Conjurers in the American colonies and back in England and the rest of Europe had for centuries been persecuted as witches. Hangings and burnings had occurred in just about every country Ethan could name. Women had been executed as witches in Massachusetts within the last century, and to this day ministers throughout the colonies railed against the dangers of witchcraft, claiming that those who conjured were in league with Satan.
It probably didn’t help that in order to conjure, a speller had to bridge the gap between the living world and the domain of the dead, the ethereal realm of spirit and soul. That was why a speller needed a guide in the form of a ghost; it was why Ethan needed Uncle Reg.
Accusations of witchcraft often began within a family or a small circle of friends, and Ethan wondered if those who made the accusations were people like Bett, who themselves had forsworn conjuring, but saw those they loved, or were supposed to love, casting spells and communing with ghosts. Whatever the source of such accusations, he felt certain that even in Boston, even in 1765, a man such as himself, who was known to have conjured-who bore scars that proved as much-lived in constant danger of being accused, tried, and executed.
Ethan trusted Pell as much as a conjurer could ever trust a minister, but he felt little more at ease in the company of Stephen Greenleaf than he had when Sephira’s toughs had him trapped. The sheriff had yet to produce a gun, but Ethan did not doubt that he carried one.
“Twice in as many days, Mister Kaille,” he said at last. “This time it seems that I’ll be taking you into custody.”
Pell had been standing in the same spot, watching Sephira as she followed her men down the lane. Upon hearing what Greenleaf said, though, he strode over to Ethan. Uncle Reg started to fade as the minister approached, casting one last glance Ethan’s way.
“We’ll be taking him to King’s Chapel, Sheriff,” Pell said.
Ethan could tell that he was trying to sound authoritative, but Greenleaf showed no sign of being impressed.
“I don’t work for you or the Reverend Caner, Mister Pell,” he said. “If Mister Kaille has broken laws in this county, it falls to me to see that he’s punished.”
“I was defending myself against Sephira Pryce and her men,” Ethan said. “They outnumbered me twelve to one! And you’re worried about me breaking the law?”
“Miss Pryce’s reputation is unimpeachable,” Greenleaf said, raising his chin. Ethan noticed that the sheriff had yet to come close to where Ethan stood. “Mister Pell says that you used… witchcraft against them. Is this true?”
“No,” Ethan told him, his eyes meeting the sheriff’s. “I don’t engage in witchcraft.”
This was true in the strictest sense. Conjurers weren’t witches. Like most spellers, Ethan believed that witches were the stuff of legend-an imagined threat dreamt up by overzealous ministers. Conjurers were as real as the flames he had just summoned.
Greenleaf didn’t seem to know what to make of Ethan’s denial, but he continued to keep his distance.
“Are you hurt?” Pell asked. His gaze fell to Ethan’s bloody shoulder. “Is that a knife wound?”
“A bullet wound, actually. What are you doing here?”
Pell glanced quickly at the sheriff and swallowed. “Arresting you, as ordered by the Reverend Henry Caner of King’s Chapel, Boston. We’re to take you back to the church.”
Greenleaf shook his head. “As I’ve already told you, I don’t answer to Mister Caner.”
“We all answer to the Lord, Sheriff,” Pell said. “Or do you deny His authority as well?”
The sheriff opened his mouth, but then snapped it shut again. The sky had dimmed almost to black, but Ethan could see that his cheeks burned red.
“Mister Kaille,” Pell said, turning to face him. “May I have your blade please?”
Ethan hesitated, but only for a brief moment. Even without his blade, there was enough blood on his clothes for a conjuring. He handed the knife to his friend.
“Very good,” Pell said, slipping it into a pocket within his robe. “As long as you cooperate, there’ll be no need for us to use force. At the first sign of resistance, we’ll have no choice but to resort to harsher means of controlling you. Do you understand?”
“Of course.”
“We’ll see to your wounds when we reach the church. Then you’ll be apprised of the charges against you.”
“All right.”
“Lead the way, Sheriff,” Pell said to Greenleaf.
It was cleverly done. The sheriff couldn’t object to being offered the lead, and this way Ethan and Pell could walk together and keep an eye on the man.
