B y the time he reached the gate to the chapel grounds, he was barely running at all. Pain from his bad leg radiated up into his groin and gut, and his breath came in great aching gasps. He stumbled up the path to the chapel entrance, pounded on the door with his fist, turned and slumped back against the wall of the building to wait for a response.
Before long the door opened.
“Yes, who’s there?” A head poked out from the doorway, illuminated from below by a candle. The play of light and shadow exaggerated the size of his nose, the boniness of his face, and the sallow hue of his skin.
Ethan forced himself to stand and stepped out where the man could see him. Troutbeck started and backed away, his eyes growing wide.
“Who are you?”
“It’s Ethan Kaille, Mister Troutbeck,” he said, still breathing hard. “I’m sorry to have startled you.”
“Mister Kaille,” the minister said, the fear in his voice giving way to petulance. “What could you possibly want at this hour?”
“I need to speak with Mister Pell. Is he inside?”
Troutbeck’s brow knitted, and for a moment Ethan thought the man would send him away. But then he walked back into the church, muttering “This way” as he went.
Ethan limped after him.
Candles placed at regular intervals illuminated the sanctuary, and several more had been lit on a sconce beside the altar, giving the interior of the chapel a welcoming glow much at odds with Troutbeck’s demeanor. Ethan hadn’t made it far into the church before the minister halted, forcing him to stop as well.
“Wait here. I’ll summon him.”
Ethan nodded, and as the curate hurried back toward the vestry, Ethan lowered himself gingerly onto the nearest pew. Leaning back, he closed his eyes, wishing he had thought to ask for a drink of water.
Moments later, he heard footsteps. Opening his eyes, he saw Pell striding toward him, concern etched on his young face. Troutbeck lurked at the back of the chapel, behind the pulpit. Ethan had no doubt that he would try to eavesdrop on their conversation.
“Mister Kaille,” Pell said, licking his lips nervously. He glanced back at the curate. “I didn’t expect to see you here. Certainly not at this hour.”
“I know,” Ethan said. He stood, tentatively putting weight on his bad leg. It very nearly gave out under him. He grabbed at the back of the pew in front of him to keep from toppling to the floor. “I need to see the body of Jennifer Berson again.”
Pell shook his head. “You can’t. She was buried this afternoon.”
He couldn’t say that he was surprised; Anna had all but told him as much. Still, he had to resist an overpowering desire to scream at the top of his lungs every curse he knew.
“Why?” he asked after a moment. “I thought it was customary to wait four days.”
Pell glanced at Troutbeck again. “It is,” he said. He motioned for Ethan to follow him and started toward the chapel entrance.
Ethan pushed away from the pew, stepped out into the central aisle, and hobbled after him, wincing with every step.
Pell waited for Ethan to catch up with him. “What have you done to your leg?”
“It’s an old wound.”
They walked out of the chapel into the cool night air and the silver glow of the moon, and made their way down the path into the churchyard. Ethan checked the street and the grounds, expecting to see the conjurer’s girl or Sephira’s henchmen. But aside from a pair of gentlemen walking past in earnest conversation, their shoes clicking on the cobblestones, the street was empty.
“Tell me about the girl,” Ethan said.
Pell grimaced. “There’s not much to tell. Her family demanded the funeral. We couldn’t refuse. You didn’t expect us to keep her here forever.”
“No. But another day would have helped.”
“Why?” the minister asked, dropping his voice. “What’s happened?”
“What hasn’t happened? I’ve been beaten, threatened, I’ve even been summoned to speak with Thomas Hutchinson himself.”
“Hutchinson!” Pell repeated, sounding impressed. “What interest does he have in this?”
“He believes Jennifer Berson was killed by the same mob that destroyed his home.”
“Is he right?”
Ethan shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. The important thing is I have the brooch.”
Pell’s eyes widened. “You do? That’s remarkable!”
“Actually, it’s not. The conjurer who killed her wanted me to have it. He or she is assuming that once I’ve given it to the Bersons, they’ll be satisfied.”
