Chapter Twelve
Twelve
When Rose came out of her bedroom on Monday morning, Henry was sitting in front of her computer at the kitchen table—where she’d last seen him the night before. Had he gotten any sleep?
“A white dress,” he commented. “Many women wore those in my time.”
She looked down at the midi dress she’d picked out for work. “I usually wear white or light blue on Mondays, in honor of the moon. And Selene, the moon goddess. I could wear gray, but I hate gray.”
“You wear colors that correspond to the planets, which also correspond to both pagan deities and the days of the week,” he said slowly.
“Exactly! Red or orange on Tuesday for Mars. Purple on Wednesday for Mercury. Bright blue or green on Thursday for Jupiter. Pink on Friday for Venus. Saturday is black for Saturn.”
“That one makes sense,” he said. “The Jews of old, and even the ancient Babylonians, called Saturn the black star, though I don’t know why.”
“I didn’t know that!” It was fun being around someone who was into the planets, even if he didn’t think they had spiritual meanings. “Well, the god Saturn is also known as Cronus.”
“Yes. The god of time,” Henry said. “But do you want to honor such a god? He swallowed his own children.”
“Nobody’s perfect,” she joked, and felt gratified when he chuckled. “Time swallows us all up. But the children came back, and so do we.”
As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she had an uncanny sensation, like a mental shiver. It was the same feeling she’d had the other day, when Henry had demanded to know where she’d learned to write like she did. He’d seemed genuinely shocked, and she didn’t know why.
“Why do you do this?” he asked now. “Wear these colors?”
She didn’t get the sense that Henry was challenging her. He sounded more like he wanted to understand, in the same way he liked to understand everything.
“Uh…it makes me feel in tune with the universe?” She went over to the counter to pour herself a coffee. “I know it’s not logical.”
“It isn’t,” he agreed, “but I very much like systems and routines.”
“Especially ones involving planets,” she suggested, and they exchanged a smile.
The day before, Rose had stopped into the Mexican bakery across the street to buy conchas—sugar-topped rolls.
She grabbed one out of the white bag on the counter, set it on a plate, and brought it to the table with her mug.
Andy War-Howl, whom she’d fed and taken for a quick walk when she’d first gotten up, stationed himself beneath her chair, obviously hoping for crumbs.
“Help yourself to breakfast,” she told Henry. “There are conchas”—she waggled the one in her hand—“and coffee, and there’s still cut-up pineapple in the fridge.”
As Henry got a plate, he asked, “How is your, ah, work going?” She’d spent the evening before trying to come up with a spell to return him to his time.
“I still don’t have an incantation I’m happy with.” If they were going to sneak around Victor Reuter’s mansion looking for the astrolabe, she should at least have a plan about what to do with it.
She sighed. “It’s not usually this hard!
But I don’t usually try to do something nearly this big.
And I’m not quite sure how I’m supposed to use the astrolabe, assuming we do get our hands on it.
” She took a sip of coffee. “I want to tell my boss I’m sick and stay home, but everybody’s going to be upset about what happened to the painting.
Do you still want to spend the day at the library while I’m at work? ”
“Yes.” He glanced down at his small, impossibly neat handwriting in the notebook she’d given him.
“I am going to read about combustion engines, satellites, the theory of relativity, parallel timelines, and other ancient astrolabes in private collections, as well as wormholes, theories about decreasing entropy, and reversible dynamics within closed timeline curves.”
“That does sound like enough for one day,” Rose admitted. “And it’s probably better than being stuck in my apartment.”
“I like your apartment,” he surprised her by saying.
“Really? I thought it would seem like a prison cell to you, compared to your estate,” she admitted.
He shrugged. “Everly Park is grandeur and duty and dynasty, designed to awe the visitor. Your modest rooms are not meant to impress anyone.”
Rose gave a rueful laugh. “That’s true.” She picked at the pink sugar–crusted top of her concha.
Henry frowned. “I mean that your apartment, with the cushions, and the candles and the curios…” He gestured to the large, colorful pillows on the sofa, and then the crystals, figurines, and candles on the wall shelves. “It is an expression of yourself, and that is why I like it.”
Oh. That was sweeter than pink sugar.
But why was he saying things like that to her, when he didn’t want to kiss her or get involved with her?