A small frown wrinkled Greenleaf’s brow, but a moment later, he started leading them back toward the chapel. Ethan and the minister followed him up the deserted lane, onto Hollis Street, and then onto Clough. They skirted the edge of the Common, following a narrow country lane toward the Granary and King’s Chapel. Pell said nothing, and Ethan thought it best to follow his example.
At this hour the lanes of Boston were far less crowded than when Sephira’s men had forced him into their carriage. Still, the few people who were abroad stared at him as the sheriff marched him past. A few gave him a second, closer look.
Ethan’s side ached when he inhaled, his head hurt from where Sephira’s man had kicked him, and his shoulder throbbed. He had been bloodied and beaten more in the past few days than at any time since the beatings he had been given upon arriving at the plantation in Barbados so many years ago. It hadn’t escaped him that every time he learned something new, something that moved him closer to discovering the identity of Jennifer Berson’s killer, Sephira showed up to threaten him, or that ghostly little girl confronted him in the streets around his home. He knew this was no mere coincidence.
Before long they reached the chapel grounds. They entered the yard through the gate on Treamount Street, and Pell stepped past Greenleaf, leading the sheriff and Ethan up the steps and into the sanctuary. The minister indicated that Ethan should sit in one of the pews.
“I’ll stay with Kaille, Mister Pell,” the sheriff said. “You can inform the rector that we’re here.”
“Actually, Sheriff, I prefer to remain here with Mister Kaille. Mister Caner can be found at his home across the burying ground. Would you be so kind as to tell him what’s happened.”
Greenleaf’s frown was more pronounced this time. “Forgive me, but I’m not sure that would be wise. If Kaille tries to escape you won’t be able to stop him.”
A look of annoyance crossed Pell’s face. “Of course. You’re right, Sheriff.” He cast an uncertain look Ethan’s way, but then left the chapel.
For several moments neither Ethan nor the sheriff said a word. Greenleaf watched him, though, his pale eyes narrowed.
“If you’re not a witch where did those flames come from?” he asked at last.
Ethan kept his eyes trained on the chapel floor. “Don’t you think Sephira is capable of lighting a fire?”
“Of course, but why would she?”
“You should ask her.”
Greenleaf came closer, so that he loomed over Ethan. “I’m asking you.”
Ethan looked up at him serenely. “You might wish to consider, Sheriff, that if I am a witch, and I have all this blood on my clothes, I can reduce you to a pile of ash with little more than a thought.”
“But… but you said…”
“I know exactly what I said. I also know that you didn’t believe me. Do you believe me now?”
Before the sheriff could answer, the chapel door opened again and Pell entered. “Mister Caner will join us shortly,” he said. He looked from Greenleaf to Ethan, a question in his eyes.
Ethan gave a small shake of his head. Greenleaf moved away again.
Pell came over to stand by Ethan, as if protecting him. Silence descended on the chapel once more, save for the patter of rain on the sanctuary windows.
“Does the bullet wound hurt much?” the minister asked after some time, his voice low.
Ethan kept his gaze fixed on the sheriff. “It still hurts, yes,” he said in a whisper.
“There’s a welt on your temple, too.”
“One of Sephira Pryce’s men kicked me there, and in the side. I may have a broken rib.” He glanced up at the minister. “Again.”
Pell’s eyes danced with mischief. “I’m beginning to think that you’re not as good at thieftaking as I first thought.”
Any other time, Ethan would have laughed. But they were waiting for Caner. Pell might have trusted Caner to help them with this pretense, but Ethan had his doubts. The rector hated him. Regardless of any friendship Ethan and Pell had built these last few days, Caner might well see in this night’s events the perfect opportunity to rid himself and his church of what he saw as a dark threat.
Seconds later, the door to the chapel opened once more, and Caner entered the building.
“It will be all right,” Pell mouthed.
Ethan merely shook his head.
The rector strode down the central aisle of the sanctuary to where Pell waited for him. With some effort, Ethan stood. Caner looked Ethan over, his eyes lingering on the welt on his head and the bloody hole in his coat. Then he turned to Greenleaf.
