Ethan turned slowly, holding up the knife and extending his arm to show that he hadn’t cut himself again.
“Hello, Bett.”
His sister frowned at him and then shifted her gaze to Jennifer’s body. “What have you done to her? Why does she look like that?”
“I tried to learn something of the conjurer who killed her.”
“She was killed by witchery?” Bett said. She walked past him, her satin dress and petticoats rustling. “You’re sure?”
“Look at her,” Ethan said.
“You did that.”
“I merely made the power reveal itself. Her killer did that.”
Bett stared at the dead girl for a long time, chewing her lip; he remembered that from when she was young. She and Ethan had never gotten along, even as children. He and Susannah, on the other hand, had been inseparable, which probably had made matters worse for their middle sister. Bett had always been so serious, so righteous, far more like their father than their mother. She even looked like Ellis. She had his straight brown hair, his dark blue eyes, his square, handsome face. Susannah was Sarah’s daughter in every respect. Not only did she resemble their mother; she also had Sarah’s sharp wit and hearty laugh. Ethan had always felt a kinship to both of them. But except for the scars he now bore, he looked just like Bett and just like their father. Throughout his life he had thought this ironic, though he couldn’t help thinking that those who knew him best-Kannice, Diver, Henry-wouldn’t have seen the irony. They thought him grave, even ill-tempered at times, and they were right. The years had left him far more like Bett and his father than he had been in his youth.
“It’s an odd color,” Bett finally said, her voice low.
“I was thinking the same thing before you came in.” He regarded her slyly. “Maybe you have a knack for conjuring.”
One might have thought from the smoldering look in her eyes that he had accused her of thievery, or worse. “That’s not funny.”
Susannah would have laughed. So would Mother. But he kept these thoughts to himself. When they were young, their mother had taught all of them to conjure. But while Ethan and Susannah had quickly shown an aptitude for spellmaking, Bett had not. It was one more reason why Ethan and Susannah had been so close to each other and to their mother. As a boy he had thought Bett difficult; only later did it occur to him that she had probably felt left out, lonely.
“I don’t know what that color means,” he said. “I suppose it could be the color of the spell that killed her, though I’ve never seen conjuring power that looked like this. It’s more likely that her killer is strong enough to mask his or her castings.” He glanced at her. “That’s why I was going to try the second conjuring. It might tell me something more about the spell itself.”
“You shouldn’t be using witchery in here. Not for any purpose.”
He gestured toward the body. “Not even to find out who killed this girl?”
“If God wants us to learn the identity of her killer, He will reveal it to us in His own way.”
“I was just noticing that my conjuring feels stronger in here than it does anywhere else in Boston. Maybe this is His way.”
The look she gave him would have kindled damp wood. “You are speaking of witchcraft in a house of God!”
“Witchcraft?” Ethan repeated, his voice rising. “You know better, Bett! I expect that kind of nonsense from people who know nothing of conjuring, but not from you!”
“Why not from me? Just because I’m your sister, that doesn’t mean-”
“Yes, you’re my sister! If you’re going to call me a witch you have to accept that you’re one, too!” His words echoed loudly through the corridor, and belatedly he thought of the two ministers upstairs in the sanctuary.
“I’ll thank you to keep your voice down,” she said with cold intensity. “You may have forsaken the Lord and His word, but I have not. Neither has Geoffrey, nor our children. This is our church, and I won’t have you desecrating it.”
Ethan inhaled and exhaled slowly, trying to keep his temper in check. “I haven’t desecrated anything. This murder is the true desecration. I merely want to find the person responsible. Is that so terrible?”
Bett stared at the girl again. “You’ve gotten Mister Pell in some trouble, you know.”
“Pell had nothing to do with this.”
“ Mister Pell was asked to keep vigil over this girl,” she said. “Instead, he left her with you. He should have known better.”
“I sent him away, Bett. I asked him for a cup of wine. That’s why he left me.”
She pursed her lips, and Ethan held his breath, hoping that Pell had been smart enough to tell a similar tale. Apparently the minister was better at all of this than Ethan had thought, for at last Bett said, with some reluctance, “He told Mister Troutbeck the same thing.”
“Then perhaps you should believe him,” Ethan told her, masking his relief.
“Still, he shouldn’t have left her side.”