As smart as he was, he could be kind of clueless when it came to social things. Any person from a different century would be, now that she thought about it. He wasn’t trying to flirt with her. He was just saying she had cute décor.
Andy looked up with hopeful brown eyes. She cut off another tiny piece of the sweet bread and tossed it to him. He caught it and wagged his tail hard. Somehow, it made Rose feel for the dog, that he was so happy with crumbs.
Once they were on the train, Rose looked up news stories about the painting, with Henry reading over her shoulder. The first one was in the Chicago Tribune, no less: A Vandalism Mystery at the Art Institute of Chicago.
“This is bad,” she murmured to Henry. “It mentions Emily and Griffin’s wedding. And the fact that Emily was arrested for the theft of the missing sculpture.”
“Surely, it would be strange,” Henry said, “for a lady to get married, attend her wedding banquet, and then somehow slip away unnoticed to meticulously deface a painting.”
“True,” Rose said. “And there’s been a lot of vandalism as political protest. They’re saying maybe a group will take credit for this one.” Rose’s mother would’ve said, Don’t hold your breath.
Rose sent Emily a couple of quick texts.
Are you coming into work today?
Sorry your wedding got in the news.
The Pink Line deposited them right in front of the Harold Washington Library Center.
Henry looked up at the ten-story red brick building, crowned with a pediment of steel and glass, that occupied a whole city block.
The watchful owls and fanciful flames on the roof, made to look like copper with a green patina, gave the library a dramatic flair.
“The library is in here?” he asked Rose.
She grinned, happy to show him something that she was sure he’d love. “This whole building is the library.”
He whipped around to look at her, wide-eyed. “It cannot be.”
“It is!” She checked the time. “It’s eight twenty, and they don’t open till nine, so you’ll have to wait outside. I hope you don’t get bored.” He didn’t have a phone to look at, after all.
He scoffed. “I am sure I don’t mind sitting with my own thoughts for a mere forty minutes, particularly as I can watch the parade of modern humanity go by.”
A man with inner resources, Rose thought. That was hot.
He asked, “To whom do I introduce myself, once I enter?”
“Oh. No one. I was kidding about it being exclusive. Anyone can go in here.”
The corner of his lip curled with annoyance…and maybe a little amusement? She hoped so. “Miss Novak, I find your century and your city confounding enough without your whimsical jests.”
“You’re right. I’m sorry. Find a nice place to sit and pull anything you want off the shelves to read.
” His eyes widened again. “You can ask any of the people behind the desks what you’re looking for, and they’ll help you.
Oh, and you have to go up to the top floor!
It’s so pretty. I’ll meet you up there around six thirty, okay?
Take any books you want up there, and I’ll help you borrow them. ”
“Extraordinary,” he murmured, looking up to the top of the building.
“Well. I should get going,” Rose said.
His gaze returned to her. “You must not walk by yourself. I will accompany you and then return to the library.”
Rose waved off the suggestion. “This isn’t a dangerous area. The museum’s like ten minutes from here.”
He cast a skeptical look down the block. “Be cautious for those ten minutes.”
Something inside her melted a little bit. She was used to walking by herself, occasionally at night, sometimes palming the mini pink-glittered canister of pepper spray on her key chain. But it was nice to have someone worry about her. Especially when that someone was Henry.
“I will.” She had a wild urge to kiss him goodbye. She settled for squeezing his upper arm. “Have fun.”
Ten minutes later, as she went up the front steps of the Art Institute of Chicago, she could hardly believe that only a weekend had passed since she’d attended the wedding there on Friday night.
So much had happened. She went to her office on the second floor, responded to a few emails, and then attended the marketing department staff meeting in the conference room led by Lisa, her boss.
Lisa was a white woman in maybe her fifties, with long, dry-looking brown hair and a shiny face.
Rose had held down several jobs from the time she’d turned sixteen, including nighttime cleaner at a restaurant, cashier at an occult bookstore—which had spurred her interest in magic—cocktail waitress at a bowling alley, intern at an ad agency, and part-time marketing associate for a historical mansion with an art collection, the Richard H.
Driehaus Museum. Except for the ad agency guy, she’d been lucky enough to have decent bosses, and Lisa was her favorite so far.
“I’m sure you’ve all read the stories in the Trib, the New York Times, and elsewhere,” Lisa told the staff.
Rose said, “I didn’t see the New York Times one.”