“What is all this, Sheriff? Why have you brought this man into my chapel?”
Greenleaf blinked. “Mister Pell didn’t tell you?”
“I’m not speaking to Mister Pell, am I?” the rector said. “I asked you a question. What is this man doing here?”
“We… we found him with Miss Pryce. He was… he was standing at the center of a ring of flame that I believe he started with some kind of… witchcraft. And two of Miss Pryce’s men had been wounded. One had been burned. I believe the other had broken bones in both legs. I expect those injuries also were the result of some devilry.” He turned to Pell, looking for help. “Don’t you agree, Mister Pell?”
“He’s wounded, too,” the rector said, before Pell could respond. “Did you notice that?”
Greenleaf shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Well… um… yes. Yes, I did.”
“Do you believe that those injuries also came from witchcraft?”
“No, Reverend, sir.”
“Why not?”
“Well, because one of Miss Pryce’s men had a pistol that might have been used to shoot his arm.”
“I see,” Caner said. “And what about that bruise on his head?”
“I don’t know how he got that, Mister Caner,” Greenleaf answered. “I suppose one of Pryce’s men could have done that, too.”
“Did you actually see this man cast any sort of… spell?”
The sheriff rubbed a hand over his mouth. “No, Reverend, sir. But Miss Pryce said-”
“They were fighting-this man, and Miss Pryce’s men. Is that not so?” Caner’s expression was severe.
“Well, yes, it is. But-”
“I understand that Miss Pryce enjoys some renown in this city, but for all she does on behalf of the people of Boston, we must remember that she is a creature of the streets, just as Mister Kaille is. Did it never occur to you that she might have made the accusations she did to bring injury to an enemy?”
“Well-”
Caner regarded Ethan dismissively. “You’ve got the wrong man.”
“But, the fires-” Greenleaf began.
“The fires must have been set by Pryce’s men,” Pell said. “As you say, Sheriff, we found Mister Kaille standing in the center of the ring, and Miss Pryce’s men were all around him. It retrospect it seems that he was the one most at risk from those flames.”
The sheriff gaped at Pell. “But you said that he-”
“I’m afraid I might have been mistaken,” the young minister said. “My apologies.”
Caner laid a hand on Pell’s shoulder and offered an indulgent smile. “Mister Pell is new to the ministry and is still subject to some of the foibles of youth. I’m sure you understand.”
Greenleaf straightened and glowered at Caner and the minister. “I think I do, Mister Caner,” he said pointedly. He eyed Ethan again.
“You did all that you could under the circumstances,” Caner told him. “You have my deepest gratitude.”
“Yes, I’m sure,” the sheriff said. The rector’s words were a clear dismissal. He regarded Ethan once more. “I’m sure our paths will cross again, Kaille. I, for one, will be looking forward to it.” He nodded to Pell, cast one last dark look Ethan’s way, and left the chapel.
Even after the door closed, Ethan waited several moments before asking Caner, “Why would you do that?”
The rector shrugged, opened his hands. “I saw you taken. Under normal circumstances I wouldn’t have thought to intervene. A dispute between two thieftakers is no concern of the Church. But in this case, I thought to make an exception. Not for your sake, but for that of Abner and Catherine Berson.”
“Well, thank you. I’m in your debt.”
“A debt you can repay by renouncing witchery, turning to God, and vowing never to let the words of a conjuring pass your lips again.”
Ethan stared at the man. He opened his mouth, closed it again. He glanced at Pell, whose eyes were trained on the floor, his lips pursed.
At last, Ethan faced the rector once more. “I’m afraid I can’t do that, Mister Caner.”
He expected the man to pursue the point. Instead, Caner’s mouth quirked to the side. “No, I don’t suppose you can. But the Lord wouldn’t forgive me if I didn’t try.” He started toward the door of the chapel. “I won’t always be so tolerant, Mister Kaille. Don’t let me hear of you conjuring again.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“Trevor, I expect you to retire shortly. You have your studies, and I won’t have you wandering the city at all hours.”
