The Rules of Magic (Practical Magic #2)(67)

Late on this particular night, Vincent was walking with his dog when he came upon a crowd that was growing by the minute. He could have gone in another direction, but he came this way. Later he would wonder if he knew, if he needed to see for himself who he was and where he belonged. He usually paid no attention to anyone when he walked his dog at night, as he would have paid no mind to the crowd, which had been growing in number ever since the brutal arrests, had the police not encircled the area.

Eight officers who had beaten customers were trapped inside, and when tactical forces arrived as backup, a riot began. Garbage cans and bricks were being used by the crowd to defend themselves. Vincent stood there, frozen. When confronted with the enormity of what was happening, the pure revolutionary action of standing up to be who you are, he was unable to move. Be yourself, his aunt had told him. Was this who he was, a man who feared to show himself? A rabbit? He could not have despised himself more at that instant.

“Why don’t you do something?” someone shouted.

One of the homeless kids from Christopher Park was being beaten, doing his best to protect his face with his hands. Before he could think, Vincent pushed the officer off. He concentrated and a hail of stones fell, scattering several of the officers. When the kid limped away, the officer went for Vincent, tackling him. Vincent toppled, his face hitting the cement. Harry was barking like mad, and would have attacked whoever came after him next, but Vincent gathered his wits and rose to his feet, calling the dog off. They ran down West Fourth Street, off the pavement, cutting off traffic. Vincent was bleeding, a gash down the left side of his skull.

He let the dog into the yard at 44 Greenwich before going to the ER at St. Vincent’s. For days afterward there were riots, and many of the wounded would be brought here. Vincent himself had a concussion and was in need of stitches, and there was the matter of his hand, which had bent backward during his fall. They sent an intern to take care of him.

“What have you done to yourself?” the tall rangy intern asked.

When Vincent gazed up he saw Haylin Walker, in his scrubs, a look of worry on his face.

“There’s a riot out there, Dr. Walker. I didn’t do this to myself.”

Haylin then recognized him. “You!” He threw an arm around Vincent so heartily Vincent winced in pain.

“Are you sure you’re a doctor?” Vincent asked.

Hay grinned. He still had the same easy smile he’d had at fifteen. “Pretty sure. I just got posted to a residency at Beth Israel.”

He was good at stitchery, and, because there were many other patients waiting for him on this day, extraordinarily fast. “There. Your looks won’t be ruined. What a mess today has been.” He got to work on a cast. “You may have trouble with this hand for a while.”

“I was lucky. It’s mayhem out there.”

Hay looked embarrassed, but he swallowed his pride to ask, “How’s Franny?”

“Considering you let her go, do you care?”

Hay gave Vincent a look, then took a moment to sit beside him on the gurney.

“Does anything turn out the way we want it to?”

Vincent got up, leaving Haylin to the line of patients waiting for him. “You want to be smart?” Vincent said before he went to check out. “Don’t waste time when there’s someone you love.”



When Vincent came home, Franny made him lie in bed with an ice pack on his skull.

“Wrong place, wrong time,” Vincent explained, but the night had done something to him, and, in fact, he no longer felt as alone in this life. He was part of something bigger than himself. All the same, he wanted to protect William. “Do not call him,” he told Franny. “He’s out at Sag Harbor with his family. I don’t want him to worry.”

But William had the sight, and knew something was amiss. When he turned on the news the riots were on every channel. He came the next morning, driving his father’s old Jeep, parking illegally, pounding at the door. Franny let him in and he paced in the parlor while she told him what had happened. He was already damning himself for not being a part of it.

He went upstairs and knocked at Vincent’s door. When there was no reply he said, “I’m not taking no for an answer.”

Vincent came to the door, his appearance shocking. William embraced him, then stepped back to take a better look. “We’re getting out of the city,” he said.

He found Vincent’s suitcase and began packing.

“Why go?” Vincent said. “We can’t escape from who we are.”

“Of course not. Why would we want to do that?”

Vincent laughed, for he agreed. “We wouldn’t.”

“I’m glad you feel that way, Vincent. Because I certainly don’t wish to be anyone other than who I am and I don’t wish to deny it. I’m taking you to see someone who had to do that all his life.”

“Who’s that?” Vincent asked.

William opened the bedroom door. It was time for them to leave.

“My father.”

They went to the town of Sag Harbor, where William’s family had a home dating back hundreds of years. The house had been a summer place, a ramshackle wood-shingled building with huge porches that overlooked the glassy sea and the shoreline of Shelter Island. But it had been insulated and a heating system had been put in. Now William’s father lived there year-round. He was tall and Vincent saw that William resembled him in many ways, not just in his appearance, but also in his calm demeanor, which belied a passionate heart.