“I don’t understand,” Pell said, shaking his head. “You’ve got the brooch, but you don’t know who gave it to you?”
“Essentially, yes. It’s too much to explain right now. But the conjurer wants me to believe that Berson’s daughter was killed by a petty thief named Daniel Folter, who allegedly was part of the mob.”
The minister frowned. “Folter,” he repeated. “Why is that name so familiar?”
Could he really be this fortunate? “Is it possible,” Ethan asked, “that you know his name because his body is lying in your crypt right now?”
“Yes!” Pell said. “I mean, no, he’s not there. But that is how I know about him. He was brought here earlier this evening. Mister Troutbeck had me send the men who carried him to another church.”
“Do you know which one?”
Pell shook his head. “No. But I can tell you there’s no doubt as to how he died. He had been beaten and then stabbed several times. He looked a mess.”
Of course. Sephira and her men had killed Folter; the conjurer was merely using his death to mask his own crimes.
“You don’t believe Folter killed Jennifer Berson?” Pell asked.
“I know he didn’t. He wasn’t a conjurer. But now I can’t prove it to anyone else, not even her father.”
Before Pell could respond, Ethan heard someone approaching along the lane. He reached for his blade.
“It’s all right,” Pell said quietly. Then, in a louder voice, he called, “Good evening, Mister Caner.”
The man walking toward the chapel paused in midstep, but then walked on. “Is that you, Trevor?”
“Yes, Reverend, sir.”
“And who is that with you?”
“This is Ethan Kaille. He’s the thieftaker Mister Troutbeck mentioned to you yesterday.”
“Ah, yes,” the rector said. By now he had joined them in the churchyard. Stopping before them, he extended a fleshy hand to Ethan. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mister Kaille.”
Ethan gripped the man’s hand. “And yours, Mister Caner.”
The rector was short and round, and even in the moonlight Ethan could see that he had a pleasant face. His mouth was shaped like a small bow and his eyebrows were bushy. He wore a wig of thick white curls in a style that had been current before Ethan sailed with the Ruby Blade, but not since.
“You’ve been looking into the matter of the Berson girl, is that right?” Caner asked.
“Yes, Reverend, sir.”
“How goes your inquiry?”
“I believe I’m making some progress,” Ethan said, choosing his words with care.
“Fine, fine. Glad to hear it. Terrible business.” Caner stood a moment shaking his head slowly, his lips pursed, a frown creasing his brow. “Trevor,” he said rather abruptly, “I wonder if you wouldn’t mind leaving us, so that I might have a word in private with Mister Kaille.”
Ethan saw his own surprise mirrored in the young minister’s expression.
“Of course.” He raised his eyebrows for just an instant. “Good night, Mister Kaille. I wish you continued success with your inquiry.”
“Thank you, Mister Pell,” Ethan said. “Good night.”
After watching Pell enter the chapel, Caner faced Ethan again, his expression far less pleasant than it had been when first he joined them in the yard.
“Walk with me,” he said, moonlight shining in his heavy-lidded eyes.
He didn’t wait for Ethan to answer, but walked out of the chapel yard and up Treamount Street. Ethan followed.
“You’re a danger to him,” Caner said quietly, as Ethan caught up with him.
“Excuse me?”
“Don’t look so surprised, Mister Kaille. I know who you are, and what you are. I know Trevor quite well. And you’re a danger to him. What is more, you know this to be true.”
“Mister Pell-”
“Mister Pell is hardly more than a boy. He sees you-a thieftaker-and he is intrigued, as any young man would be. But Trevor sees more than that. He sees a man who is known to have used the dark arts to solve mysteries. What could be more fascinating?”
They walked in silence for several moments, Ethan marshaling his thoughts, Caner watching him keenly.
“You know a great deal about me,” Ethan said at last. “May I ask why that is?”
The minister smiled reflexively. “I remember the Ruby Blade, and as a man of God, I take note of the devil wherever he appears, no matter his guise.”
