining the paper, and pinches a speck of cheap quartz in her tweezers as
the passing train shakes the paneled walls—
“Any luck?”
Rory’s eyes popped open. For a moment, he saw double: the counterfeiter
with her black bob and red lips overlaid on Mrs. Brodigan’s gray bun and
green eyes.
Then he blinked, and the vision of the pocket watch’s creation cleared,
leaving only familiar Mrs. Brodigan and the homey back office of the
antiques appraisal shop. “That watch was handmade, all right.” He tossed it
on the side table that flanked his ratty armchair. “Handmade in 1924 right
here in New York.”
“Blast.” Mrs. Brodigan sat at the rolltop desk. “You didn’t see the Swiss
watchmaker honing his craft in a mountain hamlet?”
“Saw a girl honing her forgery skills in a dingy room on the J Line.” He
sank into the chair, mouth dry and body stiff from scrying the watch too
long. His glasses slid down his nose and he pushed them back into place,
still not used to the feel of the round, all-black frames. “Date was on the
counterfeiter’s newspaper. That watch is six months old, tops. It belonged to
some fancy British captain fighting the French about as much as it belonged
to King Tut.”
Mrs. Brodigan clucked her tongue. “Mr. McIntyre isn’t going to be happy
to hear it. But people come to us for truth, and truth they shall have.” She
broke into a kind smile, the crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes crinkling.
“What we give them of the truth, at any rate.”
 Rory, whose fingers still tingled from the aftermath of scrying, snorted.
Brodigan’s Appraisals looked like the Real McCoy, a Hell’s Kitchen hole-
in-the-wall with shelves of antiques and some microscopes, loupes, and
calipers for show. No one needed to know their appraisal actually came
from a scrawny blond fella in glasses who hid in the back and scried
antiques’ histories with his mind.
Mrs. Brodigan clasped her hands. “Well, I have something else for you, if
you’re up for it.”
“Yeah?” He picked up his canteen from the side table and took a long sip.
“Whatcha got? New job?”
But Mrs. Brodigan hesitated. “Why don’t I show you?” She got to her
feet. “It’s a bit unusual.”
Oh no. Rory didn’t do unusual. “Not interested!” he called after her, as
she disappeared through the open pocket doors of the office.
“Perhaps not, but the last time I decided that for you, you sulked for three
days.”
Rory gave her retreating figure a dirty look from under the brim of his
newsboy cap. Then, with a huff, he peeled himself out of his armchair. He
clutched his canteen as he wove his way around Mrs. Brodigan’s rolltop
desk and into the main shop. Twilight had fallen, and outside the shop’s
large window, the lamppost illuminated the dirty snow piled on the
sidewalks and the passersby as they huddled into their coats. Every now and
then a head would turn toward the shop, glancing at the faded letters of its
name in the window and Mrs. Brodigan’s handwritten sign taped below:
Select antiques for sale. No weapon appraisals.
Mrs. Brodigan was at the counter with the ancient cash register,
retrieving a small archival box. He pointed. “That the job? What’s weird
about a box?”
She frowned. “I really do hesitate to tell you. Considering the hour, and
the hours you’ve already put in this week, and with you still so young—”
“I’m twenty,” he muttered as he took another sip.
“—but as you keep telling me, you’re old enough to make your own
decisions, especially when the patron’s willing to pay double.”
Rory sloshed the canteen, spilling water over his chin and hand. His
desperately needed new glasses had cost him everything he’d saved, and
rent was due on the fifth. “What’s the catch?” he said, wiping his mouth
with his sleeve.
 “Mr. Kenzie’s in a terrible rush and wants any forgeries found by
breakfast.” She made a face. “And it’s rather a lot of letters.”
“I can do it,” Rory said.
“Yes, dear, because you’re as magical as the sídhe, but Mr. Kenzie
doesn’t know that, does he? It’s a very difficult request.”
“That’s why he’s paying double,” said Rory. “Couldn’t you use the dough
too?” He tried to keep the question soft and casual. He suspected her late
husband’s medical bills were still around, but he was the last person who’d
want to make the wound of that death hurt fresh.
“I wouldn’t risk you to pay any debt,” she said firmly. “Mr. Kenzie is
under the impression I have a laboratory. It wouldn’t do for him to start
poking around, asking how we worked so fast.”
Rory might’ve caved at that, but what if he lost his room? Even once
he’d scrounged up the cash for a new pad, he’d have to start over, find
another place secure enough. Buy new locks. “He’s not gonna ask. Rich
jerks think they deserve the impossible. Never ask or care ’bout the person
at the bottom who’s gotta do the work.”
“Now that’s a bit of unfair. Mr. Kenzie was terribly apologetic—”
“But he is some rich high hat, right?”
She sighed. “A congressman’s son,” she admitted. “So perhaps he is used
to getting what he wants, when he wants it.” Her eyes were on Rory, a little
sad. “And I suppose he’s unlikely to discover you. You try so hard to stay
unnoticed.”
Rory wrapped his arms tight around himself. “That’s how it’s gotta be.
And since no one knows ’bout me, I can do a job like this for him.”
“Your house locks the doors at ten—”
“If I can’t scry the letters by then, I’ll go home,” he lied. The shop would
be cold, but there were worse places to sleep than the armchair. She still
looked reluctant, so he added, “I’m really not a boy anymore.”
“Spoken exactly like a little boy.” But her shoulders relaxed and her
smile crinkled her crow’s feet again. “All right, lad, I promised I wouldn’t
coddle you anymore. I told you about the job so you could make the call
and I’ll let you make it.”
Yes. “I call it good.” Rory set the canteen next to the cash register and
took the box from her. It was a beautiful piece and pleasantly heavy, solid
mahogany he’d bet, with intricate vines carved along all the edges and a
fierce bear in the center of the lid. “The box too?”
 She shook her head. “Just the letters inside.”
He traced the bear’s carved fur, feeling the ridges beneath his finger, then
opened the box. “All of them?” He stared at the stack, which reached the
top of the box. “By breakfast?”
“If it’s too much—”
“Everything’s Jake.” Because yes, it was enough letters to fill a whole
night in the shop, but he’d be spending all his nights here if he couldn’t
make rent. He closed the box with a snap. “See you in the morning.”
But Mrs. Brodigan still looked troubled. “It’s a lot, dear, and work
doesn’t need to become another excuse for you to always be alone.”
Rory huffed. “Better than blowing all my scratch going out when no one
wants a short guy in glasses anyway.”
“Nonsense—”
“Nonsense is exactly what comes outta my mouth half the time and I
don’t need anyone else to hear it.” He folded his arms. “Scryers aren’t good
company, Mrs. B.”
She sighed. “I like you just fine, dear, even when you’re a storm cloud.”
She smiled at Rory’s scowl. “I’ll close up,” she said, and with a pat on his
arm left him to it.
Rory pulled the office’s pocket door shut behind him, muffling the sound
of Mrs. Brodigan’s familiar steps as she puttered around the shop. He set his
newsboy cap on the side table, freeing his shaggy curls before he tucked his
legs up under him in the armchair and considered the box.
Ritzy. But then, this was some political big-timer paying double for a
rush job, so he was gonna be ritzy too. Rory ought to scry the box and see
what all he could learn about terribly apologetic Mr. Kenzie—
Except they’d only been asked to appraise the letters and it wouldn’t be
fair play. So with a last admiring glance at the bear, he opened the box
again.
Geez, there had to be two dozen letters. No envelopes either, just ancient
pieces of folded paper, yellowed with age and spotted where the ink had
run. He picked up the top one and unfolded it. Signed by a Frederick
Douglass and dated April 1856, it looked authentic enough—but then, Rory
had seen some good forgeries come through the antiques shop in the last
four years.
He set the box on his ancient footstool that once must have been a very
nice match for a completely different chair. He settled into his seat and
carefully set the pads of his fingers on top of the letter’s handwriting.
Scrying was like turning a radio dial, searching for just the right notch
until suddenly the signal came in clear, static transformed to music. It was
always so easy to welcome the music in—
Not always so easy to turn the radio back off. Rory tried not to think
about that as he closed his eyes and let the magic sweep him into the letter’s
past.
The man in the bowler hat sits at a desk in a room that smells like fish. A
phonograph lazily spins in the corner, scratching out Margaret Young’s
“Hard-Hearted Hannah.” The man sticks his tongue between his teeth as
he dips his fountain pen in the inkwell. Carefully, he puts the nib to a piece
of yellowed paper and scratches out an “1856” in the top right corner.
He lifts his head and considers the paper. After a moment, he sets the pen
down, dabs his finger in water, and deliberately smears the wet ink on the
six. He wipes his finger on an ink-stained towel folded on the corner of the
desk and picks up his pen—
Well, that letter was as real as a wooden nickel. Did Kenzie already
suspect he had a forgery? Was that why he’d come to Brodigan’s in the first
place?
A distant jingle startled Rory, the sound of the front door’s bell ringing
behind Mrs. Brodigan as she left for the night. He glanced at the clock and
groaned. It was hard to keep track of present time when he scried, and he’d
let himself get distracted and spent longer than he’d meant watching the
vision of that letter’s past.
He set the forgery on his side table and reached back into the box,
withdrawing the second letter off the stack. He unfolded it to find it was
also signed by Frederick Douglass, this time dated October 1855.
Huh.
He emptied the box of all its letters and found them all signed by
Frederick Douglass, all dated between 1855 and 1857, some duplicates of
each other. He spread the letters across his lap, the chair, and the footstool,
and pursed his lips.
There was no way all twenty-two of the letters were going to be real. Had
this sap bought an entire lot of dodgy historic letters, hoping to get lucky?
But why would a congressman’s son need to pay double for some Hell’s
Kitchen shop to rush-appraise the lot?
 Rory ground his teeth. This was weird and he didn’t like weird—he liked
safe and predictable.
But he also liked having a roof over his head, and he still had twenty-one
letters to scry. He rubbed his eyes behind the glasses. He’d leave the
mysteries to people who could afford to care about them and just be grateful
he’d make February’s rent.
But as he picked up another letter, he couldn’t shake the heavy suspicion
that something about this job smelled wrong. Mr. Kenzie had said he
wanted any forgeries found by breakfast.
What wasn’t he saying?
 CHAPTER TWO