“Yes, Mister Caner.” When the rector was gone, Pell beckoned to Ethan. “Come. We’ll get you to a surgeon.”
“I can heal myself. I’ve already done a bit on the bullet wound.”
Pell eyed him sternly, although the effect was muted somewhat by the youthfulness of his face. “I don’t care. Mister Caner and I just lied to Sheriff Greenleaf in order to keep him from imprisoning you as a witch! You will not heal yourself of these wounds!”
Ethan didn’t argue. He gestured for the minister to lead the way. “How did you know where to find me?” he asked as they walked out of the chapel and onto Treamount.
“Mister Caner said they had taken you toward the Neck,” Pell said. “So we started in that direction. When I heard the pistol, I thought it might be aimed at you, so we followed the sound of the report.”
“Well,” Ethan said, “you saved my life. You and Mister Caner. I couldn’t have fought off Sephira and her men much longer.”
“I thought you were doing pretty well.”
“You mean aside from the bullet wound and the bruise and that dented rib I mentioned.”
Pell grinned. “Well, yes, aside from all of that.”
They had turned down Winter Street and were approaching Newbury Street, and the pasture lands.
“Where are we going?” Ethan asked.
“To the home of a doctor I know.”
“A member of the congregation?”
Pell shook his head. “Someone I met when I first came to Boston. I’d come from western Connecticut, and had been taken with a fever. Doctor Church got me well.”
They stopped at a modest house with a gabled roof and a welcoming glow of candles shining from within. Pell knocked once, and after a short wait the door opened, revealing a tall man with stooped shoulders and long, powdered hair. His eyes were deep-set, his nose strong, his chin somewhat weak.
“Mister Pell,” the man said, sounding genuinely surprised and pleased to see the minister.
“Good evening, Doctor Church,” Pell said. “Forgive us for imposing on your time so late in the evening. I bring you a patient; a friend of mine who is in need of your skills.”
The doctor looked at Ethan, his eyes lingering briefly on the bruise on Ethan’s temple and the bloodstains on his coat.
“Of course,” the man said. He stepped aside and waved them into the house.
The door opened onto a comfortable sitting room, illuminated by spermaceti candles and warmed by a fire in the hearth.
“Doctor Benjamin Church,” Pell said, “may I introduce, Ethan Kaille. Ethan, Doctor Church.”
Ethan and the doctor shook hands.
“Who is it, Benjamin?” came a woman’s voice from another room.
“A patient, Hannah,” the doctor called. “No need to trouble yourself.” He eyed Ethan again. “This way, gentlemen,” he said, and led them to a back room.
He lit several candles, their glow building gradually to reveal a chamber that was far more austere than the previous one. Jars and bottles jostled for room atop of a cabinet against one wall. Next to it, a table held a number of steel surgical instruments. Ethan glanced at them before quickly looking away. Healing himself with conjurings was one thing; surgeons made him queasy.
Dr. Church pulled a chair to the middle of the room. “Sit,” he said.
Ethan did as he was told.
“We’ll start with the shoulder,” the doctor said, stepping to a washbasin and scrubbing his hands. “I’d say that’s the worst of it.”
Ethan cast a quick self-conscious look at Pell. He had already healed that wound, at least enough to stop the bleeding.
Pell misunderstood. Or else he was as squeamish as Ethan. “Perhaps I’ll wait in the other room,” he said, a wan smile flitting across his pale features.
“All right,” Church said absently. “Take off your coat if you can manage it,” he told Ethan. “Your waistcoat and shirt, too.”
Reluctantly, Ethan peeled off the bloodstained coat, removed his waistcoat, and pulled his shirt over his head. The doctor stepped around him and leaned over to peer at the bullet wound, which was still badly discolored, despite Ethan’s spell. After a moment, he straightened again.
“I see,” Church muttered. “I take it the bullet never actually entered your body.”
“No, sir. I was fortunate.”
“Indeed, you were. Still, it would have better if you had cleaned that wound before healing it.”
Ethan stared at him, his mouth hanging open. He had expected questions, even accusations; not this blithe acceptance of his healing spell.
“Come now,” the doctor said. “You can’t believe that you are the first of your kind I’ve encountered.”
