at the oncoming cab and the driver swerved to the curb.
As she climbed in, Rosamund said grudgingly, “You’re really good at that.”
“What?”
“Making the cabs stop.”
Certainly it made sense that, looking like she did, like an incredibly intelligent bag lady, she would have trouble getting a cab.
Irving’s mansion was less than a mile away, a nineteenth-century, perfectly preserved behemoth complete with dozens of bedrooms, a library with shelves that rose from floor to ceiling, a cavernous dining room that would seat thirty, and at least a dozen bedrooms. Usually Irving, the ninety-three-year-old former CEO of the Gypsy Travel Agency and protector of the Chosen Ones, lived alone with his butler, went to work in the mornings, and went home at noon for his nap. That nap had saved his life, for he had been sleeping when the explosion occurred.
McKenna, the butler, and Martha, the dedicated servant of the Gypsy Travel Agency, rounded out their beleaguered group.
As Aaron paid the cab, Rosamund stood admiring the mansion’s exterior, talking about neo-French Classic style and finials until he took a long breath to stave off boredom. Then he hustled her up the stairs to the front door. As he reached up to ring the bell, the door was flung open and Aleksandr Wilder rushed out. The twenty-one-year-old was tall, rail-thin, with big bones and the facial features of a Cossack. He was also as clumsy as a puppy, smacking into Rosamund’s shoulder. If Aaron hadn’t had his arm around her waist, she would have tumbled down the stairs.
“Take it easy!” Aaron snapped, and when Aleksandr would have steadied her, Aaron pushed his hands away.
“I’m sorry!” Aleksandr looked into her eyes and blushed bright red. “I’m just . . . I tutor calculus at Ford-ham in the summer and I haven’t been there because of . . . you know . . . so they called home and talked to my grandmother, who is a scary woman when she’s mad. She called and spoke to Irving, so now I get to go out, but I’m late. So . . . sorry!”
“Be careful out there.” Aleksandr scanned the exclusive neighborhood, hoping not to see that woman, never to experience that mind-speaking again.
“I am careful,” Aleksandr assured him. “My grandfather taught me careful before I could walk.”
Aaron supposed that was true. The boy was related to the famous Wilders. Nineteen years ago they had broken their pact with the devil—the pact that gave them infamous powers—and in doing so, had freed everyone in their extended family, too, even the Varinski branch of the Ukraine. Apparently, not all of them had taken the downfall with any grace, and while no one knew for certain, Aaron suspected the devil was none too pleased, either.
But while Aleksandr claimed he had been trained to watch for danger, he showed no signs of caution now. Instead, he backed down the stairs, stumbling over every other step, and all the while, he stared at Rosamund. “Hi.” He waved a hand malformed by fire. “You must be the librarian. Will I see you later?”
Obviously, he didn’t give a damn about seeing Aaron later.
“She’s got a date tonight.” Aaron hadn’t thought he would be glad to say it, but he was.
Aleksandr slumped. “Man, Aaron. You move fast.” Turning, he galloped down the steps.
“Not with Aaron,” Rosamund called after him.
“He’s out of earshot.” A fact Aaron felt great satisfaction in telling her.
“How did he know I was a librarian?”
Aaron guided her through the open door. “Because I went out to find the world’s foremost expert on prophecies.”
“I’m sorry you didn’t get my father, but I really am awfully good with prophecies and languages.” Abruptly, she stopped walking, stopped talking.
Shutting the door behind them, he could see her absorbing the marble floor, the soaring gilded ceiling, the matching Chippendale tables, the original Chagall hanging on the wall. He saw the moment when she
As she climbed in, Rosamund said grudgingly, “You’re really good at that.”
“What?”
“Making the cabs stop.”
Certainly it made sense that, looking like she did, like an incredibly intelligent bag lady, she would have trouble getting a cab.
Irving’s mansion was less than a mile away, a nineteenth-century, perfectly preserved behemoth complete with dozens of bedrooms, a library with shelves that rose from floor to ceiling, a cavernous dining room that would seat thirty, and at least a dozen bedrooms. Usually Irving, the ninety-three-year-old former CEO of the Gypsy Travel Agency and protector of the Chosen Ones, lived alone with his butler, went to work in the mornings, and went home at noon for his nap. That nap had saved his life, for he had been sleeping when the explosion occurred.
McKenna, the butler, and Martha, the dedicated servant of the Gypsy Travel Agency, rounded out their beleaguered group.
As Aaron paid the cab, Rosamund stood admiring the mansion’s exterior, talking about neo-French Classic style and finials until he took a long breath to stave off boredom. Then he hustled her up the stairs to the front door. As he reached up to ring the bell, the door was flung open and Aleksandr Wilder rushed out. The twenty-one-year-old was tall, rail-thin, with big bones and the facial features of a Cossack. He was also as clumsy as a puppy, smacking into Rosamund’s shoulder. If Aaron hadn’t had his arm around her waist, she would have tumbled down the stairs.
“Take it easy!” Aaron snapped, and when Aleksandr would have steadied her, Aaron pushed his hands away.
“I’m sorry!” Aleksandr looked into her eyes and blushed bright red. “I’m just . . . I tutor calculus at Ford-ham in the summer and I haven’t been there because of . . . you know . . . so they called home and talked to my grandmother, who is a scary woman when she’s mad. She called and spoke to Irving, so now I get to go out, but I’m late. So . . . sorry!”
“Be careful out there.” Aleksandr scanned the exclusive neighborhood, hoping not to see that woman, never to experience that mind-speaking again.
“I am careful,” Aleksandr assured him. “My grandfather taught me careful before I could walk.”
Aaron supposed that was true. The boy was related to the famous Wilders. Nineteen years ago they had broken their pact with the devil—the pact that gave them infamous powers—and in doing so, had freed everyone in their extended family, too, even the Varinski branch of the Ukraine. Apparently, not all of them had taken the downfall with any grace, and while no one knew for certain, Aaron suspected the devil was none too pleased, either.
But while Aleksandr claimed he had been trained to watch for danger, he showed no signs of caution now. Instead, he backed down the stairs, stumbling over every other step, and all the while, he stared at Rosamund. “Hi.” He waved a hand malformed by fire. “You must be the librarian. Will I see you later?”
Obviously, he didn’t give a damn about seeing Aaron later.
“She’s got a date tonight.” Aaron hadn’t thought he would be glad to say it, but he was.
Aleksandr slumped. “Man, Aaron. You move fast.” Turning, he galloped down the steps.
“Not with Aaron,” Rosamund called after him.
“He’s out of earshot.” A fact Aaron felt great satisfaction in telling her.
“How did he know I was a librarian?”
Aaron guided her through the open door. “Because I went out to find the world’s foremost expert on prophecies.”
“I’m sorry you didn’t get my father, but I really am awfully good with prophecies and languages.” Abruptly, she stopped walking, stopped talking.
Shutting the door behind them, he could see her absorbing the marble floor, the soaring gilded ceiling, the matching Chippendale tables, the original Chagall hanging on the wall. He saw the moment when she
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