“Perhaps,” Ethan said wearily. “I hope you’ll be kind enough to speak with Tr-with Mister Troutbeck on his behalf. Feel free to blame me. That should come naturally.”
Her expression soured, but when she spoke again, her tone had softened. “You might also wish to consider the danger to yourself. I felt your spell, Ethan, and so did anyone else who… comes from a family like ours. Even if you don’t respect this church you should be fearful enough for your own life to keep your blade in its sheath and your blood in your veins.”
“Unless you believe that Mister Caner and Mister Troutbeck are conjurers, I really don’t think I have much to fear on that account. Anyone saying that he felt my spell would be declaring himself a conjurer as well.”
Bett frowned. Clearly this hadn’t occurred to her. She had spent too many years pretending that she didn’t have spellmaking abilities.
“Well, then,” she said, drawing herself up. “If you don’t care about yourself, and you won’t respect this church, then I have no choice. I’ll reveal you as a witch myself. I’ll tell Mister Troutbeck exactly what you were attempting to do.”
“Even if it means that you also will be revealed as… as a witch?”
“I’ll tell him that our mother was a witch, and that she lured you to her ways. Mister Troutbeck knows that I’m a pious woman. And Geoffrey will vouch for me. He’s as well respected as any man in Boston.”
Ethan had always thought that Bett’s husband was a prig and an ass. But he was also a fairly well-placed British customs official, and that probably counted for something among those in Bett’s congregation.
“Fine, Bett.” He sheathed his knife and began to roll down his sleeve. “It’s been a pleasure seeing you as always.”
She looked disappointed, as if she hadn’t expected him to give up so easily. “You’re sure that a conjuring killed her?”
He threw his hands wide. “I don’t know how many different ways to say it! Yes, she was murdered with a spell! I don’t know what kind or who cast it, but a conjurer killed her.”
“And you’ve been hired to find her killer? I didn’t know you did that.” She said it without any trace of malice, which surprised him.
“Actually, I don’t,” he said, lowering his voice. “I recover stolen property, and that’s what I’m doing here. Something was taken from her, presumably after she was killed. Berson hired me to find it, no doubt hoping that I’ll also find the person who killed her.”
She said nothing.
Ethan finished rolling down his sleeve and reached for his waistcoat. “Good-bye, Bett,” he said, starting toward the stairway.
“Wait.”
He stopped, sighed. His sister still faced the stone table, her back to him.
“Was your spell really stronger here?”
Ethan nodded, then realizing that she wasn’t looking at him, said, “I don’t know. It felt stronger. Would that really be so surprising?”
She glanced back at him, her expression dark. “Of course it would.”
“Why? If I could paint like Copley or work silver like Revere, you would tell me that my talent was a gift from God. Why is this any different?”
Ethan wasn’t sure he had ever seen her more offended. “Don’t you dare claim your… your black art as a gift from the Lord!” she said, her voice trembling. “When you’re alone, or with your witch friends, you can justify your conjuring any way you like! But in this chapel, in my presence, you will say no such thing!”
Ethan started to respond, but stopped himself. He and his sister had battled on similar terrain too many times before, and too many of their wounds remained raw. “Very well,” he said, turning once more to go. “I’ll leave it to you to explain to Abner Berson why I couldn’t find his daughter’s killer. It’s really not a conversation I wish to have.”
“That’s unfair,” she said, actually sounding hurt. “You know how I feel about this, Ethan. I haven’t said anything today that I haven’t told you a thousand times before. What did you expect?”
“I expect nothing, Bett. But however much you hate me-”
“I don’t hate you. I’ve never hated you. I pray for your redemption every night.”
It would have been rude to laugh. “Thank you for that. What I meant to say is that whatever you might think of me and what I do, you must know that I never seek to do harm with my conjurings. Surely you understand that I never use my spellmaking to kill.”
“I know.”
“But whoever murdered Jennifer Berson did just that. Wouldn’t you like to see that person punished?”
He watched her, hoping in spite of all he knew of her that she would listen to reason this once. But she showed no sign of relenting and at last Ethan crossed to the archway leading back to the stairs.
“All right,” she said, her voice echoing so loudly that it startled him. Then she said more softly, “Speak your spell. You’ve already desecrated our church. You might as well learn something of value.”