“You believe me a servant of the devil?”
“An unwitting one, perhaps. A dupe, if you will. But yes. Through you, Satan would lure Trevor Pell into his service, and thus gain a foothold in our church.”
“You don’t seem to be afraid of me.”
“I have faith in the Lord, and in His faith in me.”
Ethan kept his eyes fixed on the road before him. “So do you intend to have me hanged for a witch?”
Caner shook his head. “No, Mister Kaille. I am at war with the forces of Hell, as is every man of God. As I say, I don’t believe you to be a willing ally of Satan, and I see that you are doing work for good. If you can find Jennifer Berson’s killer, that will be an act of mercy for her family. I see no need to destroy you.” He paused. “That is, unless you insist upon bringing the devil into my church. Leave Trevor Pell alone, and you have nothing to fear from me.”
“I think you exaggerate the influence I have over Mister Pell. He and I have spoken only a few times. And I assure you that I wish him no ill.”
Caner halted, as did Ethan.
“I lease Mister Pell a room,” the rector said. “Late last night he left our house, doing his best to go undetected. He came home sometime later. Do you know anything about where he might have gone?”
Ethan met the man’s gaze. “Did you ask him?”
“I did not. To be honest, I think I already know. You may roam this city day and night, exposing yourself to every sort of wickedness, but men of the Church do not.” He took a breath, straightened. “I’m telling you to leave him alone. I don’t want him having anything to do with you.”
“I’ve already told you that I have no control over Mister Pell. I’ve done nothing to corrupt him or put him in danger, and I never would.”
“And his whereabouts last night?”
“You’ll have to ask Pell.”
Caner said nothing. After a moment, Ethan said, “Good night, Mister Caner,” and turned to go.
“What were you doing at my chapel?” the minister asked.
Ethan faced the man once more, and sighed. “I heard a rumor that Jennifer Berson had been buried. I was hoping I would find it wasn’t true.”
Caner’s brow furrowed. “Why?”
“Because now I can’t prove that she was killed by a conjuring, and the wrong man is going to be blamed for her murder.”
The rector raised a hand to his mouth. “He’s to be hanged?”
Ethan shook his head. “He’s dead already.”
Caner’s forehead wrinkled again with puzzlement, but Ethan didn’t bother to explain. He turned and hobbled away, leaving the minister to ponder what he had said.
This late in the evening, the streets of Boston were largely deserted. Ethan did cross paths with a man of the watch who called out the time and eyed Ethan warily as he walked past. But other than this fellow, and a few men far gone with drink, he saw no one.
When at last he entered the Dowser, he found it practically empty. Diver sat alone in the far corner, a cup of ale resting on the table in front of him. His nose was swollen and discolored, and his eyes were ringed with dark purple bruises. Seeing Ethan, he stood so quickly that he toppled his chair.
“Thank goodness!” Ethan heard from the bar.
Kannice stepped out into the great room, crossed to where he stood, and put her arms around him.
“I’ve been worried sick,” she said.
“I’m fine,” he told her, breathing in the scent of her hair. “They took me to see Hutchinson.”
“Hutchinson?” Diver said, sounding impressed. “What did he want with you?”
“He wanted to make sure I knew that the same people who wrecked his house would have been capable of killing Jennifer Berson.”
“Surely you haven’t been with him all this time,” Kannice said.
“No. After I left the Town House, I had another encounter with Sephira’s men.”
Diver walked toward them, looking from Ethan to Kannice. “And what did they want?”
“Sephira would like me to finish my inquiry and leave matters as they are,” Ethan said. “Aside from that though, it was mostly the usual bluster.” He should have told Diver about Folter, but he didn’t want to speak of the matter in the middle of the tavern. “I would have come back here after speaking to Hutchinson, but her men chased me into the North End. And then Holin found me.”
“Holin?” Kannice asked, her tone hardening a bit. “Marielle’s boy?”
“I saw him home, and then kept an appointment with an illusion.” He held her gaze, until finally he coaxed a reluctant smile. “If you feed me, I’ll tell you all about it.”