The pale winter sun shone through the east-facing windows of Arthur
Kenzie’s fourth-floor Upper West Side apartment, painting the wood floors
of his study with stripes of warmth. Outside, the white-frosted trees of
Central Park glittered as light struck snow, and for just a moment, even
Manhattan seemed still.
Arthur, however, did not have time to enjoy the morning.
“Leena Brodigan.” Arthur stood in front of the Monet hanging between
bookshelves on the study’s back wall over a small settee. “Owner of
Brodigan’s Appraisals, a small antiques appraisal shop in Hell’s Kitchen.”
He shrugged off his suit jacket, black like his hair, and shot a sly look over
his shoulder at the study’s only other occupant. “I met with her yesterday
afternoon, because at least one of us has the good manners to chase leads.”
Jade raised an eyebrow. She was elegantly sprawled in one of the two
leather club chairs, her dark curls covered by a cloche hat that matched the
gray of her pinstriped men’s suit. On the table at her side was the coffee
service Arthur had ordered up, and she set her china cup down on the silver
tray. “Yes, and the other of us has the good manners to keep Fifth Avenue in
decent liquor.” She crossed her long legs to display an impressively high
heel. “Quality gin doesn’t run itself from Toronto.”
Arthur scoffed. “Fifth Avenue deserves rotgut. Half those arseholes call
for segregation during the day then have the nerve to slither into Harlem for
culture at night. Be nice to bounce those hypocrites straight out of your
speakeasy and onto the street.”
“Except they’d return with the police,” she pointed out, “because we’re
in America, where the law lets your people street my people, never the other
way around.”
He sighed and tossed his jacket onto the arm of the settee. There were
many reasons he was unhappy to be back, and Jade had it so much worse.
“Why did we leave Paris?”
“Because you said, and I quote, we’ve got to save the thrice-damned
world.” It was teasing, a spot-on mimic of his blended transatlantic accent,
perfect as any politician or well-traveled private school graduate. “But so as
long as we’re in New York, the Magnolia gives my sister a place to sing and
you a place to break hearts.”
“I don’t break hearts—”
“We had six women ask after you last time—was that really
Congressman Kenzie’s son, was he really a soldier, was he really a Harvard
quarterback—”
“I played for Yale.”
That earned him a fond eye roll. “Tell me more about Leena Brodigan.”
“We’re meeting at her shop this morning.” He shed his cuff links and set
them on the sideboard before rolling up his shirtsleeves. “I’ve hired her for
an appraisal, because rumor is hers are accurate to an almost unnatural
degree.”
Jade straightened. “Unnatural? Or—?” She twitched her fingers and her
coffee cup rose off the saucer and into the air, where it spun in a small
circle, as if on an invisible string.
Arthur grinned. Six years on and he still got a thrill seeing magic. “My
suspicion is your type of unnatural, yes.”
She plucked the cup from the air. “That would be a lucky break.”
“We’re overdue for one.” With a grunt, he lifted the heavy Monet off the
sitting room wall.
“I could have done that.”
“I’m not using your telekinesis for chores.” He awkwardly maneuvered
the painting to the settee then straightened to face the small safe hidden in
the wall. “Leena Brodigan ran Brodigan’s Appraisals with her husband for a
decade, until he passed from Spanish influenza four years ago. She closed
the shop, put it up for sale, and went upstate to be close to her sister, a
longtime resident of Hyde Gardens.”
Arthur reached for the combination lock on the safe as Jade averted her
eyes. No paranormal should know how to get in that safe, she insisted.
“Unfortunately, Mrs. Brodigan’s sister, Lorna McCaffrey, had been battling
consumption for years,” he said as he spun the dial. “She lost the battle only
a few weeks after Mrs. Brodigan joined her.”
“The poor dear, losing her husband and her sister so close,” Jade said,
echoing Arthur’s own sympathy. “Why was her sister in an asylum?”
He swung the heavy front of the safe wide to reveal its contents, a single
small ring box. “Apparently Lorna McCaffrey thought she could see the
future.”
 Jade’s eyebrow went up. “We’ve never met someone with that ability.”
“Of course not. If we had, they’d be on my payroll.” He took the box
from the safe, always heavier than it looked from the lead within. “But it’s a
coincidence, isn’t it? One sister supposedly can see the future, the other
accurately appraises antiques?”
Jade made a contemplative hmm. “You’re thinking precognition and
psychometry? One saw the future, the other sees the past?”
“I’m thinking I’m going to find out.” Arthur brought the ring over to Jade
as she rose to her feet. “Mrs. Brodigan still has debts from her husband’s
illness. I set her with a test last night and a nice financial incentive to take
it. If she fails, we’re back to square one.” He held out the box, small and
unassuming in his palm. “But if she passes, maybe she can make something
of this.”
Jade furrowed her brow. “I don’t like you handling it. You haven’t got a
speck of magic—”
“Which is exactly why I do it and not you.” He offered her an honest
smile. “But I am happy you’re back from Canada.” It had been too quiet the
last few weeks. Then again, Arthur had gone from a big family into college
into the army. Now he had an apartment all to himself, and despite the city’s
constant commotion, the empty flat was always too quiet.
“You could meet someone—”
“Not in America,” he said immediately. “If I’m caught with a man
abroad, at least I can lie about my name. With my luck, any handsome
stranger I meet here will turn out to be a reporter or a blackmailer or an
undercover bull, and then I will have single-handedly ruined John’s and my
father’s political futures.”
“They won their last elections—”
“They’re not immune to scandal—”
“But you’ve a right to be happy too,” she said.
“I’m fine,” Arthur lied. “I have a radio and a phonograph and—” the air
was split by a shrill ring in the parlor “—and a private telephone,” he
finished pointedly. “So as you can see, I’ve plenty to keep me company
while I’m stuck back on this side of the Atlantic.” The phone rang again.
“Besides, what’s your rush for me to pair up again?” he called after her, as
she went through the open pocket doors and into the adjoining parlor to
answer the phone. “You didn’t even like Lord Fine.”
“You didn’t even like Lord Fine.”
 Arthur made a face, but she wasn’t wrong. He locked the ring box into
his briefcase and set about closing up the safe and rehanging the painting.
He caught only snatches of Jade’s one-sided conversation on the telephone,
yes, of course and perhaps a cafe and I’d be happy to relay that message.
A moment later, she returned to the sitting room, a sly grin on her face.
“Mrs. Brodigan doesn’t want you in her shop this morning.”
“That’s odd.” Arthur straightened the painting, all evidence of the safe
hidden. “Did she say why?”
“Only that it was occupied. She’s willing to meet you at a restaurant on
49th.”
“A public place?” He frowned. “I can’t take a relic around innocent
people—”
“That’s the soldier in you talking,” Jade said gently. “The ring doesn’t
work. It’s an unloaded pistol, only dangerous to a subordinate paranormal—
like Mrs. Brodigan may be, which is why we need her, and which is why
you’re going to meet with her, whenever or wherever she chooses.”
Arthur huffed, but again, she wasn’t wrong. “I suppose you have a
point,” he said grudgingly. “As you usually do. If she changed the plan,
why are you smiling?”
“Because she’s very cross with you.” Jade had a sparkle of hope in her
eyes. “Almost as if she doesn’t appreciate a night spent taking a test.”
Arthur broke into a matching grin as answering hope coursed through
him. “Fingers crossed.”

***
The cafe turned out to be an Irish place, a rebranded Hell’s Kitchen pub that
Arthur suspected had served a decent beer five years ago. It was about half-
full that morning, patrons nursing weak coffees and gigantic plates of eggs
and sausages, tomatoes, and baked beans. Tempting, but no amount of
nostalgia for the other side of the Atlantic would ever make Arthur willing
to call beans breakfast.
He’d arrived early for the appointment and sat at an uncovered wood
table alone, the ring secure in its box in the briefcase at his feet. He’d only
seen it twice himself. Once in Spain, when they’d found it and Jade’s
telekinesis hadn’t worked. And once six months ago, high in the
Adirondacks and miles from the nearest town, where their new friend
Zhang had confirmed the ring was a relic.
An actual relic—and Arthur had brought it to a Hell’s Kitchen restaurant
of innocent people. A ring that had fed for centuries on its own magic
chains until whatever mysterious power it held grew to a titan, a smoking
volcano—
No. A dormant volcano. Zhang had been clear that the relic was unbound.
Its creator was long dead and its magic was sealed. Manhattan was safe
because the ring didn’t work and Arthur was determined to keep it that way,
which was why he needed Leena Brodigan’s magic.
A waitress walking past shot him an interested smile. He gave her one of
his own, like he wasn’t hiding any kind of volcano in a sodding briefcase.
If Mrs. Brodigan was truly psychometric, if she was able to scry objects’
histories—scry the ring’s history—
He forced the hope down to a simmer. It was more likely she was just an
appraiser who was good at her job. At any rate, he was about to find out,
because she’d just walked in. She was wearing the same brown winter coat
she’d worn the day before, with large pockets and fake fur on the collar and
cuffs. A small brown felt hat was perched on top of her neat gray bun. But
gone this morning was the smile she’d had for him yesterday, replaced by a
flat mouth and suspicious eyes.
Arthur’s pulse sped up. He got to his feet as the waiter led her to his
table. “My dear Mrs. Brodigan—”
“Good morning, Mr. Kenzie.”
Interrupting the customer—oh, she was cross with him indeed. This was
very promising. He stood for the waiter to seat her before retaking his own
chair.
The waiter pulled out a yellow pad from his apron. “Coffee? Breakfast?”
“Only tea for me.” Mrs. Brodigan’s gaze stayed fixed on Arthur. “I
haven’t decided how long I’m staying.”
Excellent. As the waiter disappeared, Arthur gestured broadly to the
menu. “Obviously my treat. Whatever you’d like—”
“Some truth from you.”
Arthur rested his elbows on the table and his chin on his hands. “I am at
your service.”
She gave him a withering look. “You can save the charm and the big blue
eyes for the younger ladies, dear.”
 She set his letter box in the center of the table. “You paid double for my
time, so I daresay you’re entitled to waste it, but I would like to know what
you’re playing at.”
She opened the carved lid, displaying the stack. “Twenty-one letters
purported to be written by the abolitionist Frederick Douglass. Twenty-one
forgeries by twenty-one New York forgers, some of them truly excellent.”
Arthur held his breath.
Mrs. Brodigan reached into her substantial handbag and withdrew an
envelope, then laid it on the bare table. “One genuine letter, handwritten by
Mr. Douglass to a Miss Hannah Fuller of the Skaneateles Ladies Anti-
Slavery Society.” She folded her short arms and leveled an unamused stare
across the table. There was an angry set to her jaw, defensive, almost
protective. “There was a lot of sleep lost to find that single letter. What’s
your game, Mr. Kenzie?”
Arthur could hear his heart pounding in his ears. He picked up the
genuine letter, tucking it away in his jacket and setting his briefcase on his
lap. “I needed to know I could trust you.” He dialed the combination into
the lock then withdrew the ring box from the briefcase, setting it on the
table between them. “For what’s in this box, I had to be certain that you
could do the job.”
Mrs. Brodigan glanced at it, then back at Arthur. “I told you to save the
charm for the younger set. That means the jewelry too.”
But despite her irritation, there was also interest now, as she looked at the
tiny box. After a long moment, she pulled a pair of reading spectacles out of
her handbag, balancing them on her nose. She then picked up the box
without a flinch.
“This is heavy,” she said, weighing it in her hand.
“It is.” Arthur was impressed. Even Jade didn’t like to touch the box.
Mrs. Brodigan’s control over her psychometry must be impeccable.
“Hmm.” She turned it in her hand. “And are you wanting this box
appraised too?”
Arthur snorted. What a wonderful actress. She had to recognize the feel
of the lead in the box’s lining and know her psychometry would be useless.
But if she wanted to pretend, he’d play along. “You’re welcome to try,” he
said dryly.
“Hmmm.” She peered more closely at the box, and then reached for the
lid.
 “Wait.” Arthur set his hand over hers, stopping her just in time. “You
can’t open that here.” What a nightmare that would be—
“Mr. Kenzie.” Her gaze was cold again. “I was very clear yesterday. We
do not appraise weapons.”
“It’s exactly what it looks like.” Arthur drew his hand away, relieved
when she made no further move to open the box. “A ring.”
She set the box back down on the table with a scoff. “Then why can’t I
look at it?”
“You most certainly can—and indeed, I’m rather fervently hoping you
will—but not yet and not here.” He clasped his hands. “I will explain
everything to you, but please believe me when I say that you will want
more privacy when I do.”
“Hmmm.” Her mouth was a thin line. “I suppose we might be able to use
the shop later this morning—”
“You Arthur Kenzie?” It was the waiter. “A Mr. Zhang just called our
telephone. Had a message for you.”
That was unusual for Zhang. “Is he still on the line?” Arthur asked.
The waiter shook his head. “He wants you to come see him. Said it’s
urgent.”
Arthur’s stomach dropped. He swiped the ring off the table and stuffed it
back into the small square in the padded briefcase, then shut the lid and
locked the briefcase tight. He held out his hand to Mrs. Brodigan as he got
to his feet. “My sincerest apologies.”
“You’re leaving?” Mrs. Brodigan raised an eyebrow and ignored his
hand. “Taking the job with you, I suppose?” She shook her head. “It’s just
as well. I don’t think I trust you very much.”
“Is that right?” She was slipping through his fingers. No one was looking
their way, so Arthur quickly reached into his jacket and withdrew a fat
envelope, which he set on the table. “For last night, including a tip. And if
you’ll appraise that ring, I’ll pay triple.”
Her eyes widened.
He leaned forward. “You see, I trust you, Mrs. Brodigan. I trust you very
much.”
But she scoffed. “You don’t trust me. You won’t even let me see that
ring.” She began to stand. “No, Mr. Kenzie. I believe our business is over.”
Damnation. Without letting himself hesitate, Arthur set the briefcase on
the table. “Keep it.”
 She went still.
“As collateral, until we can meet again.” Every inch of him protested the
thought of letting the relic out of his sight, but they couldn’t lose Mrs.
Brodigan. They needed her.
He leaned closer, and added quietly, “But my conditions, as your client,
are that you keep it safe and you don’t try to open it until we can talk.” He
swallowed. “I’m afraid I’m quite serious about this part. I’ll need your
word.”
She eyed him, weighing him with her bright green gaze. Finally, she
nodded. “I suppose it’s not the strangest thing I’ve been asked to do.” She
set a hand on the briefcase. “All right, Mr. Kenzie, I accept your terms. I’ll
keep this safe and unopened. You have my word.”
He breathed out a sigh of relief even as tension flooded his stomach.
Unloaded pistol, he told himself. Dormant volcano. Jade was still going to
kill him, but everything Arthur had learned about Mrs. Brodigan implied
she was the steadiest, most forthright of souls. He hadn’t lied when he said
he trusted her. “Can we meet at your shop this afternoon?”
She shook her head. “I have a driving lesson.”
“A driving lesson?”
“It’s part of a payment for sorting out a watch. My patrons can be a bit
eccentric.” She gave him a pointed look. “Tomorrow morning?”
That was much longer than Arthur had wanted to wait. But he supposed
when they’d been waiting months, one more night couldn’t hurt.
“Tomorrow morning, then.”
He dropped another bill on the table to pay their tab and rushed to catch a
cab to Chinatown.
 CHAPTER THREE