Ethan didn’t say a word or hesitate, lest he give her an excuse to change her mind. He put down his waistcoat once more and walked back to where she was standing. He eyed her briefly, expecting her to leave. When she didn’t, he pulled out his knife, pushed up his sleeve, and cut himself for a second time. Ethan felt self-conscious with Bett there watching him, no doubt disapproving of everything he did. But he tried to ignore her as he dabbed blood on the girl again in the same pattern.
“ Revela originem potestatis, ” he said, “ ex cruore evocatam. ” Reveal source of power, conjured from blood.
Again, the air in the chamber came alive. The ghost appeared beside Ethan, and Bett let out a small gasp. Reg leered at her. Ethan saw Bett shudder and fold her arms over her chest, even as he felt the blood on his arm evaporate and watched it vanish from the dead girl’s face, neck, and chest. The glow surrounding the corpse flickered briefly, like a flame in a sudden breeze, but otherwise the light didn’t change at all.
They stood utterly still for several moments. At last Ethan frowned and cast a quick look at his sister. He half expected her to gloat at the apparent failure of his spell, but she merely continued to stare at the still form on the slab and rubbed her arms to keep warm.
“Well, that was damned peculiar,” Ethan said eventually.
She shot him a disapproving look. But instead of chiding him for his oath she said, “You expected more to happen.”
“Aye.” Ethan thought about trying the spell a second time, but he didn’t think Bett would stand for it. He also didn’t expect that it would make any difference. The killer had gone to great lengths to mask the nature of his-or her-conjuring, something Ethan hadn’t thought possible.
This conjurer possessed skills that Ethan couldn’t fathom, much less match. Where had he-she? — come from, and what had brought such a cursed presence to Boston?
Bett had been watching him, and now she said, “There’s blood on your shirt.”
Ethan glanced down at the stain. “It’s from last night. And it’s not mine.”
“You should put on some clean clothes. You look like a ruffian.”
He laughed. “Do I?”
“I’m serious, Ethan,” she said, sounding so earnest, the way he remembered from when they were children. She had always been far more concerned than he with social niceties.
“I’ll change before I see Mister Berson. You have my word.”
Bett nodded, then turned back to the body. “What will you do?” she asked. “About the girl, I mean. Now that the spell didn’t do what you thought it would.”
Ethan shrugged. “I’ll find another way to track her killer. That’s what I was hired to do.”
Her laugh was dry and humorless, just the way he remembered. “You actually sounded like Father when you said that.”
“He wouldn’t be pleased.”
Bett dismissed the comment with a wave of her hand and turned to leave. “That’s not true and you know it. Good-bye, Ethan.”
“Thank you, Bett.”
She stopped at that and regarded him with obvious surprise. “For what?”
“For not interfering with the spell, even if it didn’t work.”
Her brow creased, as if she realized for the first time that she had done exactly that. “I did it for the girl,” she said. She glanced toward the body. “Will that glow go away, or do you need to cast again?”
He could have claimed that he needed to do one more conjuring. That way he could try the second spell again. But he couldn’t bring himself to lie to her in this place.
“It’ll fade on its own. She should look normal by nightfall.”
“Good,” Bett said, and left him there.
He put away his knife and pulled his sleeve back down. Then he picked up his waistcoat and shrugged it on. He paused at the doorway to look at Jennifer once more. “Grant her rest, Lord,” he whispered.
Ethan climbed the stairs back to the sanctuary. Troutbeck was nowhere to be seen, but Pell stood by the altar. Ethan raised a hand in farewell and continued to the door.
The young minister merely watched him leave.
Ethan thought about making his way directly to the Berson home, as Abner Berson’s man had instructed. But Bett’s remark about the blood on his shirt had reminded him that he ought first to change. He walked down School Street and then on to Water. With each step the stink of the harbor grew stronger.
Dall’s cooperage, which had been built by Henry’s grandfather, stood on the east side of a lane named, appropriately enough, Cooper’s Alley. It was a modest building, but sturdy, with a small sign out front that read simply “Dall’s Barrels and Crates” and a second sign, on the oak door, that read “Open Entr.” Blue-gray smoke rose from a small, crooked chimney on the roof.
Shelly and Pitch lay together outside the door. At Ethan’s approach they raised their heads, their tails thumping the cobblestones in unison.