“I’m sure you will.” But she was still smiling.
She went into the kitchen and reemerged a moment later with a bowl of dark stew that smelled of venison and red wine. She had bread for him as well.
He took the bowl from her, and after Kannice filled a tankard of ale for him, the three of them walked back to Diver’s table. Ethan began to eat, and in between mouthfuls he told them about Anna and the brooch. He also told them of the other killing he had learned about from Pell. And finally, he told them about Daniel.
“Daniel was no conjurer,” Diver said grimly, when Ethan had finally finished his tale. “He wasn’t the smartest of men, and I wouldn’t have lent him tuppence, but he wasn’t a murderer, either.”
Ethan sipped from his second ale. “I know. I won’t allow him to be blamed for Jennifer’s murder.”
Diver stared back at him, his face a mess, his dark eyes demanding more.
“You have my word, Diver. I won’t allow it.”
His friend nodded at last, stood, and drained his ale. “I’ll be going then,” he said. “I’m glad you’re all right, Ethan. I was worried about you.” He chanced a look at Kannice. “Both of us were.” And with that, he left.
Kannice and Ethan said nothing. Eventually Kannice took one of Ethan’s hands in hers, but she just watched him, her eyes shining with the light of a dozen candles.
“I didn’t intend to go to Marielle’s home,” Ethan finally said. “But with children being murdered in the streets, I wasn’t about to let Holin walk home alone.”
Kannice dropped her gaze to their hands, a sad smile on her face.
“You don’t believe me.”
“I believe you didn’t intend to go there. But I also think that you’ll find any excuse to see her.”
She looked up at him once more, still smiling, as if she wished to soften what she had said.
“I don’t love her,” Ethan said. “I did once, but I don’t anymore.”
“Do you love me?”
The question hung between them. Ethan started to answer, then stopped himself. He wanted to tell her that he did. He knew that he cared about her more than he did anyone else in the world, and he wanted to tell her that. But it wasn’t what she had asked.
The truth was Ethan didn’t know if he could love anyone anymore. He had loved once and that love had been ripped from him, along with his freedom and his pride and his ambition. His heart had been lashed day after day, month after month, for more years than he cared to count. The scars remained; they had grown hard, like calluses on a worker’s palm. He didn’t think they would ever soften.
“What I feel for Marielle is similar to what I feel for my father,” Ethan said.
Kannice raised an eyebrow.
“That sounded stranger coming out of my mouth than it did in my head,” he told her, grinning briefly. “I have something to prove to her. I want her to see that I’m more than the young fool who got himself transported to the Indies. Just as I would want my father to see that if he was still alive.”
Kannice shrugged. After a moment she nodded. “I can understand that. But I find it hard to believe that’s all you feel when you’re with her.”
“You’re right. I feel regret, and loss. Maybe I see the life that I might have led had things been different. But I don’t care for her the way I care for you. I don’t want to be with her.”
“Well, that’s the stew talking. And maybe the ale as well.”
Ethan shook his head. “No,” he said earnestly. “It’s me.”
She squeezed his hand gently, but said nothing.
Seeing the sadness that lingered in her eyes, Ethan cursed himself for not being able to say what she wanted to hear, for his inability to stay away from Elli and the children, even for his refusal to lie to Kannice by telling her that he did love her. At that moment he would have done just about anything to drive that pained look from her lovely face. But he knew her well enough to understand that the best thing he could do was tell her the truth and let her decide what she wanted.
“It’s getting late,” he said. “I should probably go.”
“Probably.” She still held his hand, and now she met his gaze. “You have too many people angry with you, Ethan. Sephira, this conjurer. Hutchinson will be angry if you don’t do what he expects of you. Don’t do anything stupid.”
“You mean like take on a job for Abner Berson?”
Kannice didn’t smile. “Just watch yourself. And don’t be shy about showing your face here and letting me see that you’re still alive.”
He lifted her hand to his lips. “All right.”