“—we’d be delighted to look at your brooch, but I’m afraid the pistol is out
of the question. As you can see by our sign, it’s strict store policy, absolutely
no weapon appraisals—”
“—surely you could make an exception—”
“—I’m sorry, sir, but if it was created to cause pain, we don’t appraise it,
and that isn’t up for negotiation—”
Rory cracked an eye. He ached all over, his skin still prickly from a night
scrying, his muscles sore from too little sleep and in a chair at that. He felt
around on the side table until his hand landed on his new glasses. He slid
them on and rested his temple against the chair’s wingback side as he
listened to Mrs. Brodigan haggle with a potential customer.
“—but it’s not a very large pistol—”
“—I daresay I might have misspoke earlier; it’s looking like we won’t
have time to appraise the brooch either—”
“—wait, wait! All right, just the brooch, I’ll take the pistol somewhere
else—”
Rory slouched deeper, feet propped on the battered footstool. He only
half listened as Mrs. Brodigan took down the customer’s details, then
finally the bell jingled as the front door of the shop swung shut. A moment
later, Mrs. Brodigan popped her head in the office doorway. “I thought I
heard you stirring.”
He yawned. “Weren’t you meeting what’s-his-name this morning, the
high hat rush job?”
“We went to the restaurant on 49th. You deserved some sleep, so I told
him the shop wasn’t available.” She shook her head. “I don’t know if I trust
him yet and I certainly don’t think he ever needs to know about you.”
His tired brain managed some gratitude, mixed in with the persistent
irritation that Kenzie had given them such an impossible job. “And did you
tell him off for being a colossal time-wasting prick?”
“Language, dear. And yes, I was very cross with him.” She hesitated. “At
first.”
“At first?”
 “How about I make us a cup of tea?” She was already on her way out of
the office.
“What bad news do you have if you’ve got to butter me up with tea?” he
called after her.
“So suspicious!”
Not a denial. Rory reluctantly pushed up to his feet and made his way out
of the office. Mrs. Brodigan was puttering behind the cash register counter,
turning it into a makeshift kitchen with her hotplate and kettle. She set a
new tin of Mrs. Meyers’s apricot hamantaschen cookies next to the register,
and Rory helped himself while she made up tea and passed him a mug.
“So,” said Rory, savoring the warmth of the mug against his cold, still
prickly hands, “what does at first mean?”
“He admitted the task was a test.” Mrs. Brodigan took a breath. “Because
he has another job.”
Rory snorted. “And I’ll do it for him,” he said, lifting the mug to his lips,
“in another lifetime.”
“He paid for last night, with a tip. And for the new job, he’s offering
triple.”
Triple. Rory cursed into his tea, because now he was listening. “And
what does he want for triple? Me in a maid’s uniform, scrying all the china
in his Fifth Avenue mansion?”
“He lives on the Upper West Side and he gave me a ring.”
A ring? Rory wrinkled his nose as Mrs. Brodigan set her mug down by
the cash register. She bent behind the counter and a moment later set a
briefcase on top.
Rory nodded at it. “Let’s see it.”
But she shook her head. “We can’t look at the ring until he can explain
things. I gave my word.”
He put his own mug on the counter and ran a finger over the supple
leather. Two small gold locks flanked the handle at the top, each with three
dials of numbers. “Locked,” he pointed out. “We supposed to appraise the
case too?”
“I only asked about the box the ring is in. He said I was ‘welcome to
try.’”
This Kenzie fella was so weird. Then again, this was an antiques shop.
Plenty of their customers were quirky and a fella who saw visions wasn’t
exactly in a place to judge. “Did he say what he wants it all for?”
 Mrs. Brodigan shook her head. “But I did get the sense that it was—
important.” When he furrowed his eyebrows, she put a gentle hand on his
arm. “We haven’t promised anything, dear. We don’t have to appraise it.”
Rory bit his lip. “It’s a ring, not a weapon. How could we turn it down?”
“Because you’re never obligated to do something just because someone
offers you a lot of money to do it.” She squeezed his arm reassuringly.
“Nothing to be done at the moment anyway. Mr. Kenzie isn’t going to open
the case until we’ve talked and that has to wait for tomorrow, because this
afternoon is my lesson with Mr. McIntyre.”
The reminder drove his unease away, replacing it with the burn of envy.
“I can’t believe you’re gonna drive.”
She frowned. “I’ve been telling you to take the lesson. You earned it.”
He shook his head rapidly. “Imagine if I started scrying the steering
wheel while the car’s moving.”
“You haven’t lost control in ages—”
“I’m not good for it. Besides, he’d wanna know how I’d helped you and I
don’t wanna answer that question.” He wrapped his arms around himself.
Driving a car, meeting the customers—he couldn’t let himself be tempted
into it. “You do it, you earned it much as me. You handle everything but the
actual scrying.” He jerked his head at the mysterious briefcase again.
Her smile was a little sad, but she didn’t push. “You try to have a nice
afternoon in the shop. Put the job out of your mind for now.”
Easier said than done. But aloud he said, “I’ll try.”
Her smile grew fond. “That’s what you said four years ago, and I’m
grateful for it every day.”
He rolled his eyes at her sentiment, but he couldn’t stop his own grudging
smile in return.
“And the sun comes out from behind the cloud!” she said. “You know,
you’d snap up a young lady in a heartbeat if you’d smile more often—while
you’re also going out more often—”
“Mrs. B.”
“And the storm clouds are back, just like that.” She patted his arm. “I’m
off to meet Mr. McIntyre and I’ll see you in the morning. Try not to get into
trouble on your own.”
“Of course I won’t,” he said indignantly. He never caused trouble.
But his gaze returned, unbidden, to the briefcase on the counter.
 ***

Zhang’s news had not been good.

Arthur took a long cab from Chinatown to Harlem, and now the previous
night’s snow crunched beneath his boots as he made his way down 135th.
The sun was warm on the back of his neck, a short delight to savor before it
disappeared into clouds or winter’s early dark.
If asked where he was going, he would have patiently explained that he
was on that particular street corner to patronize the small, green-awninged
deli for a pastrami on rye. Of course he wasn’t here to visit the abandoned
tobacco shop in the basement below; one could clearly see the shop was out
of business, the sidewalk-level windows obscured by velvet curtains, and
certainly if the tobacco shop was actually the infamous jazz club and
speakeasy known as the Magnolia, well, Arthur was sure he didn’t know
anything about that.
He picked up several sandwiches from the deli, then went back out to the
cold and down the half-flight of stairs to an iron-barred door. The door’s
peeling letters still spelled out Tobacconist, despite the hand-lettered Out Of
Business sign taped above.
Benson was the one to open it, a tall man who was wildly handsome and
happily married, not that Arthur would have risked his friendship with Jade
to neck with her brother in any case. At the sight of Arthur waiting patiently
on the step, his yawn became a smile.
“Ace! Come in, come in.” He twisted his burly shoulders out of the way
to let Arthur inside. “Jade said she was expecting you.” Benson led Arthur
through the empty shop, which still smelled of hand-rolled cigarettes and
cheap cigars. At the back, Benson opened another heavy door, and then they
were in the Magnolia, a spacious dark-paneled room of round tables packed
tight around a small stage. “She’s with Stella by the bar.”
Arthur raised an eyebrow. “Not indulging, surely?”
Benson snorted. “Only if mineral water has gotten more interesting.”
The Magnolia wasn’t officially open for business for the night yet, but
even at barely two o’clock, a handful of the tables were occupied and
cigarette smoke hung hazy in the air. Arthur had no trouble spotting the
sisters as he gave the bartender his order. Stella favored dresses over Jade’s
trousers, but they had the same captivating brown eyes and perfect smile as
Benson.
 Arthur joined them, setting his paper bag on the table next to a folded
copy of the Times. “A man could drown in this much beauty.”
It earned him a smile from Stella and a long-suffering look from Jade,
who said, “You know we’re immune to your charm.”
“Speak for yourself.” Stella took his hand with a squeeze, not a
handshake. “What brings your handsome face around?”
He gestured to the paper bag. “News for your sister, sandwiches for the
staff and the band.”
“There’s a reason you’re so popular here.” Stella tapped the Times on the
table. “Is this your news?”
Arthur glanced at the headline beneath her finger. Congressman Kenzie
Faces Fresh Criticism on Immigration Act. “What now?”
“Another interview with Luther Mansfield.” Jade looked unimpressed.
“He doesn’t like your father’s politics.”
“That’s not news,” Arthur said. “News would be us telling the Times that
business mogul and prominent lobbyist Luther Mansfield secretly trades in
dangerous magical artifacts straight out of his Fifth Avenue mansion.”
“Fair enough.” Jade sighed. “I suppose we could be grateful he’s not an
actual paranormal.”
“He’s worse, thinking he’s entitled to a hidden stockpile of magic to sell
to the highest bidder. He has some nerve to turn around and call Father a
threat. We’d be doing a public service if we stole everything enchanted
straight out of Mansfield’s home.”
Jade made a considering face. “Not a bad idea, actually. I’m sure the
Zhangs would help.”
Stella huffed with amusement and got to her feet. “As much fun as Fifth
Avenue grand larceny sounds, I should take the food to the band.” She
waved off Arthur’s protest that they weren’t trying to drive her off. “I’m on
tonight. Benson’s got us a new bassist and we want to run some extra sets.
You two try not to bring down the government while I’m gone.”
“You wound me,” said Arthur, as a waiter approached. “I am the very
model of a law-abiding citizen.”
The waiter set the drink down with a flourish. “Your gin rickey, sir.”
The sisters exchanged smirks. “Oh, shut up,” said Arthur. “Half this
country’s laws are travesties and Prohibition’s not even the worst. I should
be drinking this with a naked—” His gaze darted to the retreating waiter’s
back. “Someone naked, at any rate.”
 Stella lifted her cocktail from the table and raised it. “I’ll drink to that.”
She and Arthur clinked glasses, then she disappeared in the direction of the
stage and the dressing rooms.
“Where’s the ring?” Jade asked, as Arthur took Stella’s seat.
“Don’t be mad.”
“Ace, you didn’t—we don’t even know what it does—”
“Mrs. Brodigan was going to leave, I had to give her collateral,” he said.
“She passed my test.”
Jade’s eyes widened. “She found the genuine letter?”
“Amid the twenty-one forgeries done with different inks and different
aging methods. I don’t believe for one second she has the resources to test
that many in one night with science, which means it’s almost certainly
magic.” He took a sip of his drink, savoring the quality. This was definitely
the Canadian gin. “And she was angry she’d been up all night, which tells
me she didn’t snag a letter at random and get lucky. I think she might
actually scry that ring for us. You know she didn’t even flinch when she
touched the box?”
“What a lucky break,” Jade mused, “to find a psychometric with such
control over her ability.”
Arthur swirled his drink. They might be needing Mrs. Brodigan’s control
and abilities even more than he’d realized. “Zhang asked me to come see
him this morning.”
Jade’s expression sobered. “Yes. I told him where to find you.”
“So you spoke with him too.” On the stage, a handful of staff had begun
setup for the night’s performances. The liquid in Arthur’s cup caught the
edge of a spotlight check. “He told you the rumor?”
“Another relic, on a ship bound for New York.” She sat back in her chair.
“Could be a good thing, if we can get our hands on it.”
“Certainly.” Arthur tossed back the rest of the drink and set the glass
down on the table, too hard. “Or this could be the one that ends civilization,
if we don’t.”
 CHAPTER FOUR