Ethan stepped over them, pushed the door open, and entered the shop. It was warm within. A fire burned brightly in the stone hearth. Henry sat on a stool by his workbench, his leather apron covering a worn gray shirt, the sleeves of which he had pushed up. The cooper was a small man with a lined, grizzled face, a bald head, and thick, muscular arms. Whenever he worked he furrowed his brow in concentration and opened his mouth in a sort of grimace, revealing a large gap where his two front teeth should have been. That was how he looked now, as he struggled to set the final hoop in place on a large rum barrel. There were fewer distillers in Boston now than there had been as recently as five or ten years ago, but Henry still did a steady business supplying barrels to those that remained.
He was working the hoop into place with a large mallet that he had covered with cloth so that it wouldn’t damage the wood or scrape the hoop. Seeing Ethan enter, he raised a hand in greeting, but continued to work. Ethan remained by the door, watching, saying nothing, until Henry gave the hoop one last whack, threw his mallet onto his workbench, and pushed himself off the stool.
“Damn hoop’th th’ wrong thizthe,” he said, with his usual lisp.
“Is it from Corlin?” Ethan asked.
Henry nodded, frowning with disgust.
“Well, he’ll make you another. He’s been smithing for you for ages.”
“I know. But I wanted this one done by today. I have other things t’ do.”
“Well, this should brighten your day.” Ethan pulled from his pocket the pouch given to him by Berson’s man and handed two pounds to the cooper.
“That should pay for my room through the rest of the year.”
Henry stared at the coins as if he had never seen so much money in one spot. “I should say it does. Where’d ya get all this?”
Ethan shook his head. “Not important,” he said. It wasn’t that Henry didn’t approve of thieftaking; in fact, he enjoyed the stories Ethan told about his past jobs. But he grew alarmed whenever he knew too much about what Ethan was working on at any given time. Ethan wasn’t sure how much of his concern was for his shop and the room above it, and how much was for Ethan himself, but he couldn’t deny that the old man fretted after him, as if he were Ethan’s father. Truth be told, the diminutive cooper worried about him far more than Ethan’s father ever had.
“Well, thank you, Ethan. Ya’re welcome in that room for as long as you want it.”
Ethan patted the man’s shoulder. “You’re just saying that because you’ve been paid.”
Henry grinned at him, wide-mouthed and gap-toothed. “Aye,” he said. “In advants, no less.”
The thieftaker laughed as he walked back to the door and pulled it open. “I’ll see you later, Henry.”
The old man was still grinning. But he sounded deadly serious when he said, “Be careful, Ethan. That much money-ya’re bound to attract someone’s eye.”
Ethan glanced back at him. “Aye, thank you, Henry.”
Once outside again, Ethan saw that both dogs were still awake. Pitch was on his feet, his tail raised, his ears pricked. Ethan looked around, but saw nothing. As he started away, he heard the dog growl.
Wary now, he walked around to the back end of Henry’s building, and climbed the wooden stairs to his door. Just as he reached for the door handle, he heard footsteps on the stairs below him. Glancing down, he saw a large man making his way up the stairway. He was dark-haired, young, and when he looked up at Ethan, catching his eye, he leered menacingly. No wonder Pitch had been on edge.
Ethan quickly ducked into the room and locked the door behind him. He had just started to consider what kind of spell he might use on the man when he felt a powerful hand grab his shoulder and spin him around. Ethan found himself face-to-face-or rather, face-to-chest-with another large man, this one yellow-haired with a long, horsey face. Two other pairs of hands grabbed his arms, pulling them wide.
“Get his knife,” a woman’s voice commanded calmly from behind Yellow-hair.
The man in front of him yanked Ethan’s blade from the sheath on his belt. The other two released his arms, but before Ethan could move, Yellow-hair dug a hammerlike fist into his gut, doubling him over and stealing his breath. One of the other men knocked him to the floor with a hard chopping clout high on his cheek.
Before he could clear his vision or remember how to inhale, a pair of hands hoisted him to his feet. Someone pounded him in the gut a second time, and then they set to work on his face. A blow to the jaw, another to the eye, a third to the cheekbone. Ethan felt his knees buckle, felt blood trickling from his mouth and from a burning cut just below his right eye. He was tempted to conjure, but wasn’t sure he could incapacitate more than one man at a time. And before he could think of a spell, a fist to the stomach made him heave, though he managed somehow to keep from throwing up. They straightened him, and Ethan braced himself for another blow.
“Enough.”