A short time later, Ethan left the tavern. The moon had vanished behind a bank of clouds and the wind off the harbor had freshened. Dressed only in his breeches, shirt, and waistcoat, he hunched his shoulders against the chill. He kept his hands thrust in the pockets of his breeches, one fist wrapped around Jennifer Berson’s brooch.
With the moon hidden, the streets had grown dark and forbidding. Ethan couldn’t keep himself from flinching at every vague shadow, every creak of a wooden door, every sudden gust of wind. He expected at any moment to see Yellow-hair or Greenleaf, or some conjured horror, emerging from the murky darkness. He strode through the streets as swiftly as his leg would allow, and only began to breathe easily again when he was back behind Henry’s shop, stepping over the dogs who lay together at the base of his stairway. As soon as he was in his room he locked the door and lit several candles.
He undressed quickly, fell into bed without bothering to darken the room, and bundled himself in a woolen blanket. Exhausted as he was, he slept fitfully, and was awakened in the middle of the night by strange dreams of Sephira Pryce that left him both shaken and aroused. Eventually he fell asleep once more and didn’t awake again until morning. But he felt no more rested than he had when he went to bed.
He climbed out of bed, still sore; relieved himself, ate a small breakfast-bread, cheese, some water-and dressed. A light rain was falling as he left his room, so he threw on his coat and made his way out onto Water Street. There were still an unusual number of laborers and wharf men in the lanes, and Ethan wondered if Diver had again been turned away from work.
He didn’t ponder this for long, though. He had come to a decision overnight. He needed help. He had no intention of ending his inquiry, but for now Sephira and the conjurer who had summoned Anna out of air and light didn’t know that for certain. He could evade them for a time, but eventually-probably within a day or two-they would figure out what he was doing and track him down. He had to find Jennifer Berson’s murderer. To do that he needed to know more about the spell that had been used to kill her and, if Mister Pell was right, to kill that child who died on Pope’s Day.
There were perhaps thirty other active conjurers in Boston. No doubt there were far more than that who had conjurers’ blood in their veins, but many of his kind did all they could to avoid notice. People were still burned and hanged as witches throughout New England; fear of discovery ran deep among conjurers, and those who didn’t have access to power tended to shun those who did. Because of his profession and because of the Ruby Blade mutiny, Ethan might well have been the second-best-known conjurer in Boston. The most famous of the city’s spellers was an old woman named Tarijanna Windcatcher, who made her living as a tavernkeeper and a self-described marriage smith.
She ran a bar that catered to the few sorcerers who openly roamed the streets of Boston, and she found matches for men and women who despaired of ever finding love on their own. Janna made no secret of the fact that she was a conjurer, and those who paid for her services assumed that she used her powers to find matches for them. Ethan had once asked her if this was in fact true. Janna refused to answer.
She came from one of the islands of the Caribbean-Ethan didn’t know which one. She was orphaned at sea as a small girl and rescued by a ship that had sailed from Newport. Janna was African, and Ethan didn’t know how she managed to avoid being taken as a slave. He had heard rumors of a romance, years before, between Janna and a wealthy Newport shipbuilder who couldn’t marry her because of her race, but did provide for her so as to secure her freedom for the rest of her life. He didn’t know how much of this was true, but she had managed to remain free and eventually, after finding her way to Boston, to buy herself the tavern, such as it was. At some point, having no memory of her family name, she took the name Windcatcher. She claimed there was no significance to it; she just liked the way it sounded.
She sold the usual drinks in her tavern, as well as stews, meat, and bread-nothing compared with Kannice’s fare, but passable. But she also sold herbs and oils, rare stones and talismans, ancient texts about spellmaking and blades, incense, and spirits used in rituals. In short, anything that sorcerers might find useful for conjuring. Ethan usually fueled his spells with blood or leaves found here in the city. But on those few occasions when he needed something different, he always went to Janna.