“No, sir,” Ethan said, recovering from his surprise. “I had to heal it when I did. I couldn’t afford to lose too much blood.”
“At least not that way.”
Ethan chuckled. “That’s right.”
“The bruise at your temple is new. The rest are a few days old.”
“Yes, and I think I might have a broken rib.” He pointed to the spot where Sephira’s man kicked him.
The doctor began to probe Ethan’s rib with deft fingers.
“It isn’t broken,” he said after a few moments. “Though one of these ribs feels like it’s healed from a previous break.” When Ethan didn’t respond, the doctor went on. “You’ve had a rough time of it. Perhaps you should consider finding another line of work.”
“Pell would agree with you.”
“I’m sure.” The doctor examined his shoulder again, then straightened once more, shaking his head. “Well, Mister Kaille, I’m afraid there isn’t much I can do for you. Your bruises will heal on their own. The bullet wound should as well. If it becomes fevered or if there is discharge of any sort, come back and see me.”
“I will, Doctor. Thank you.”
Church crossed to the door. “Get dressed. I’ll be with Mister Pell.”
The doctor left him and Ethan pulled his clothes back on with care, inhaling sharply through his teeth whenever he moved his shoulder too quickly or twisted his torso too suddenly. When at last he was dressed again, he joined Pell and Church in the sitting room.
Pell turned at the sound of Ethan’s approach. The minister looked relieved to see him. “Doctor Church was just asking me what you’ve been doing that would lead to so many injuries. I didn’t know what to tell him.”
“It’s all right,” Ethan told the minister. To Church he said, “I’m looking into the death of Jennifer Berson.”
The doctor’s expression sobered. “I see. Forgive me for asking.”
“It’s all right,” Ethan said, remembering at last something that should have come to him long ago. “You know, before Sephira Pryce’s men invited me into their carriage, I was on my way to King’s Chapel to ask you a question, Mister Pell. But perhaps I would be best served asking both of you. The day Ann and John Richardson were hanged, were there any other unexplained deaths in the city?”
Both men considered the question for a few moments.
At last, Pell shook his head. “Not so far as I know.”
“I don’t recall hearing of any, either,” the doctor said. “Why do you ask?”
“Something I heard,” Ethan said. Another thought came to him; a recollection of his conversation with Holin the previous day.
“Did either of you see the Richardsons’ corpses after their hanging?”
“No,” Pell said. “I believe they were cut down and thrown in a shallow grave.”
“And good riddance to them,” the doctor added.
Many people, Ethan knew, shared this view of the Richardsons. He himself did.
Pell was watching him. “There’s no doubt as to how they died, Ethan.”
“No, of course not.” Ethan started to say more, but then stopped himself. “Doctor, we’ve taken up enough of your time. What do I owe you?”
The doctor shook his head. “Nothing. Which is about what I did for you.”
“We’ve intruded upon your evening, bothered you at your home-”
“Thank you, Mister Kaille. Perhaps, in the future, if I have need of a thieftaker, you’ll do a favor for me.”
“It would be my honor, sir,” Ethan said.
Church walked them to the door. “You know, if you’re looking for someone who might have had something to do with Jennifer Berson’s death-”
“Let me guess,” Ethan said. “Ebenezer Mackintosh.”
“You know of him.”
“How could I not? Every person I meet wants to blame him for the girl’s murder. It may be the only point of agreement between Thomas Hutchinson and Samuel Adams.”
“You’ve spoken with Samuel?”
“Yes. James Otis and Peter Darrow, as well. Do you know them?”
Apparently Church found the question amusing. “We’re acquainted, yes.” His tone said much more. Ethan thought it likely that Benjamin Church was allied with Adams and the others.
“I found it interesting,” Ethan said, “that Mister Darrow should help Mackintosh escape punishment for one death, and then accuse the man of complicity in another.”
The doctor’s shrug was noncommittal. “Peter knows Mackintosh better than most. And I, for one, trust his judgment in such matters.”
They stood eyeing each other for another moment. Then Ethan forced a smile. “Well, good evening, Doctor. Thank you for your care and your time.”