One word, but it stopped his attackers cold. It came from Ethan’s bed, as had the demand for his blade. He didn’t have to see Sephira Pryce to recognize her voice, but he would have preferred to look her in the eye.
The hands holding him up released him, and Ethan’s legs gave way. He fully expected to fall to the floor, but someone had placed a chair behind him. He flopped into it.
He heard the door rattle behind him.
“Someone let him in,” the voice said, sounding both bored and amused. “Gordon’s going to be disappointed that he missed all the fun, Ethan. You shouldn’t have locked the door.”
Ethan forced his eyes open, and then concentrated on the face swimming before him.
As it came into focus, he was reminded once again of how dangerous it could be having any dealings with Sephira Pryce. Everything about the woman lent itself to seduction. Her voice was low for a woman’s, and slightly gravelly, so that with every word she sounded like she was purring. Reclining on his bed, her shining black curls cascading over her shoulders, she looked like some lithe, preternaturally intelligent creature from the wilds of North America. Her oval face tapered to a sharp chin, but her other features were soft, womanly. Her cheekbones were high, but her cheeks retained enough roundness to give her a pleasant look-some might even have called it friendly. Her eyes were large and bright blue, the kind of eyes that should have belonged to a child. They could convey innocence, even kindness. God knew they could be alluring, at times brazenly so. But more often than not, they were hard, shrewd, and watchful, as they were now. They were always moving, scanning faces, appraising her surroundings, preparing for a fight even as she purred and charmed her way through another negotiation.
Her nose was lovely, finely upturned and as perfect as it was the day she was born. No one who spent his or her life working Boston’s rougher lanes could avoid scars, and Sephira had plenty: small ones on her cheeks, her brow, her temples, and one long one along her otherwise smooth jaw.
But those whose work found them in the streets of Boston usually had broken their noses at least once. Not Sephira. Actually, this was something she and Ethan shared. At least for the moment. Who knew what this encounter would bring?
She always smelled subtly of lilac and she wore more jewelry than the king’s consort: glittering gemmed earrings, rings of gold and silver on her hands, and bracelets to match. The only concession she made to her profession was in her dress. She wore breeches, a blouse, and a waistcoat, like anyone who worked in the lanes, although her blouse was cut lower than a man’s, and her waistcoat was just a shade tighter. The effect could be distracting for even the most disciplined man. Already this day Ethan had been beaten and kicked, and he couldn’t be certain that Sephira didn’t intend to have him killed in the next moment or two. Yet he couldn’t keep his glance from straying to the gentle swell of her bodice as she reclined before him on the bed.
Noting this, she smiled and sat up. “You’ve missed me,” she said, as if they were old friends.
“No,” Ethan told her. “I can’t say I have.”
She replied with a small pout, stood, and began to pace the room. There was a taut grace to her movements-again Ethan saw something animal in the way she stalked across his floor.
She stood as tall as Ethan, and while she looked at first glance to be as slender as she was fair, the appearance was deceiving. He had seen her fight; once, he had felt the bite of her blade. She was as strong and quick and cunning as any man Ethan had ever battled. But her sex remained her greatest weapon. Her hair, her body, her eyes-she was bewitching. Ethan couldn’t help but watch her as she walked, and, he noticed, neither could the men who worked for her.
And yet, for all her sensual beauty, she seethed with pent-up violence. Sometimes it simmered below the surface. Sometimes it manifested itself in those who traveled with her, like the toughs who had beaten Ethan and still loomed over him, threatening to renew their assault at any moment. On occasion Sephira herself lashed out. Ethan had seen her beat a man senseless in a tavern brawl simply because the poor fool had failed to recognize her and had ordered an ale without waiting for Sephira to be served.
Despite her talents with a blade and a firearm, despite her reputation for ruthless cruelty and the lethal storm that always raged around her-or perhaps because of all these things-Sephira was renowned and respected throughout the city. Rather than hiding in shadows, with other thieves and ruffians, she walked the streets as if she were royalty. She spoke with the confidence of someone who knew beyond doubt that she was the mistress of her own fate and the fates of everyone she met. She was several years younger than Ethan, but she dispensed wisdom-or what she took for wisdom-like a sage. Ethan thought of Sephira as little more than a glorified brigand, lovely to be sure, but wicked in every way. But he took great care in concealing his true feelings. Because everyone else in Boston, including Sephira herself, considered her nearly the equal of no less a man than Thomas Hutchinson, or even the governor of Massachusetts, Francis Bernard.