Ethan followed Orange Street out past the pastures and fields, and overgrown paddocks that seemed to have been neglected for years. None of the houses out this way looked particularly sturdy, though few looked as fragile as Janna’s. Gulls sat atop the town gate in the distance, ghostly forms in the silvery mist, their cries echoing off stone and wood.
Janna’s tavern, the Fat Spider, stood at the corner of Orange and Castle Streets, within sight of Amory’s Stillhouse, and not far from where Anna had taken him the night before. The building always appeared to Ethan to be one strong gust of wind away from toppling over. It leaned heavily to one side and its roof sagged dangerously in the middle. The placard on her door read, “T. Windcatcher, Marriage Smith. Love is Magick.” Ethan laughed every time he saw it. Janna might as well have climbed on to the roof of her tavern and screamed “I’m a conjurer!” as loud as she could.
The Spider was warm within, and it smelled of woodsmoke and roasted fowl, clove and cinnamon. The stub of a single candle burned on the bar, but the place was empty. Ethan walked to the middle of the room and called Janna’s name. After a moment, he heard the scrape of a chair on the floor overhead, and slow footsteps leading to the top of the stairway.
“Who that?” a woman’s voice called.
“It’s Ethan Kaille, Janna.”
The woman muttered something that he couldn’t hear, though he could tell from her voice that she wasn’t happy he had come. Still, she descended the stairs, which creaked loudly with each step she took.
She wore a simple linen dress of ivory and a brown woolen shawl wrapped around her bony shoulders. Her skin was the color of dark rum; her hair, which she wore so short that it barely concealed her scalp, was as white as the moon on a winter night. She had a thin, wrinkled face, and dark eyes that were as alert and fierce as a hawk’s. As always, she carried a cup of Madeira wine; Ethan had never seen her without one.
“Kaille,” she said, scowling at the sight of him. “Thought you was a customer.”
“Sorry, Janna.”
Her expression didn’t change but she waved him toward the bar. “Well, you here, so you might as well sit an’ drink with me.”
She poured him a cup of Madeira, and then he followed her to the hearth, where a fire burned. They sat at a small table and Ethan sipped his wine, which Janna had watered quite a bit. He shouldn’t have been surprised. Given how much she drank, undiluted Madeira would have left her broke and soused.
“You come for a healin’ tonic?” she asked, sitting forward in her chair and eyeing his battered face.
Ethan chuckled, though once more he wished that he could have healed himself without raising the suspicions of Henry, Derne, and others. “No.”
“Who did that t’ you?”
“Who do you think?”
Her expression turned stony. “Sephira Pryce.”
Janna didn’t really like anybody. She tolerated Ethan because he was a conjurer, and she could be charming at times when her work demanded it. But she treated strangers with contempt, and wasn’t much nicer to people she knew. Aside from a scrawny black dog that occasionally came by her place, she had no friends that Ethan knew of. Still, there was no one in the world she hated more than Sephira Pryce. That she and Ethan shared this probably explained why she helped him with his work, despite knowing there was little profit in it for her.
Ethan wasn’t sure why she hated the Empress of the South End so much. He had no reason to think that the two had ever met, much less had dealings. A year or two before, Janna mentioned that Sephira had once cost her a substantial amount of money. Ethan never learned exactly what happened, but he knew that if he managed to convince Janna that she could hurt Pryce by helping him, she would tell him whatever he wanted to know, regardless of whether he paid her.
“She’s a wicked woman,” Janna said, shaking her head and sounding so bitter one might have thought that Sephira had beaten her.
“You’ll get no argument from me.”
Janna shook her head a second time and leaned back in her chair. “So, no healin’ tonic. You finally gonna let me fix you a love tonic for that woman o’ yours?”
Ethan shook his head, knowing that she meant Elli. “No, thank you.”
“Wouldn’ take much. Where there’s a past, th’ love is easier t’ coax back.”
“What I need is information, Janna.”
She dismissed him with a wave of her thin hand. “You always need information. There’s no coin in that for me.”