“You’re welcome, Mister Kaille.” Church nodded to the minister. “Mister Pell.”
Ethan and Pell left the house and started walking back to King’s Chapel, their collars raised against the rain.
“Where will you go next?” Pell asked after a lengthy silence.
“Why? Are you planning to follow me around the city with the sheriff or men of the watch?”
“That’s not a bad idea.”
Actually, Ethan reflected, it wasn’t.
“I’m going to the Dowsing Rod,” Ethan said. “And then home, I would imagine. I’ve had a long day. Another one.”
Pell said nothing for several moments. “Why were you asking about the Richardsons?” he finally asked.
“Something a friend told me, about feeling a spell that day.” He raised his shoulders, then immediately winced at the pain. “I’ve wondered if this conjurer might be responsible for a third killing, in addition to Jennifer Berson, and the Brown boy on Pope’s Day.”
They had reached King’s Chapel, and they stopped in front of it. Pell wore a thoughtful look, his brow creased, his hair wet with rain. “I was at the hanging,” he said, his voice low.
“Did you feel a spell?” Ethan asked.
“I don’t know. I remember being uneasy. Something about that day wasn’t right. But even now I can’t put a name to it.” Pell took a breath. “Did I feel a spell? At the time I wouldn’t have known. I’ve only come to recognize the feeling these past few days, watching you conjure.” He shook his head. “This is all too new.”
“It’s all right,” Ethan said. He put out his hand, and Pell grasped it. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
Ethan laughed. “For saving my life. For taking me to see Doctor Church. For helping me find Jennifer Berson’s killer.”
“I’ve helped?”
“I think so.”
“I don’t understand any of it.”
“I’m not certain that I do either,” Ethan said. “Not entirely, at least. But if I’m right, there’s a conjurer out there who’s using spells, fueled by these deaths, to make others do his bidding.”
Pell’s eyes went wide. “A conjurer can do that?”
“Absolutely. Conjurings can do most anything, if the person casting them is willing to pay a high enough cost. I could make you take your own life, but I would have to take the life of another to do it. I could destroy this entire city, but I’d probably have to bleed myself to death.”
“So this conjurer-”
“This conjurer is skilled and powerful, and entirely willing to spend the lives of others in pursuit of his aims, whatever they may be. I can’t think of anything more dangerous.”
“How will you stop him?” Pell asked.
Ethan smiled wryly. “I haven’t the faintest idea. Good night, Mister Pell.”
He left the minister beside the chapel gate and began to make his way through the streets to the Dowser, nervously surveying storefronts and alleys. He felt vulnerable; for the second time in as many days, he was forced to admit to himself that the simple act of walking through the city had him frightened. He had survived battles at sea and years as a prisoner. He had been wounded and beaten and had gone to sleep many nights wondering if he would live long enough to win his freedom. And here he was, scared of shadows on a deserted lane. A part of him wished that on that first day in the Dowser he’d had the sense to send away Abner Berson’s man…
“No.” He said it aloud, startling an elderly man who hurried along through the darkness and mist in the opposite direction.
This is what Sephira and the conjurer want, he told himself. The beatings and the threats were intended to make him give up. Or to kill him. They weren’t going to succeed at either. This conjurer had to be stopped. As Ethan had told Pell, spells cast without regard for life were a threat to every person in Boston. No one would be safe as long as this conjurer walked the streets.
Ethan forced himself to slow down, to stop peering over his shoulder every other moment. By the time he reached the Dowser, he felt better.
Stepping inside the tavern, he took a long steadying breath. This one place never really changed. The same people sat at the bar or crowded around tables, arguing over the same matters, laughing at the same jokes. As always the Dowser was warm and bright, and it smelled of pipe smoke and ale and stew. And as always, stepping inside and being greeted by those aromas made Ethan realize that he was famished.
He walked to the bar, searching for Kannice.
“HiEthan,” the burly barkeep said, running the words together as always.
“Hi, Kelf.”
“Kannice’s in back. Wan’ me t’ get her?”