Snow began to fall again that afternoon. Brodigan’s had done steady
business since noon, but as the snow piled higher, the customer count went
lower, and by four o’clock Rory was alone in the empty shop.
Alone except for the mysterious briefcase.
He set his glasses next to the cash register and propped his elbows on the
counter, scrubbing at his tired face and eyes with the palms of his hands. So
Kenzie had brought them a briefcase with a ring. So what? On Rory’s list of
weird, that didn’t even rate.
But a rush job to test twenty-one forged letters hiding a genuine antique
—that had been weird. And Rory most adamantly didn’t like weird, and so
he didn’t trust the prick.
He buried his face farther in his hands and his fingers met his hair, the
messy waves overgrown even by his standards. A barber wasn’t in his
budget, but Mrs. Brodigan kept scissors in the shop, and maybe he
shouldn’t try to cut his own hair on less than three hours’ sleep but it wasn’t
like he had anyone to impress. He shoved his glasses back on his face and
crouched down to see if the scissors were in their usual home on the shelf
under the counter.
Oh, there were the scissors, all right. Right next to the blasted briefcase
Rory was already reaching for.
He yanked his hand away with a curse. Pushing away from the counter,
he strode to the office where Mrs. Brodigan kept her immaculate records in
a fireproof metal filing cabinet with the key taped under her desk. He
unlocked the filing cabinet and rifled through the Ks until he found the
folder he wanted: Arthur J. Kenzie.
But when he laid the file out on the desk and paged through it, there
unfortunately wasn’t much to learn. Kenzie had a Central Park West
address, a private telephone number, and had settled his bill along with—
Rory’s eyes widened at the figure written on the page.
That was the tip for the rush?
He pursed his lips. Fine. Kenzie was still a prick. He just wasn’t a cheap
prick.
 Rory closed the folder. He could hear Mrs. Brodigan’s warm brogue in
his head. You’re never obligated to do something just because someone
offers you a lot of money to do it. She was right, of course. But deep down,
Rory couldn’t pretend his reluctance was born only from anger. He didn’t
understand what was going on—and it scared him.
He could still say no. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d refused to scry
something out of fear, and maybe that made him weak, but he’d long ago
reconciled to himself that if he had to pick between being brave or being
sane, he’d be a yellow-bellied coward.
Still, this wasn’t a gun, or a knife, or one of those horrible medieval
torture devices someone had once tried to sneak into the shop—thank
goodness for Mrs. Brodigan’s sharp eyes for any kind of violent object. No,
Kenzie wasn’t asking for a weapon, he was asking for jewelry. What reason
did Rory have to fear a ring?
The shop was still empty as he returned to the counter. Moving too fast to
have second thoughts, he crouched again and snatched up the briefcase,
then set it on the counter next to the register.
He ran a finger over one of the gold locks. Two locks, three dials of
numbers each. It’d take ages to guess the right pattern with trial and error.
Then again, a fella who could see history didn’t need trial and error to
crack a combination lock.
Rory glanced out the window and glass-paneled door, but the snow was
still falling and the street beyond was empty. The sun had set behind the
buildings, the white snowflakes illuminating the night and softening the
world outside. He’d keep the shop open until five, but it was unlikely
anyone was going to brave the snow and dark to visit Brodigan’s in the next
thirty minutes.
He set his fingers on the locks, closed his eyes, and reached back for the
locks’ creation—and the factory settings.
Two minutes later, Rory had the briefcase open on the counter.
The case was padded with a small square cut in the center, and tucked
tightly inside was a ring box. He reached for it—and then jerked his hand
away with a curse, all the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end.
Lead. That sensation of needles pricking his fingers couldn’t be anything
else. But why was there lead in a ring box?
Quickly, Rory forced himself to grab the ring box and yank it out of the
case, dropping it on the counter a second later. The box rested there, a solid
black cube with no markings. Harmless and unremarkable—except, of
course, that it weighed too much because someone thought a ring needed to
be kept in a lead-lined box.
Rory narrowed his eyes. Things had gotten weirder and he didn’t like it
one bit. Maybe Kenzie didn’t want the ring opened until they’d had a
chance to talk, but Rory wasn’t real keen on listening to anything Kenzie
wanted. Rory could scry the ring now and they’d know what it was before
they even saw Kenzie again, and Rory could be the one with the upper hand
for a change.
Without letting himself think one second more, he reached for the ring
box and cracked the top.
It hit like an ocean wave, or a gust of wind—an invisible force full of
power barreling out of the opened box. Rory saw a flash of gold and
glinting jewels as his legs gave out. He smacked his face against the counter
as he fell, catching the corner of his glasses and knocking them off. He
flailed and his hand struck the box, sending it flying off the counter, and as
he tumbled down he heard the high-pitched clink of metal striking wood.
No—shit—
Down on the floor, Rory clutched at his head. He’d opened a music box
and gotten blasted by a symphony. He ground his teeth against the ringing
in his ears. He couldn’t think for the pressure in his skull, couldn’t see
without his glasses—
He had to close that ring back in its box.
The shop was nothing but a blur of color as Rory dragged himself from
behind the counter on hands and knees. He felt along the floor in sweeping
motions until his hands landed on his glasses. His heart plummeted; the
temple had come loose. They were brand new. But there was no time for
regret, not with the unbearable force in the shop, so he balanced the broken
frames on his face as best he could.
The box was just beyond him, on the floor, and Rory swore out loud as
he saw it open and empty and the ring nowhere nearby. But as the pressure
mounted, he grimly realized that he wasn’t going to have trouble finding it
—he could just follow the crushing sensation to its source.
He picked up the box in his hand. Easy to ignore the prickle of lead on
his skin when his whole head was buzzing like a swarm of bees.
“Come on, come on,” he said aloud as he crawled on toward the
bookshelves. He thought he could just—there! A glint of gold where the
ring had rolled just under the lip of the bottom shelf.
He set the box as close as he could, but he was going to have to pick up
the ring to get it back in the box, and he couldn’t bear to wait another
second for a better plan.
He shoved his hand under the bookshelf and closed his fingers around the
ring.

***
A pale man stands on the bow of a ship. He’s dressed in a long blue coat
with gold trim, a white cravat, his white-blond hair tied back. There are
sounds of human misery below him, but he doesn’t seem to notice. Or, he
doesn’t care.
He lifts his hand and on his finger, the ring catches the brilliant sun, the
white stone glinting. A gust of wind sweeps down the deck and the ship’s
sail billows with a clap.
Two sailors are bringing a man in chains forward. They shove him down
to the wooden planks of the ship’s deck, at the feet of the pale man.
The pale man traces a finger over the ring, a cruel smile on his lips. “You
tried to incite the other prisoners to riot.”
The man swallows hard but doesn’t speak.
The pale man’s smile grows. “The ship moves at my command,” he said
softly. “And in exchange, the captain lets me do as I please with the cargo.”
He traces the jewel on the ring again. The words are chilling but the day is
hot, the sky stretching endlessly on all sides in flawless, cloudless blue—
It should be snowing.

***
Rory gasped, the breath torn from his lungs as he was thrown back into
consciousness. With a rush of adrenaline, he seized his moment of clarity,
and shoved the ring into the lead-lined box before slamming the lid shut.
The pressure vanished.
The vision was gone.
He toppled flat on his back on the floor of the shop. Black dots
threatened the edges of his sight as he tried to focus on the ceiling, on the
yellowish light of the bulbs far above. His heart pounded in his ears as he
took huge gulps of air, too fast, fists balled against his mouth. If he didn’t
slow his breathing he might pass out, might get himself sucked right back
into a vision—
“Focus, focus.” His voice was loud in the silent shop. Good. He kept
talking, anything to keep himself conscious, to anchor him to the here and
now. “The past is over. This is real. The floor, the wood, the lights. You’re
Rory Brodigan now and this is real.”
His voice broke. He made himself say it again. “You got out. You got out.
This. Is. Real.”
He tensed all the way from his clenched fists to his toes—and then, like a
bowstring loosed, his body crumpled.
He let out a breath that was almost a sob as his tension turned to
trembling. He rolled onto his side and curled into himself on the floor, as if
he could somehow stop the shaking. Would have been nice to have a
blanket. Or company.
Or be a different person.
It took several minutes for his breathing to slow and the dizziness to fade.
Finally he braced himself on the bookshelf and shakily pushed up enough to
see the antique clock over the cash register.
It was nearly ten.
He’d been lost in the ring for hours.
And suddenly he was furious. He grabbed the ring box and shoved to his
feet, heading straight for the open briefcase on the cash register counter. He
ignored the prickling in his hand long enough to stick the ring box in the
briefcase and slam it shut. He yanked the briefcase off the counter and
stormed into the office, where he jammed the case in the lowest file cabinet
drawer and locked it tight. Then he reached for the desk and the paper with
Arthur Kenzie’s contact information.
He burst through the shop’s side door into the brownstone’s lobby, where
a handful of people were smoking cigarettes and checking their mail.
Ignoring them, he snatched up the party-line telephone and bit out the
exchange and number for the operator.
The call was answered on the second ring. “This is Arthur Kenzie.”
Kenzie’s voice was deep and confident and he had a ritzy accent, like he
hadn’t always lived in America. It was unquestionably sexy and that only
pissed Rory off more. “You think ’cause you got money you can stomp all
over us?”
 All heads in the lobby turned his way. In his ear, Kenzie sounded very
unimpressed as he said, “I beg your pardon—”
“How dare you give Mrs. Brodigan that—that thing.”
There was a barely perceptible intake of breath. “Who is this?” Kenzie’s
voice had gone sharp.
“We don’t appraise weapons!” Rory’s heated shout nearly sent his broken
glasses tumbling off his face.
“Where’s Mrs. Brodigan?” Kenzie demanded. “Why do you know about
the ring—”
“That’s no ring. Whatever that piece of hell is, you’re taking it back.”
“But—”
“Keep your job, keep your money, and keep the hell away from us. You’ll
get your monster back tomorrow and I better never hear your fucking name
again.”
Rory slammed the receiver back on the cradle. He stood for a moment of
righteous anger—then slumped as all the fight left him in a rush.
That…might have been a bit harsh.
He hunched his shoulders, conscious of every pair of eyes in the lobby
staring at him. He slouched as small as he could and slunk away from the
phone—
When it suddenly rang.
Rory froze. His gaze landed on the phone. It rang again, the long-long-
short ring that meant a call for the antiques shop. And no one else in the
lobby was moving, all eyes staring at him, so finally he swallowed hard and
picked up the receiver. “Hello?”
“Don’t bother sending the ring back,” said Kenzie. “I’m coming to get it
myself.”
 CHAPTER FIVE