Usually this was where Ethan pulled out a few shillings and put them on Janna’s table. Already she was casting furtive looks his way. Ethan took another sip of wine and returned her stare.
“You’re right,” he said. “This time there’s no money. Maybe there will be if you’re able to help me, but I haven’t got any right now. Sephira took every coin I had.”
“Why she so mad at you all o’ sudden?”
“A rich man hired me, and she wanted the job for herself.”
Janna laughed delightedly, exposing sharp yellow teeth. “Good for you, Kaille!” She laughed some more, shaking her head slowly.
“I need your help, Janna. There’s a conjurer in the lanes who’s killed twice now: a young woman a few nights ago, and a little boy last fall.”
Her expression grew serious. “I heard talk o’ this.”
“What did you hear?”
“Not much. I heard o’ th’ killin’s. That’s all.”
“His latest victim was Jennifer Berson.”
“Her father’s th’ rich man?”
Ethan nodded, reached into his coat pocket, and pulled out the small bundle containing Jennifer’s brooch. “This is what was taken from her.”
Janna took the bundle and unwrapped it, whistling at the gem. “Nice,” she said. “Cut yourself, an’ put some blood on it.”
Ethan hesitated.
“I’m too old t’ be cuttin’ myself for your jobs.”
He did as she instructed.
Janna muttered something under her breath and an instant later, there was a small flash of blue light round the brooch. But that was all. The glow vanished as quickly as it had come. Ethan thought he glimpsed a pale blue figure standing off to the side, but by the time he turned to look, it had vanished. Janna stared at the gem for a moment, and then frowned.
“Nothin’,” she said, handing the brooch back to him. “You have somethin’ else?”
“No. But I saw her body. There wasn’t a mark on her. I knew that a conjuring had killed her, and so I tried a revealing spell.”
“And?”
He frowned. “And I didn’t learn anything. I thought the glow would pool at the spot where the spell struck her, and I thought it would reveal the color of the conjurer’s power, but…” He shook his head. “I suppose my spell didn’t work, or whoever killed her managed to conceal his conjuring.”
Janna sat forward once more. “Why? What did you see?”
“Her entire body glowed. The effect of the conjuring didn’t seem to be concentrated anywhere.”
Her dark eyes narrowed. “And what color did you see?”
“Silver, like starlight. There was really no color at all.”
“Damn,” Janna muttered. She sat back again, scratching her forehead.
“What is it, Janna?”
“This speller might o’ concealed th’ color o’ his power, but tha’s all. You saw just what you were supposed t’ see.”
“I don’t understand.”
“That ’cause you’re not thinkin’, Kaille. You’re assumin’ that she was killed by a spell.” Janna shook her head. “She wasn’t. She was killed for a spell.”
It made so much sense that Ethan’s first reaction was to be furious with himself for not realizing this on his own. His second was to be horrified.
Conjurers generally spoke of three kinds of casting. Elemental spells, the simplest, were fueled by one of the elements-fire, water, earth, even air. Living spells, which were more difficult and more potent, demanded blood or hair, leaves or bark-anything that came from a living creature or plant. All the conjurers Ethan knew relied exclusively on elemental and living spells.
But there was a third kind of conjuring, though some said it was merely a type of living spell taken to its most dangerous extreme: killing spells. Some called such conjurings sacrifice spells, but it was the same thing. A killing spell had to be fueled by the death of a living creature; any creature, though most powerfully by the death of a human. For a conjurer willing to take a human life there were few limits to what castings could accomplish. A living spell might draw a cup of water from the ground. A death spell could bring rainstorms to an entire countryside. A living spell could be used to murder a man. A killing spell could wipe out hundreds.
The real question, though, as Janna would have been the first to remind him, was not what could killing spells do, but what had they done in these two instances?
“This conjurer would have t’ be workin’ some mighty spells,” Janna said, breaking a lengthy silence. “Somebody’d notice.”
“You would think. You ever used a killing spell, Janna?”
“Killed a goat once. For a love spell, I think it was. Some wealthy man wanted a girl, an’ she didn’ wan’ him. Took all th’ power I’ve got.”