“Actually, no.” Ethan felt around in his pocket for a pair of shillings and handed them to the man. “She didn’t let me pay a couple of nights ago, and she won’t tonight, either. So this is just between the two of us, all right?”
“Course. What’ll ya have?”
“What’s the stew tonight?” Immediately he raised his good hand, forestalling an answer. “Doesn’t matter. I’ll have a bowl and an ale.”
“I’ll bring it t’ ya.”
“My thanks, Kelf.” Ethan walked to the back of the tavern, winding his way past the usual crowd. Diver wasn’t there, so he sat alone, as he often did, at an empty table far from the door.
A few moments later, Kannice arrived at his table with a bowl of mutton stew and a tankard of pale ale. She placed them in front of him and kissed the top of his head.
“I’m glad to see you,” she said, hovering behind him.
He took hold of her hands and kissed them both. “And I you.”
“I hate to…” She faltered. Ethan twisted around in his chair to look at her, taking care not to let her see his newest bruise. She still stood behind him, chewing her lip. “I’m sorry, Ethan. I know things have been hard for you the past few days. But I can’t… well… I need you to pay for the food and drink. I hope you understand.”
Ethan hesitated, but only for a moment. She had given him more free food than he cared to remember. He could afford to pay twice this one night. “Of course, I understand,” he said. He dug into his pocket again, searching for another coin.
Kannice stared down at him, an odd expression on her face, as if… He stopped searching for the coin just as she burst out laughing.
“You would have paid me again, wouldn’t you?” she said breathlessly.
Ethan looked back at Kelf, who grinned at him from behind the bar. Ethan leveled a finger at him and the man threw back his head and laughed.
“He promised me he would keep that quiet,” Ethan said as Kannice sat down across from him.
“Kelf works for me, not for you. Besides, I saw him putting the coins in the till and…” She trailed off, her smile vanishing as she noticed the welt on his head. “What’s happened now?”
“Sephira and her men.”
“They beat you again?” Her eyes fell to his shoulder. “And is that blood on your coat?”
He nodded.
“A knife?”
“A bullet, actually.”
“A bullet!” she repeated, so loudly that others paused in their conversations.
“It just grazed me,” he said, speaking softly.
“Does it hurt?”
“Some.” A lot, actually. “I’ve seen a doctor. I’m fine.”
She frowned. “Is that right?”
He held her gaze. “Aye.”
“All right, then let’s go back to Sephira for a minute. She’s not content with beatings and threats anymore?”
“No, I think she intended to kill me this time, but I got away with help from a minister and Sheriff Greenleaf.” He smiled self-consciously. “That sounds a little strange, doesn’t it?”
She blinked. After several moments, she shook her head, allowing herself a small, breathless laugh. “The crazy thing is I believe you.”
“Well, I should hope so.”
“And I should hope that after all this you would give up your inquiry and keep yourself alive. But that’s probably too much to ask, isn’t it?”
“Do I even have to answer that?”
She took a breath, her blue eyes never leaving his. “No,” she finally said. “So then why don’t you tell me what you know so far?”
He smiled and she took his hand. He began to tell her what he had learned from Janna and Pell about killing spells and the death of the boy. He also told her about his conversations with Hutchinson and Derne, and with Adams and his friends.
“This conjurer is really that strong?” she asked when he was done.
“Do you remember Nate Ramsey, the speller who escaped me a couple of years ago?”
Kannice nodded.
“This man makes Ramsey seem weak.”
She took a long breath, her cheeks blanching. But her voice remained steady as she said, “And now you think he’s used the lives of this boy and Jennifer Berson to cast his spells.”
“He may have used a third person, too. I’m not sure. And they’re not just any spells. They’re control spells. I think he’s using the deaths to get others to do his bidding.”
“Do you think that he’s using them for whatever he needs done at the time, or do you think there’s a larger purpose behind the murders and the spells?”
Ethan considered this. It was a fine question, one he himself hadn’t thought to ask. Kannice did this for him: She forced him to see things differently. Talking to her about his jobs was often like playing a game of chess and in the middle of it, rotating the board and looking at the pieces from his opponent’s perspective.