Arthur hung up on his mysterious caller without another word. He swept up

his suit jacket, winter coat, and hat, dressing as he took the stairs down four
flights to catch a cab on Central Park West.
“Hell’s Kitchen,” he told the driver, then sat back, steepled his fingers,
and considered the call.
Who the hell was that uppity little shit? How the hell did he know about
the ring? And the most pressing concern—where was Mrs. Brodigan?
Christ. Had she opened that box?
Arthur’s knowledge of psychometry was limited and his experience with
it nonexistent. He’d never met a psychometric in person—had never even
met a person who believed a sane psychometric could exist. The risks to the
mind from the visions were simply too great. Arthur knew of some of those
risks from rumors, others he could quite well imagine, and if Mrs. Brodigan
hadn’t heeded his warning, if she’d had any contact with that relic—
The consequences could have made an unknown young man very angry
with Arthur.
Shit. He leaned forward. “I’ll pay double if you can make it in under ten
minutes.”
The cabbie looked like Christmas had come earlier. “Sir, yes, sir,” he
said, and floored it through a red light.

***

Rory could not move fast enough.

He sprinted from the lobby, fumbling for the keys in his trouser pocket. It
took him three tries to lock the side door with his shaky hands. What had he
been thinking, mouthing off like that? He’d just been so shaken—so scared,
if he was honest with himself. He’d lost hours to that ring, and he didn’t
want to think about the last time he’d gone that deep—
But of course Arthur Kenzie didn’t know that. Kenzie was just another
wealthy jerk-off wanting an appraisal. He had no idea what that ring had
done to Rory and probably enough social clout to blacklist Brodigan’s
Appraisals and make sure the shop never got another customer.
 Rory had to fix this. He had to be gone when Kenzie arrived. His
boarding house was locked tight by now and he was facing another night in
the shop, but he could walk the streets until the coast was clear, and maybe
Mrs. Brodigan could smooth things over for his stupid big mouth in the
morning.
But before he could run, he had to lock up, or he was just rolling out the
welcome mat for Hell’s Kitchen’s gangsters. He held his broken glasses on
his face best he could as he scrambled to empty the cash register into the
safe, to lock up the files, to cover the items that needed covering, to draw
the curtains—and, most important, lock the drawer with the briefcase in it.
He was in the office yanking on his coat and newsboy cap when the shop
door’s cheerful bell jangled like a funeral march.
Oh, balls. Why hadn’t he started by locking the front door?
The posh voice from the phone split the shop’s silence. “Where’s Mrs.
Brodigan?”
Rory winced. Weighed his chances of sprinting to the side door. Weighed
his chances of spontaneously becoming invisible. Then, with defeated
reluctance, he peeked around the office’s open pocket door.
Whoa.
Standing in front of the door was the most handsome man Rory had ever
seen, tall and well built, with coal-black hair, sky-blue eyes, and a frantic
expression. But Kenzie didn’t seem to notice him staring as he crossed the
shop in two long strides and began poking his head into every crevice, even
checking behind the register.
“Excuse you,” Rory said, finally finding his voice. “This is a private
shop. You can’t just—”
Kenzie was suddenly right in front of him. “Where’s Mrs. Brodigan?
Don’t think of making me ask a third time.”
He towered over Rory by a head, and he had the broad shoulders and
muscles of someone who did real exercise, not just moved the occasional
antique lamp. His black wool coat and three-piece suit must’ve cost more
than anyone in Hell’s Kitchen could make in a lifetime.
Rory tried not to sound intimidated. “She’s in bed, yeah? If she’s not
asleep yet, she’s reading a novel with a cup of tea.”
“Tea? Why the—is she all right? Have you rung for a doctor?”
Rory blinked. “She’s fine. Isn’t she?” He covered his mouth. “Oh God. Is
she all right?”
 “You should know!”
“Why would I?”
Now Kenzie paused. “Mrs. Brodigan is unharmed? She’s not in a coma,
or babbling nonsense?”
“Not that I know of,” Rory said warily. “But if she is, we should—”
Kenzie waved him quiet. His gaze swept over Rory, from the shaggy hair,
to the broken glasses, to the second-hand tennis shoes. Rory had his full
attention for the first time and it was enough to make him squirm. “Who are
you?”
“Rory Brodigan.” After four years, the lie came easy, the name now his
own.
Kenzie’s gaze returned to Rory’s face. Lingered on his eyes. “A relative, I
presume. What are you doing in her shop so late?”
“Inventory.” Rory recited their well-practiced cover story. “I’m Mrs.
Brodigan’s nephew. I help her out around the shop—just the little things
that need doing, you know, taking deliveries, carrying boxes, getting things
off of shelves.”
“Not the top shelves, clearly.”
Rory narrowed his eyes. “What’s it to you?”
Kenzie smiled, no warmth, all menace. “It’s not every night I get a call at
ten o’clock from someone who, and I quote, never wants to hear my
fucking name again.”
Rory winced. “Ah—”
“Look at that, you blush.” Kenzie folded his arms. “Where was your
shame fifteen minutes ago?”
Rory tried to will his cheeks back to normal color. “Mr. Kenzie, I—I,
might, um—”
“Where’s my briefcase?”
Rory bit his lip and pointed to the office. Kenzie pushed past him and
began rummaging through the desk, and Rory froze in place as a terrible
thought struck.
What if Kenzie opened the box again?
“A little more direction than that, if you please,” Kenzie called over his
shoulder.
Rory’s breaths had turned rapid and shallow as a cold sweat broke over
his skin. He considered another lie, but the office was tiny. Kenzie would
find it eventually, even without his help. “File cabinet, b-bottom drawer,” he
made himself say. “Key’s under the—the desk.”
He could run. He should run, put some distance between his frayed mind
and that horrible ring. But Rory couldn’t make his body move, could only
stand by helplessly as Kenzie crouched, then fished the briefcase out of the
drawer a moment later. The case looked so completely normal as it dangled
uncaringly in Kenzie’s large hand.
“If Mrs. Brodigan isn’t hurt, why did you call and bite my head off?”
What an annoyingly good question. Rory tried to think over his pounding
heart, flailing for a lie Kenzie might buy. “I thought—uh—I thought a ring
in a locked case must be—stolen. That you’d involved Mrs. B. in a felony.”
“Stolen,” Kenzie repeated doubtfully. “You said your shop doesn’t
appraise weapons.” He held up the briefcase. “You called this a piece of
hell.”
“I thought it was stolen,” Rory said stubbornly, as he averted his eyes
from the briefcase and stared at the ceiling instead. “But obviously a ritzy
fella like you isn’t gonna steal, so—”
“People can always surprise you.” Kenzie rattled the briefcase carelessly.
“This was kept closed?”
“It’s locked, isn’t it?” Rory’s knuckles were white as he clenched his fists
tight. Please don’t open it again please please please—
“Oh, would you relax?” Kenzie suddenly snapped as he strode out of the
office without opening the briefcase. “You deserve to be contrite, but all the
cringing makes me feel like a monster.”
He hadn’t opened the case. Rory’s tensed muscles went loose with relief.
He slumped against the bookshelf, knees weak, heart still racing. “Are
you?” he managed to say.
“Not the kind that hits children. Christ, are you even eighteen?”
First cracks about his height, now his age? “Yes,” said Rory. “Much
older.”
“Really.” Kenzie leaned back against the cash register counter. “And how
much is much older?”
Twenty suddenly didn’t seem to fit the bill. “Twenty…um…six?” Kenzie
would believe that, right?
“Twenty-six.” Kenzie blatantly looked him over again. Was Rory
imaging it, or had those cool blue eyes grown more interested? “And
you’ve worked for your dear auntie Leena how long?”
 “Four years.” That part was true, at least.
Kenzie studied him some more, as if weighing his options, and then he
seemed to come to an abrupt decision. “In that case, you can apologize to
me over drinks.”
Rory could not have heard that right. “But—”
“You do owe me an apology, don’t you?”
“Well, I—I mean—drinks like…sodas?”
“No.” The corner of Kenzie’s mouth turned up. Geez, he had nice lips,
soft and pink, not chapped like Rory’s. “Surely an ancient man like yourself
remembers the golden days before Prohibition.”
Rory had never had a sip of alcohol in his life. He’d also never shared a
table with a man even half as good-looking as Arthur Kenzie. He was like
something out of a dream: broad shoulders, pricey clothes, nothing making
him human except the black stubble dotting his jaw, like his morning shave
was already wearing off.
Rory nervously licked his lips. He needed to stop staring before Kenzie
noticed.
“You sure?” he couldn’t help but ask. “It kind of still feels like I’m in
trouble.”
“Because you are.” Kenzie inclined his head to the door. “My cab is
waiting. Are you in?”
Rory hesitated. He should say no. He should say hell no. Drinking was
illegal. Kenzie was still angry. Rory should leave, should wander the
freezing streets and dodge the gangs, not come back to the shop until
Kenzie was gone and then bolt himself in to stay awake in the frigid cold all
night, afraid to sleep, afraid the visions were coming back—
“I’ll lock up,” he said, and tried to pretend that Kenzie’s smile didn’t
make him think of a wolf.