“Did it work?” Ethan asked.
Janna glared at him. “All my spells work.” After a moment, she gave a small jerk of her head, pointing at him with her chin. “What about you? You ever use a killin’ spell?”
Ethan shook his head. “No, never. I went a long time without conjuring at all-when I was a prisoner-and I’m not as accomplished at casting as I should be. To be honest, the more powerful conjurings scare me.”
“They should. Spellmakin’s nothin’ t’ play at.”
“Have you heard anything? You usually know what’s going on in the lanes, especially if there’s conjuring involved.”
She regarded him sourly. “You still not offering money?”
“I still don’t have any,” he said, chuckling. He quickly grew serious again. “You said it yourself, Janna. This conjurer would have to be casting some pretty potent spells. Dangerous ones, and not just for the people he’s killing. If you know anything, you need to tell me.”
It was like getting a street urchin to admit that he had stolen from a peddler. “It’s not much,” she said after a long time, sounding annoyed that he was making her tell. “Might not be anythin’ at all.”
“Let me be the judge of that.”
“It’s been a while now. This was back in the fall.”
“On Pope’s Day?” Ethan asked.
“Before then,” she said, clearly irritated by the interruption. “It was th’ day those two people got themselves hanged.”
“The Richardsons?”
“Yeah, that’s them. The ones who didn’ take care o’ their little ones.”
For close to a year, since their hanging in October, Ethan hadn’t given a thought to Ann and John Richardson. Now they had come up in conversation twice in two days. Odd. And perhaps important.
Janna pointed toward the southern end of the Fat Spider. “Their hangin’ was right over there,” she went on. “Right by th’ town gate. Big crowd came t’ watch. An’ that day, right in th’ middle o’ the hangin’ I felt a spell. A strong one,” she said, her brow wrinkling. “Stronger even than I can do. I’d bet everything I got that it was another killin’ spell. Nothin’ else feels like that.”
“And the victim?” Ethan asked.
“That’s just it,” Janna said, shaking her head. “They never found one. I didn’ tell anyone, ’cause I don’ need that kind o’ trouble, if you know what I mean. But so far as I know, they never found anyone.”
“Maybe it wasn’t a person.”
“Thought o’ that,” Janna said. “But a spell that strong…” She shrugged.
“So you think he’s killed three times, not two.”
“And tha’ means he’s cast three powerful spells. You find out wha’ those spells did, an’ you’ll find your speller.”
Ethan considered this. There had been times when he’d wondered if Janna wasn’t a bit mad, but there could be no disputing her logic in this instance. She was right; the spells were everything.
He drank a bit more of the watery Madeira, then placed his cup on the table and stood.
“Thank you, Janna,” he said. “Next time I come I’ll make sure to have a few shillings in my pocket.”
“You do that,” she said without a trace of humor.
He started for the door.
“Wait.” Janna stood, walked behind the bar, and stepped into a back room. Ethan peered into the small room, wondering what she wanted with him. When at last she reemerged, she carried a small cloth pouch, which she handed to him.
It was light, and held some sort of leaf, an herb of some kind, with a sharp, unpleasant smell.
“That’s mullein,” Janna said. “Powerful protection.”
It was more than that. Mullein might have been the most potent of all warding herbs used by conjurers. It strengthened all spells, but it was especially effective as a shield against hostile conjurings. It could also be added in small amounts to tonics for coughs and fevers, and in poultices for wounds. This was as generous a gift as he had seen Janna give to anyone. Perhaps she liked him more than he thought.
“Thank you, Janna,” Ethan said. “I owe you. When I have some money…”
She shook her head.
“Never mind that. You watch yourself, Kaille,” she said. “Between this speller and Sephira Pryce, you got some nasty folk wishin’ you harm.”
As if I need Janna to tell me that. “Again, thank you.”
“Now, go. I got things t’ do.” She softened the words with a rare smile.
Ethan grinned back and let himself out.