It wasn’t just that she was the most important thieftaker in Boston, in all of the American colonies. She was also responsible for much of the thieving and violence that made thieftaking necessary. At least half the gems and jewelry and other riches she returned for reward were first stolen by men in her employ. She took with one hand, gave back with the other, and was paid handsomely for doing so.
Those like Ethan, who lived their lives in the streets, saw the woman for what she really was: a charming, clever villain. But to the unsuspecting, particularly the wealthy, she was the person who kept Boston’s streets safe. And by dint of having forged this reputation, she had built an empire for herself. For if she profited from her efforts to keep order in the city and see to it that stolen property was restored to its rightful owner… well, who could begrudge the woman a bit of coin?
She watched Ethan now as she circled him, a half smile on her exquisite face, an appraising look in her cold, pale eyes, as if she was weighing whether or not to have her men beat Ethan a bit more.
“You’ve been hired by Berson,” she said at length.
Ethan would gain nothing by denying it. Little happened in Boston without Sephira knowing of it; chances were she had known Berson was going to hire Ethan before the merchant’s man ever reached the Dowsing Rod. But Ethan saw no reason to confirm her suspicions. He stared back at her as the pain in his gut and his cheek gradually faded.
After several moments, Sephira flicked her gaze up to one of the men standing behind Ethan. One quick glance, that was all it took. Immediately the man behind him-Yellow-hair-grabbed Ethan by the hair, pulled his head back, and laid the edge of a blade against Ethan’s throat, much as Ethan had done to Daniel the night before.
“I believe Miss Pryce asked ye a question,” Yellow-hair said, giving Ethan’s hair an extra yank.
“Actually, she didn’t,” Ethan said, his voice strained. “She made a statement.”
The man looming over him frowned, then looked to Pryce, apparently unsure of what to make of this.
“Let him go,” she said.
The man released Ethan’s hair, but then smacked him across the top of the head. Ethan winced.
“This is why I choose to let you live, Ethan,” Sephira said, her laugh deep and throaty. Even mocking him, she sounded enticing. “You amuse me. And I’ll admit that you have some courage, as well, though the line between bravery and folly can be a fine one.”
“I didn’t realize that my life was subject to your whim,” Ethan said.
In an instant, her expression changed to a sneer. “Then you’re a greater fool than I thought. The life of every man, woman, and child in this city is subject to my whim.”
Ethan wanted to challenge her on this. Surely Sephira didn’t mean to imply that even officers of the Crown were within her reach. But he held his tongue. If she did wield such power, over even the king’s men, Ethan wasn’t certain he wanted to know about it.
“I’ll ask it as a question this time,” Sephira went on a moment later. “Have you been hired by Abner Berson in the matter of his daughter’s murder?”
“Yes, I have,” Ethan said. “Actually, that reminds me: Can you account for your whereabouts last night?”
Pryce rolled her eyes and nodded to one of the men behind Ethan.
A fist to the temple sent Ethan sprawling to the floor again and knocked over the chair. One of the men kicked him in the stomach; another kicked him in the small of the back. A wave of nausea crashed over him and once more he could barely manage to draw breath.
“Get him up,” Sephira said.
One of the toughs righted his chair, and the others lifted him off the floor and dumped him back into it, none too gently. Ethan hung his head, gasping for air, his elbows resting on his knees. He could feel Pryce watching him.
“Don’t make me do that again,” she said.
“You know he hired me, Sephira,” Ethan managed to say. “You’ve known it all along. What’s all this about?”
“What do you think it’s about?”
“I think you don’t like it when wealthy men come to me. You don’t mind me working for the likes of Ezra Corbett, because he’s hardly worth your time, but when someone like Berson hires me you feel like I’m taking money out of your purse.”
Sephira smiled, and the entire room seemed to get colder. “You see? You can be clever when you want to be.”
“You don’t want this job, Sephira. Believe me you don’t.”
“Because she was killed with witchery?”
Ethan stared back at her.
“Yes,” she said, “I knew that, too.”
“Do you know who killed her?”
She shook her head, reclining on the bed once more, like some woman from a prisoner’s dream. “I’m not sure I’d tell you if I did, but as it happens, I’ve no idea.”