***
Arthur held the cab door for Mrs. Brodigan’s nephew—Rory, he’d said his
name was—and said, with saccharine courtesy, “After you.”
He half expected him to rabbit and run, like a man with an ounce of
sense, but Rory was either made of sterner stuff than he looked or he wasn’t
very bright because he slunk into the cab like a confused stray dog into a
warm house.
 “Harlem,” Arthur told the cabbie, as he climbed in second, and didn’t
miss Rory’s small intake of breath. “What’s your problem with Harlem?”
But Rory just shook his head. “No problem,” he said, earnest enough that
Arthur believed him. “I’ve just never been.”
“It’s barely four miles from you.”
“I know, I just don’t—” Rory bit off the words. “I’m just not from the
city,” he said, instead of whatever he’d been going to say.
Arthur rested his back against the cab door. “And where are you from?”
Rory made a vague gesture. “Oh, you know. Upstate.”
Clear as mud. Arthur’s instincts told him Rory was hiding something, and
his bet was on Mrs. Brodigan’s psychometry. He’d spent weeks trying to
track down information on Mrs. Brodigan and all this time she’d had a
mouthy nephew, a potential fountain of inside knowledge.
Arthur was going to crack him like a rusty vault.
The cab slipped through the streets, the city lights rippling over the back
seat like gentle waves on a lake’s edge. “Where’re you from?” Rory was
eying Arthur’s lips. “You got a fancy accent.”
An accent bought by Arthur’s parents, taught at his expensive schools
and then made more pronounced by frequent transatlantic travel. “I spend a
lot of time abroad,” he said. “How exactly are you Mrs. Brodigan’s
nephew? I understood she had a single sibling who died childless.”
“Through the late Mr. B. Cousin of a cousin of a third cousin twice
removed, that sort of thing. Nephew’s easier to say than sorting out a big
Irish family.”
“So you’re Irish?” Arthur raised an eyebrow. “With those eyes?”
Rory bristled like a porcupine raising its quills. “All sorts of folks wear
cheaters.”
Arthur hadn’t meant the glasses. In the dark of the cab he could barely
see Rory’s eyes, but he’d noticed them instantly in the shop—hadn’t been
able to stop noticing them. The deepest of browns, like coffee, fringed with
long jet-black lashes despite Rory’s blond hair. Those eyes belonged on a
lush Adonis from a sultry Mediterranean beach, not some surly urchin from
Hell’s Kitchen.
He rapped the door behind him, getting the cabbie’s attention. “Drop us
here.”
Rory clambered awkwardly to the curb as Arthur paid, looking around
the empty, snowy street. “I don’t see anything.”
 “Exactly.” Arthur waited until the cab was out of sight, then tugged Rory
by the sleeve toward the street’s corner, to a deli with a green awning and
an abandoned tobacco shop.
 CHAPTER SIX

Benson was the one to take them into the Magnolia again. Rory slouched
behind Arthur as they walked, head down and hands crammed in his
pockets like he could make himself invisible. “People can still see you,”
Arthur pointed out. “You’re not that short.”
“You’re not that funny.”
Despite himself, the corner of Arthur’s mouth quirked up.
The place was wall-to-wall packed with bodies, but Benson somehow
found them a small table along one wall, the closest thing to private the club
had. On stage, Stella had ensnared the crowd with a slinky red dress and a
heartfelt rendition of “I’m Nobody’s Baby.”
Arthur took a seat, tucking the briefcase under his chair, and watched as
Rory, eyes glued to her, walked straight into the table. “You have seen a
woman in your twenty-six years, haven’t you?”
Rory scowled as he found his chair. “Yes. Just not many as airtight as
her.”
“It runs in their family,” Arthur said, gaze stealing to Benson’s retreating
back.
“You know her?” Rory huffed. “Of course you do. Figures a big-timer
who looks like you knows a doll who looks like that.”
Arthur blinked. The words were as grouchy as everything else out of
Rory’s mouth, but that had been a compliment.
Rory turned to look at the stage again, the lights illuminating his profile;
the line of his jaw and neck above the collared shirt and suspenders, the
blond curls clamped down by the newsboy cap, the near-black of his
striking eyes. As the light flashed wrong off the side of his glasses, Arthur
frowned. The cap was patched twice, the coat three times; Rory wouldn’t be
careless with something expensive.
“How’d you break your specs?”
“Let’s see, how was it?” Rory tapped his lips thoughtfully. “Oh, right.
None of your business.”
Arthur rolled his eyes. The cute ones were always little shits.
A waiter came by their table and looked at Rory expectantly. Rory bit his
lip and turned his pretty eyes on Arthur, wide and helpless, and Arthur
couldn’t bring himself to make the prickly brat scramble to remember what
he used to drink.
“Try the Brandy Alexander.” They were good here, made with French
cognac and real cream, so sweet they’d go down like dessert.
“Oh.” Rory still hesitated. “Is it—how much—”
“On me. No, no,” he said, waving a finger as Rory started to protest, “I
insist.” Springing for drinks was a laughable bargain. Arthur would have
paid a small fortune for the information Rory might hold.
Arthur ordered the cheapest whiskey for himself, vile panther sweat he’d
have to have been dared to drink. From the stage, Stella had noticed Arthur
—and noticed he was with someone. She tossed him a wink, and a moment
later the band struck up a scandalous version of “The Man I Love.”
Clever. She thought he was on a date.
Not hardly. This was an interrogation.
The waiter left their drinks and Rory picked his up, hesitation written all
over him, and suddenly he didn’t look prickly, he looked young and
vulnerable.
As much as Arthur needed that tongue loose, he found himself blurting,
“You have had a drink before, haven’t you?”
“Of course I have,” Rory said with a vicious snap. “It’s just—been a
while. Still not your business.”
Sheesh. “Cheers to you too,” Arthur muttered, and clinked his glass
against Rory’s.
He pretended to sip as Rory took too much at once and coughed like his
throat was on fire. “Need something tamer?” he said sweetly. “Glass of
juice? Warm milk?”
“Go chase yourself,” Rory predictably snarled, and took another drink.
And then another.
Right, then. Let’s find out what you know about Mrs. Brodigan’s magic.
Arthur snagged a passing waiter.
“Bring as many brandies as he wants, on me,” he said, eyes never leaving
Rory.

***

“The thing about antiques. The thing.” Rory waved his glass emphatically,
sending Brandy Alexander number three sloshing up the side to splash his
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
The Project Gutenberg eBook of Through India and
Burmah with pen and brush
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States
and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no
restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it
under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this
ebook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the
United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where
you are located before using this eBook.

Title: Through India and Burmah with pen and brush

Author: A. Hugh Fisher

Release date: August 28, 2023 [eBook #71505]

Language: English

Original publication: London: T. Werner Laurie, 1911

Credits: Al Haines

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THROUGH

INDIA AND BURMAH WITH PEN AND BRUSH ***
The Moat, Fort Dufferin, Mandalay.
 THROUGH
INDIA AND BURMAH
WITH PEN AND BRUSH

BY

A. HUGH FISHER
"The beauty of the world is simple like a looking-glass."

LONDON
T. WERNER LAURIE
CLIFFORD'S INN

TO MY FRIENDS IN ENGLAND

PREFACE

The following series of "Travel Pictures" is an endeavour to embody

some of my impressions and experiences in India and Burmah.
 For kind permission to reproduce among the illustrations eight of the
painted sketches I made for them, my thanks are due to the Visual
Instruction Committee of the Colonial Office who sent me out to the East as
their artist.

The two chapters "The Moharam Festival" and "Rakhykash" are

included in this book by the courtesy of the Editor of The Fortnightly
Review, in which publication they have already appeared.

A. HUGH FISHER.

CONTENTS

CHAP.

I. RANGOON
II. HIS HIGHNESS THE SAWBWA OF HSIPAW
III. UP THE IRRAWADDY TO BHAMO
IV. THE DEAD HEART OF A KINGDOM
V. MANDALAY
VI. SOUTHERN INDIA, THE LAND OF HINDOO TEMPLES
VII. CALCUTTA
VIII. MY FIRST SIGHT OF THE HIMALAYAS
IX. BENARES
X. LUCKNOW
XI. CAWNPORE
XII. THE HOUSE OF DREAM
XIII. DELHI
XIV. DEHRA DUN AND LANDOUR
XV. AN EVENING OF GOLD
XVI. "GUARD YOUR SHOES"
XVII. "A GATE OF EMPIRE"
XVIII. THE CAPITAL OF THE PUNJAB
XIX. AT THE COURT OF HIS HIGHNESS THE RAJAH OF NABHA
XX. IN SIGHT OF AFGHANISTAN
XXI. RAJPUTANA
XXII. SIR PRATAP SINGH
XXIII. THE MOHARAM FESTIVAL
XXIV. RAKHYKASH
XXV. POLITICAL
INDEX

ILLUSTRATIONS

THE MOAT, FORT DUFFERIN, MANDALAY ... Frontispiece

"THEY COULD NOT LIE DOWN WITHOUT OVERLAPPING"
MONGOLIAN TYPE OF MOHAMMEDAN
MUTAMA, A HINDOO BABY
HINDOO GIRL, SHOWING ELABORATE JEWELLERY
ALTAR TABLE AT A BUDDHIST SOCIETY'S CELEBRATION
BOY SHOWING TATOOING CUSTOMARY WITH ALL BURMESE
MALES
IN THE SHAN STATES: GUARD AND POLICEMAN
KATHA
AT A BURMESE PWE
BURMESE ACTORS AT BHAMO
A VILLAGE ON THE IRRAWADDY
BURMESE MURDERERS
PAGAN
BURMESE DWARF (3 ft. 5 in. high) SUFFERING FROM CATARACT
BURMESE PRIEST AND HIS BETEL Box
BURMESE MOTHER AND CHILD
THE SACRED TANK AND THE ROCK, TRICHINOPOLY
THE MAIN BAZAAR, TRICHINOPOLY
KARAPANASAMI, THE BLACK GOD
HINDOO MOTHER AND CHILD
BENGAL GOVERNMENT OFFICES, CALCUTTA
BENGALEE ACTRESS, MISS TIN CORRY DASS THE YOUNGER
"A CHARMING OLD GENTLEMAN FROM DELHI"
AVENUE OF OREODOXA PALMS, BOTANICAL GARDENS,
CALCUTTA
THE KUTAB MINAR AND THE IRON PILLAR, FATEHPUR SIKRI
THE FORT OF ALI MASJID, IN THE KHYBER PASS
HIS HIGHNESS THE RAJAH OF NABHA
THE PALACE OF THE MAHARAJAH OF UDAIPUR (DRYPOINT
ETCHING)
THE MOHARAM FESTIVAL AT AGRA

THROUGH INDIA AND BURMAH

 CHAPTER I

RANGOON

Down came the rain, sudden, heavy and terrible, seeming to quell even
the sea's rage and whelming those defenceless hundreds of dark-skinned
voyagers in new and more dreadful misery.

Terrors were upon them, and in abject wretchedness and hopeless

struggle men, women and children spread every strip of their belongings
over their bodies and even used for shelter the very mats upon which they
had been lying.

What trouble a Hindoo will take to keep his body from the rain!
Extremely cleanly and fond of unlimited ablutions he yet detests nothing so
much as a wetting from the sky, and now, wholly at the mercy of the
elements, do what they would, no human ingenuity availed to keep these
wretched people dry.

It was the season of the rice harvest, when South India coolies swarm
over to Burmah much as the peasantry of Mayo and Connemara used to
crowd to England every summer.

If anybody is really anxious to remember that there are paddy fields in

Burmah he should cross the Bay of Bengal in December.

Somebody said that our ship was an unlucky one—that it ran down the
Mecca on her last trip and killed her third officer; but we got through safely
enough, though that crossing was one of the most disagreeable as well as the
most weird I ever made—disagreeable because of the bad weather, and
weird because of the passengers.

The deck and the lower deck were tanks of live humanity, and when it
began to get rough, as it did the morning after we left Madras, catching the
end of a strayed cyclone, it was worse than a Chinese puzzle to cross from
the saloon to the spar deck, and ten chances to one that even if you did
manage to avoid stepping on a body you slipped and shot into seven sick
Hindoo ladies and a family of children.