“I think they are connected,” Ethan finally said. “I couldn’t tell you how, though, or even why I think so. I’ve been trying to put myself in this conjurer’s mind, but I can’t get myself to think as he does.”
“I would have been surprised if you could.” She gave his hand a squeeze and got up from the table. “Eat. I’ll come by again later.”
“Hey, wait,” he said, stopping her. “Did Diver say if he would be coming by tonight?”
“Do you mean when he was here last night?”
“No, today. This afternoon.”
“He wasn’t here today.”
“Well, of course-” He stopped, narrowing his eyes. He hadn’t actually seen Diver enter the Dowser; they hadn’t reached it yet. And Diver told him at the time he hadn’t intended to come to the tavern at all. Still, his friend had acted strangely throughout their encounter.
“Are you worried about him?” Kannice asked.
“This is Diver we’re talking about. I’m always worried about him. But I’m sure it’s nothing.”
She went back to the kitchen, and Ethan finished his ale and bowl of stew. Kelf brought him seconds of both, and Ethan finished these as well, sopping up the last of the stew with an end of fresh bread.
As he ate, he considered what Ebenezer Mackintosh might gain by committing these murders and making enemies of men on both sides of the Stamp Act conflict. So many believed that Mackintosh was guilty; perhaps it was time that Ethan spoke with the Commander of the South End, not only to hear what Mackintosh might say in his own defense, but also to see if he could determine whether the man was a conjurer. He was still pondering this sometime later when Kannice joined him at his table.
“Feeling better?” she asked.
“I am, thank you.”
She stared at her hands. “Are you going to stay?”
“I’d like to,” he said. “But I shouldn’t. Not while this conjurer is after me.”
“You’re here now.”
“Yes, now, when the tavern’s crowded with people. But staying the night could be dangerous.” He brushed the hair from her forehead. “If something happened to you because of what I’m doing…” He shook his head. “I probably shouldn’t stay until all this is over.”
“Wouldn’t you be safer here?” she asked. “Sephira and her toughs beat you in your home. You said the conjurer found you in the lane not far from Henry’s shop. They know where you live.”
“I’m not worried about me.”
She leaned forward and gently touched her lips to the bump on his temple. “I know,” she whispered. “That’s probably why you look such a mess.”
Ethan cupped her cheek in his hand and they both smiled. He kissed her lips and she returned the kiss hungrily.
Eventually Ethan pulled away. “I want to stay,” he said again. “But I think I have to go. Now. Before you convince me not to.”
Again she smiled. “All right. Come see me tomorrow.”
“Of course.”
Ethan stood and kissed her brow before leaving the table. He raised a hand as he passed Kelf on his way to the door, and pulling his coat tighter around his shoulders, stepped out into the street. The rain was falling harder now, though the air was warmer and the wind had died down.
He walked swiftly through the center of the city toward the South End, passing the prison, the Town House, and the Old Meeting House. Tense, watchful, he started at every sound he heard. The closer he got to his home, the more uneasy he grew, until he felt that every muscle in his body was coiled, ready for a fight. Still walking, he reached for the pouch of mullein leaves Janna had given him. He pulled out three leaves and a few dried flowers, and held them ready.
“ Veni ad me. ” Come to me.
The air hummed and Uncle Reg appeared beside him, his expression grim, his fists clenched. Not a good sign.
They turned onto Cooper’s Alley, and Ethan froze, the blood draining from his face.
All the windows on his street were dark; with the sky covered over and the rain falling there was precious little light. But Anna stood in the middle of the street, blocking his way, glowing faintly in the darkness, her hair clinging to her forehead as if soaked, a hard look in her pale, overlarge eyes.
Ethan backed away, knowing that he couldn’t fight her. He had the mullein, but that wouldn’t be enough against the conjurer.
But before he could flee, the girl shook her head. “Stay where you are.”
“So you can kill me? No, thank you.”
“I think you will.”
Light flared so brightly that he had to shield his eyes. When he looked again, he saw that a flame hung over the street just behind her, as if suspended by some unseen hand. Beneath it, in the dancing golden glow of the fire, something lay on the rain-soaked cobblestones.
Not something, someone.
Holin.