Something occurred to him in that moment, but he kept it to himself. He would have time to satisfy his curiosity later in the day, provided he survived this charming interview.
“I’ve been happy to let you have the jobs involving witchcraft,” she told him, “because until now it hasn’t cost me much to do so. But that changed when Berson hired you.”
“Do you know much about conjuring, Sephira?”
“I know enough to have taken your knife from you as soon as you entered the room. You need blood, or something of the sort, to attack me with anything more than an elemental spell. And I know enough not to be afraid of elemental conjurings. Those are illusion spells. They can’t really hurt me.” Her smile this time was fleeting, though no less icy. “How am I doing so far?”
“Fairly well,” Ethan said. “But you can’t conjure, can you?”
By now, no answer would have surprised him. Still, Ethan knew a moment of profound relief when Sephira shook her head and said, “No, I can’t.”
“Then you know as well as I do, that you can’t hope to find the person who murdered Jennifer Berson without getting yourself killed. That’s the reason her father came to me.”
“Yes, it probably is.”
“So then what are we doing here, Sephira?”
“We’re making sure that you understand just that. Witchcraft is the only reason Berson hired you instead of me. And witchcraft is the only reason I’m allowing you to keep the job. The Ezra Corbetts of the world are yours. The Abner Bersons belong to me.”
Ethan eyed the woman another moment, then shook his head and let out a small laugh.
She sat up abruptly, her expression deadly serious. “You think I’m joking?”
“I know you’re not. I just find it hard to believe you’ve gone to all this trouble because you’re worried I’m taking jobs that you think should be yours.”
“Well, believe it, Ethan. I’ve tolerated you working in Boston because there are certain jobs I would rather not take on. The last thing I need is to fail a few important clients and ruin my reputation, all because some idiot conjurer has taken to thieving. In some small way I need you, so I let you work at the fringes of my trade. But make no mistake: You work in this city-you live and breathe in this city-because I allow it.”
Sephira glanced past him again, which gave Ethan at least some warning that another blow was coming. Not that it helped much. One of Pryce’s men grabbed his chair from behind and pulled it out from under him, so that Ethan fell face-first to the floor. Two others lifted him and pinned his arms to his sides, and Yellow-hair resumed the beating. This time Sephira let them have their fun for what felt like an eternity before finally calling them off. Yellow-hair drove one last punch into Ethan’s side before the other two released him, leaving him to crumple to the floor.
Every inch of Ethan’s body hurt, and he could feel blood flowing freely from his nose, his split lip, and more cuts on his face than he could count. He didn’t try to move, not even when he felt one of the men rifling through his pockets.
“Here it is,” the man said.
Ethan heard the ring of coins, and knew that they had found Berson’s money pouch.
“Found these, too.”
More coins. Those would have been the shillings Corbett had given to him.
“Take it all,” Sephira said, standing over him. “You’ll make more, won’t you, Ethan?”
“Sure,” Ethan said, the word coming out as a whisper. “What’s a few pounds between friends?”
“Well said. You know, Ethan,” she went on, though Ethan just wished the woman would shut up and go away. “You need me as much as I need you. More really, though you don’t know it.”
“Would you care to tell me why?”
“Not really.”
“You know, I don’t need my knife to cast,” Ethan said. “There’s blood on my face. I could speak a spell that would kill all four of you.”
“Actually,” Sephira said, “I was just thinking the same thing.”
Ethan heard something clatter on the floor next to his head. Opening his eyes, he saw his blade lying beside him.
“But we both know that you’re not going to do that,” she went on. “It hasn’t been that long since you were a prisoner in Barbados, or wherever it was. And I imagine those memories fade rather slowly.”
“Many people know I’m a conjurer.”
“I’m sure. But it’s one thing for people to know that, or to hear rumors of a few small spells cast in the capture of a thief. It’s quite another for you to use your witchery to kill a person, especially someone like me. They’d have you in shackles faster than you could say ‘God save the king.’ Or maybe they’d just hang you. Don’t you agree?”
Ethan gave no answer.
Sephira laughed again. “Nothing to say? Very well, then. Good-bye, Ethan. I hope you find the girl’s killer. It would be unfortunate if you mucked it up.”
He heard them leave, listened as they descended the creaking stairway. But even after they were gone, he simply lay there, his eyes closed, waiting for the pain to subside.