There were six first-class passengers, all Europeans, and 1700 deck
passengers, all Asiatics, and the latter paid twelve rupees each for the four
days' passage, bringing with them their own food.

"THEY COULD NOT LIE DOWN WITHOUT OVERLAPPING."

 The first evening all six of the Europeans appeared at dinner—a
Trichinopoly collector, a Madras tanning manager and his wife (who told me
that half your American boots and shoes are made from buffalo skins
shipped from Madras to the United States), a young lieutenant going to take
charge of a mountain battery of Punjabis at Maimyo in Upper Burmah, and a
young Armenian, son of a merchant at Rangoon, who had been to Europe
about his eyes.

After coffee the man next to me suddenly leapt from his chair with a
yell. He thought he had been bitten by a centipede. The centipede was there
right enough, but as the pain passed off the next day we supposed the brute
had only fastened his legs in and had not really bitten.

The nights were sultry and the ship rolled worse every watch. I think,
however, that I never saw people try harder than those natives did to keep
clean. They had all brought new palm-leaf mats to lie upon, but they could
not lie down without overlapping. I asked the captain what he did about
scrubbing decks, and he said it was always done at the end of the voyage!
Next morning the downpour, already referred to, began and did the business
with cruel effectiveness.

As we neared Burmah the sea grew calm again and the rain abated. The
sun dried sick bodies and cheered despondent hearts. I spoke to a woman
crouching by some sacks and tin cans, with an old yellow cloth round her
head and shoulders, and another cloth swathing her loins. She had very dark
brown eyes, and her fingernails were bright red and also the palms of her
hands from the "maradelli" tied round the nails at night. She was the wife of
a man the other side of fourteen people, some four yards away. I asked his
name, not knowing that a Hindoo woman may not pronounce her husband's
name. She called him "Veetkar," which means uncle or houseman: the man
was of the Palla caste, which is just a little higher than the Pariah, and they
had been married five years but had no children. This was the man's second
marriage, his first wife having died of some liver complaint he said. Like
most of the passengers they were going out for paddy-field work, but unlike
so many others, they were "on their own" not being taken over by a labour
contractor. The man said he should get work at Kisshoor village, about eight
miles from Rangoon. Every year for seven years he had been over.
 Altogether, this man had saved, according to his own statement, two
hundred rupees in the seven years' work, and had invested this in bullocks
and a little field near his village, which was named Verloocooli. He had left
the son of his first wife to look after the house and the field.

MONGOLIAN TYPE OF MOHAMMEDAN.

 Under a thin muslin an ayah was watching our talk. She said she was a
Christian and came from Lazarus Church. Her husband ran away, leaving
her with three children in Madras, so she works now as an ayah to an
Eurasian lady, while her mother looks after the children in Madras.

About twenty people round one corner of the open hatch seemed to
belong to one another. They came from the Soutakar district and were
drinking rice-water—that is the water poured off when rice is boiled. A
Mohammedan with two sons was going to sell things. The boys would watch
the goods, he told me. He was returning to Upper Burmah, where he had
lived twenty-four years, and he had only been over to Madras to visit his
mother and father. He has "just a little shop" for the sale of such goods as
dal, chili, salt, onions, coconut oil, sweet oil, tamarind, matches and candles.

Then there was the Mongolian type of Mohammedan. He was very fat
and greasy, and had one of his dog teeth long like a tusk. He was a tin-
worker and made large cans in his shop in Rangoon.

I went down between decks and never saw people packed so closely
before except on Coronation Day. Even "marked" men discarded all clothing
but a small loin cloth: most of them could not move hand or foot without
their neighbours feeling the change of position; and as upon the deck above,
they often lay partly over each other. Yet in spite of the general
overcrowding, I noticed a woman of the Brahmin caste lying at her ease in a
small open space marked out by boxes and tin trunks. There was a large
lamp in a white reflector hanging by the companion-way, and some of those
lying nearest to it held leaf fans over their faces to keep the light from their
eyes.

The next day was brighter. There was a light wind and the whole sunlit
crowd was a babel of excited talk. A little naked Hindoo baby, just able to
walk, was playing mischievously with me. I had been nursing her for a while
and now she was laughing, and with palms up-turned was moving her hands
like a Nautch dancer as her eyes twinkled with merriment. She was called
Mutama, and the poor mite's ears had had a big cut made in them and the
lobes were already pulled out more than two inches by the bunches of metal
rings fastened in for this purpose.
 A purple shawl, tied up to dry, bellied out in the wind over the side of the
ship in a patch of vivid colour. It had a border of gold thread and was of
native make. Not that the gold thread itself is made in Madras. It is curious
that English manufacturers have tried in vain to make these shawls so that
their gold thread shall not tarnish, whereas the gold thread obtained from
France does not do so.

On a box in the midst of hubbub, a Mohammedan was praying, bending

his body up and down and looking toward the sun.
 MUTAMA, A HINDOO BABY.

The following morning we reached very turbid water, thick and yellow,
with blue reflections of the sky in the ripples. We could just see the coast of
Burmah and about noon caught sight of the pilot brig, and entering the wide
Rangoon river, passed a Chinese junk with all sails spread. Now the mats
began to go overboard and gulls swooped round the ship. We had passed the
obelisk at the mouth of the river when, above a green strip of coast on a little
blue hill, the sun shone upon something golden.
 "The Pagoda!" I cried, and a pagoda it was, but only one at Siriam where
there is a garrison detachment. The Golden Pagoda—the Shwe Dagon—
appeared at first grey and more to the north. The water was now as thick and
muddy as the Thames at the Tower Bridge. It was full of undercurrents too,
and there was a poor chance for anyone who fell in.

Over went the mats, scores and scores and scores of them!

There is a bar a little further on called the Hastings, and it was a question
whether we'd get over it that afternoon. A line of yellow sand detached itself
from the green, and then the water became like shot silk, showing a pale
flood of cerulean slowly spreading over its turbid golden brown. On the low
bank were green bushes and undergrowth, and beyond—flat levels of tawny-
yellow and low tree-clad rising ground that reminded me of the Thames
above Godstow.

Beyond the green point of Siriam, just after the Pegu River branches off
to the right, the Rangoon River sweeps round in a great curve, at the far end
of which stretches the city. It was pale violet in the afternoon light, with
smoke streaming from vessels in the harbour, and on the highest point the
Shwe Dagon just showing on one edge that it was gold. Far to the right were
some twenty tall chimney-stacks of the Burmah Oil Works, but their colour,
instead of being sooty and unclean, was all blue and amethyst under a citron
sky.

The Customs Officer came out in a long boat, pulled by four men in red
turbans, and in his launch the medical officer of the port with a lady doctor.
There is a constant but ineffectual struggle to keep plague out of Burmah,
and every one of our 1700 deck passengers had to be thoroughly examined
—stripped to the waist with arms up, while the doctor passed his hands
down each side of the body.

The same night, on shore, I drove to the Shwe Dagon past the race-
ground, where a military tattoo was going on by torchlight.

Two gigantic leogryphs of plaster-faced brick stand one on each side of

the long series of steps which lead under carved teak roofs and between rows
of pillars up to the open flagged space on which the Pagoda stands.
 I left the "tikka gharry" on the roadway and went up the steps of the
entrance alone. It was a weird experience, walking up those gloomy stairs at
night. Alone? At first it seemed so—the stalls at the sides of each landing or
wide level space between the flights of steps were deserted; but, as I walked
on, a Pariah dog came snarling viciously towards me and another joined him,
and then like jackals, their eyes glowing in the darkness, more and more of
them came. I had no stick with me, and as I meant going on it was a relief to
find that among the shadows of the pillars, to right and left, men were
sleeping. One stirred himself to call off the dogs and I walked up another
flight of steps, which gleamed a little beneath a hidden lamp.

Between great pillars, faced with plaster, red on the lower portion and
white above, I walked on while more dogs came yelping and snarling
angrily. I heard a low human wail which changed to a louder note and died
away—someone praying perhaps. Then all was quite still except for the
crickets. Now I was in a hall of larger columns and walked under a series of
carved screens—arches of wood set between pairs of them. Half-way up
these columns hung branches of strange temple offerings, things made in
coloured papers with gold sticks hanging from them.

At last I came out upon the upper platform on which stands the Pagoda
itself. Facing the top of the last flight of steps at the back of a large many-
pillared porch, reeking with the odour of burnt wax, I saw a cavernous
hollow, and set within it, behind lighted candles, dimly a golden Buddha in
the dusk. Outside, a strip of matting was laid over the flagged pavement all
round the platform, and in the stones little channels cut transversely for
drainage in the time of the rains lay in wait to trip careless feet.

Some years ago when the great "Hti" was brought down from the summit
of the Pagoda, after an earthquake, to be restored and further embellished,
people of all classes brought offerings of money and jewellery through the
turnstiles on to this platform. What a sight it must have been to see the lines
of Burmese people crowding up through these two turnstiles, one for silver
and one for gold—one woman giving two jewelled bracelets and the next a
bangle; a receipt would be given to each donor and then bangle and bracelets
thrown into the melting-pot after their jewels had been taken out for adding
to the "Hti."
 HINDOO GIRL, SHOWING ELABORATE JEWELLERY.

Glittering metal drops quivered from the edges of richly-decorated

umbrellas; columns, covered as in a kind of mosaic with jewels and bright
glass, shone and sparkled; colossal figures cast grim shadows, and over all
the vast mass of the Shwe Dagon rose in its strange curved grandeur of worn
and faded gold far up into the night sky with a compelling loveliness, and
from the air above came floating down the sweet silvery tinkle of jewelled
bells shaken by the breeze.

Night had driven unscourged the money-changers from the temple, and
the magic light of the moon weaving silver threads through every garish tint
of paint had changed crude colours to ideal harmonies. Not colour alone but
form also was glorified. The grotesque had become dramatic, confusion had
changed to dignity, all surrounding detraction was subdued and the great
ascending curves of the Pagoda rose in simple, uncontested beauty. Nature
adored, acknowledging conquest, and the sound of those far wind-caught
bells was like that of the voices of angels and fairies singing about the cradle
of a child.

I had seen no building of such emotional appeal nor any that seems so
perfectly designed to wed the air and light that bathe it and caress it. But
imagine the Shwe Dagon transplanted to the cold light of some gargantuan
museum near the Cromwell Road; the nicest taste, the most steadfast
determination, could not unlock its charm. Here, upon easy hinge, the door
swings back at every raising of the eyes, and illumination is for all
beholders.

The following afternoon I was again at the Shwe Dagon, and to watch its
beauty under the glory of the setting sun was a further revelation. It seemed
to show fresh and delicate charm at each part of the day, and after burning at
sunset, like a man filled with impetuous passion, shone in the after-glow
with the diviner loveliness of the woman who gives her heart.

The river front of Rangoon is a wide, busy and dusty thoroughfare, on to

which wide streets open—Phayre Street, Bark Street and the rest, and great
piles of office buildings face the water—buildings with Corinthian porticoes
and columns with great drums like those of the Temple of Diana at Ephesus
without their sculptures. A line of white stucco houses curves round the bend
of the Sule Pagoda Street, wide and tree-bordered, like a road at Dorchester
or a Paris boulevard, making a handsome vista with its Pagoda surmounting
a flight of steps at the far end.

Building proceeds at such a rate that the big city seems to be growing
while you look at it, but there are plenty of open spaces. Government House,
in red brick and white stone, with an old bronze bell hung in front of the
portico between two brass cannon, stands in a goodly park with fine trees
and wide lawns and the Royal Lakes, across which there is a beautiful view
of the Shwe Dagon, are surrounded by large grounds with trim, well-kept
walks and drives. While I was painting by one of the lakes a water-snake
every now and then lifted its head above the surface, sometimes a foot and a
half out of the water like some long-necked bird.
 I was driving back towards the hotel along the Calvert Road when I
noticed a temporary wood-framed structure, covered with coloured papers
and painted trellis-work. On inquiry I found it had been erected by a
Buddhist Society of that quarter of the city, and that the same night upon a
stage close to it in the open air a "Pwe" would be given, to which I was
bidden welcome about nine o'clock.

At my hotel two people had been poisoned by tinned food a few weeks
earlier, but whatever the table lacked in quality it made up in
pretentiousness. I quote that day's menu for comparison with the items of
another repast the same evening:—

Canapes aux anchois.

Potage à la Livonienne,
Barfurt—sauce Ravigotte.
Inlets mignons à la Parisienne.
Civets de lièvre à la St Hubert.
Cannetons faits aux petits pois—salade.
Fanchonettes au confiture.
Glace—crême au chocolat.
Dessert.
Café.

It was after an early and somewhat abridged version of the above that I
drove in the cheerless discomfort of a "tikka gharry" through Rangoon again
in the moonlight. After twenty minutes I saw once more the paper temple.
There were two long lines of lanterns high in the air in the shape of a
horizontal V, and under them a great crowd of people. The trellised temple
itself was also charmingly decorated with lanterns.
 ALTAR TABLE AT A BUDDHIST SOCIETY'S CELEBRATION.

Inside I was effusively welcomed. A chair was placed for me on gay-

coloured carpets at one side of a raised altar platform, at the back of which
was a glass-fronted shrine containing an alabaster Buddha and strange lamps
in front, with two large kneeling figures and a pair of bronze birds. The
whole raised space before the shrine, some ten yards long by four yards
deep, was covered with white cloths, on which was placed close together a
multitude of dishes and plates of rich cakes, fruits and dainties. There were
green coconuts, piles of oranges, melons with patterns cut upon them,
leaving the outer green rind in curves and spirals, while the incised pattern
was stained with red and green pigment, and a mighty pumpkin with a kind
of "Christmas tree" planted in it, decked with packets of dried durian pickle
pinched in at a little distance from each end so that they looked like Tom
Smith's crackers. Now refreshment was brought to me in the shape of dried
prawns and, upon a large plate in neat little separate heaps, the following
delicacies:—

Green ginger, minced.

Sweet potatoes, shredded.
Fried coconut.
Sesamum seeds in oil.
Dried seed potatoes.
Tea leaves.
Fried ground nuts.

The president of this Buddhist Society, a stout Burman, with a rose-pink

silk kerchief rolled loosely round his head, came and bowed to me, raising
his hands and then sat upon another chair at my side, while a young Burman
stood behind to interpret our mutual felicitations.

Four silver dishes were now brought to me on a lacquered box, and these
contained Burmah cheroots, betel leaves and areca nut, tobacco leaves and
chunam (lime). Chilis were also brought, which made me long in vain for a
cool drink.

Outside, beyond the walls of pale green trellis, glowed the lanterns, and
faces peered at us between the strips of wood. Cloth of red and white stripes
lined the roof, and countless flags, quite tiny ones, were fastened along the
outer green railing.

In front of the Buddha had now been placed some beautiful gold
chalices. The white alabaster figure of Gautama was half as high as a man,
and a band covered with gems glittered across its breast.

The interpreter informed me that the whole gathering was a festival of

the Buddha Kaitsa Wut Society, and he added:—"We are the people in
Burmah always polite to everybody—do please whatever you like here." He
spoke English with assurance, but to me his meaning was not always clear.
Here are some of his actual words in answer to my request for further
information:—"In time long past the monies of the members were according
to the orders of the chief here, but they always used to pray every night with
white dress, not any sort of fancy dress. Whenever we pray in order yearly
we used to give charity to everybody."

About ten o'clock I moved outside, where another arm-chair had been
placed for me, this time in the midst of a great crowd of people.

In front of me rose a staging of bamboo framework, with seven oil lamps

hanging before it. Immediately below this staging a native orchestra played
strange instruments by candle-light and upon the ground, which sloped
conveniently, were ranged considerably over a thousand people. I counted
thirty-six rows of over twenty-five each, and ever-increasing crowds
thronged back and sides. Most of the seated audience were on mats or low
bedsteads, and many were smoking the large light-coloured cheroots.

My interpreter had now gone to join some ladies, and I was left to make
the best I could of this, my first, Burmese "Pwe."

Two characters were dancing on the stage when I took my seat. Perhaps
they were a prince and princess—at any rate they were dressed in old
Burmese court style, in very narrow skirts similar to the "hobble," and
strange short jackets cut with curled bases like horned moons stretched and
held in shape by bamboo frames. There was much swaying and posturing of
the body, combined with quick, jerky movements, the arms were moved a
great deal with bent elbows and the hands with fingers straight and the palms
bent back sharply at the wrists. When these dancers left the stage two men
entered in long white gowns, with broad white bands tied round the head in
big bows. They turned their backs upon the audience at first, and then
turning round squatted upon the floor. Two more similarly dressed came in
in the same manner, and after they had squatted beside the others two quite
astounding figures came on the scene with long bare swords.

The music all this while kept up an accompaniment of jingle and clapper
and tum, tum, tum—jingle and clapper and tum, tum, tum, with a
particularly squeaky wind instrument going ahead at the same time like a
cork being drawn backward and forward over a pane of wet glass.
 I discovered now that on turning their backs to the audience on first
entering, the performers made obeisance to a draped bench at the back of the
stage. Two more sword-bearing figures came in and two lance-bearers in
very lovely bejewelled dresses of old gold. There was a long shrill speech
now—then a loud bang, at which all the actors fell to the ground, and a
figure entered bearing a short-pointed mace and sat at once on the draped
bench.

It was the beginning of a long drama of old Burmese court-life which

would go on all night long. The sword and lance-bearers went out, leaving
the gentleman with the mace talking to the four white-gowned men (they
were probably a king and his ministers), and he went on talking to them for a
long half-hour, during which, at rare intervals, one of them sat up and made
some remarks. At last a curtain came down, leaving two of the white-
gowned ones outside it. These were joined by a manifestly "comic"
character, a man with bare chest and a dark blue skirt, who kept the audience
in continual merriment while he was on the scene.

Every now and then I turned my head to look up at the great V-shaped
line of lanterns hanging high in the air overhead from tall bamboo poles, and
the stars shining over all from the night sky. A number of the children were
sleeping, though their elders made a good deal of noise, laughing heartily at
the comic actor as the play went on and on and on. I should like to have
stayed longer, but an appointment with some elephants at an early hour the
next morning made me reluctantly leave the "Pwe" at midnight and hunt
among the back rows of the audience for the driver of that "tikka gharry."

Everyone has heard of the Burmese elephants piling timber. The largest
of the timber companies employing elephants is the Bombay Burmah
Trading Corporation, Limited. The logs, floated down the river from forest-
lands, eight hundred or a thousand miles upstream, are stranded at high rain-
tides at Poozoondoung, a tract of lowland to which I drove in the early
morning.

I reached there just after sunrise, before the dew of the night was yet
evaporated, and the logs, on which one had to walk to avoid the mud, were
very slippery and more difficult to negotiate with boots than without.
 The work of the elephants is to push, drag or pile the teak logs, and on
the morning of my visit there were three of the great quadrupeds at work:—
Hpo Chem, aged fifty, a fine tusker who had been twenty years at the work,
and two female elephants, Mee Cyan, seventy years of age, and Mee Poo,
thirty. The male elephant has, of course, tremendous strength in his tusks and
uses them for carrying, holding the log firmly with his trunk as he gravely
walks up the pile of logs to place his burden on the top. Female elephants
can only pile by a combined lift and drag, and do not raise the log entirely
from the ground. Pushing with the head is called "ounging."

Most of the elephants in use in Burmah have been got by Kheddah

operations, the Kheddah being a big stockade built under Government
direction in a similar way to the Kraals of Ceylon. At the last Kheddah many
elephants died suddenly of anthrax (some two hundred in about three days),
and a number of the trained animals were lost as well as those newly
captured.

The hours of elephant labour at Poozoondoung are strictly limited, being

from six to nine in the morning and from three to six in the afternoon.

At Poozoondoung, not far from the timber-yards, the chief rice-mills are
situated. They were idle now, but when I saw them again after the harvest
their big chimneys were belching forth black smoke from the burning husk.
The husk obtained from the milled grain is not only sufficient for all fuel
requirements, but much has to be shot into the creek for waste.

The engine staffs are, as upon most of the flotilla steamers,

Chittagonians, Burmese being employed chiefly as clerks.

Native boats called "Loungoes" brought such of the "paddy" from the
country as did not come by rail.

"Hulling" the rice is the operation of breaking off the husk. There were
rows of pairs of round flat stones, the under ones stationary, the upper ones
revolving, not grinding but merely breaking off the husk. Both grain and
husk fell from these stones together to the floor below, and were carried by
bucket-elevators to a fanning-room, where the husk was blown off. After
leaving the fans the grain had its remaining inner skin taken off in "cones"—
cement-faced stones made to press the grain against an outer jacket of
perforated wire. At the base of the cone a cloth hung round an opening in the
floor, through which the rice dropped, while the white skin fell upon the
floor outside to be called "bran," and shipped to Europe for use in the
manufacture of cattle cakes.

In the process of "whitening" much of the grain is broken and sorted by

graduated sieves, into four or five degrees of size. Finally the rice bags are
shipped on to a cargo boat in the creek, for despatch by steamer to India or
Europe.

When the rice-mills are in full work the smoke of their chimneys hangs
above Rangoon, but overhead every evening the flying foxes pass as usual,
and the beautiful Pagoda is far enough away to remain untarnished upon its
little hill.
 BOY SHOWING TATOOING CUSTOMARY WITH ALL BURMESE
MALES.

CHAPTER II

HIS HIGHNESS THE SAWBWA OF HSIPAW

I left the Phayre Street station at Rangoon on a bright morning, which

made me think of England and the perfect beginning of a warm summer day
at home. The paddy-fields were like an ocean on each side of the railway
line, and as yellow as ripe corn: some distant hills, the Eastern Yomans
which divide Burmah from Siam, were faintly visible and became clearer
after I had passed Pegu. There are no elephants in those hills, though they
are yet in their thousands in the Western Yomans (one man I met had
counted sixty in a single herd).

Railway journeys with unshuttered windows are like miscellaneous

collections of snapshot photographs—now men in the paddy-fields wearing
the huge low conical bamboo hats of the Shan States; then big anthills and
snipe; a banyan tree—the gutta-percha banyan tree, Burmese Nynung, out of
which the natives make their birdlime; grey squares of flat hard mud, the
Burmese threshing floor; a crowd of brown hawks about a group of natives
drying fish; a small eagle with four-foot spread of wings, sometimes called a
peacock hawk, having blue eyes instead of the usual eagle yellow; an Eng
tree, a taxed tree largely used for building purposes (a tree that comes up and
is of no use is called here a Powk-pin); in a stream a man swinging a fishing-
net hung on crossed arched hoops at the end of a pole—a net of just the same
pattern I have seen on Arno shallows at Florence; a dull leaden-coloured
layer of rotting fish on bamboo screens raised above the ground on poles—
when rotted enough and full enough of insects, it will be pounded up to
make a national dish called "Ngape."