Like the Bersons, the Derne family was well enough known that Ethan didn’t have to ask William or Mr. Berson how to find their house. The Derne mansion stood at the corner of Middle Street and Bennet’s in the North End, among some of the most opulent homes in that part of the city.
To get from Beacon Street to the North End, Ethan had to walk past or near all three of the houses that had been attacked the previous night, as well as the spot where Jennifer Berson’s body was found. He decided to go just a short distance out of his way, so as to follow the path taken by the Stamp Act mob. He began by walking back to Cornhill Street and then making his way to the Town House, where the offices of the provincial government were housed. It was a grand brick building with a soaring steeple and striking statues: a lion on one side of the gable, and a unicorn on the other. These figures framed the building’s clock and the carved facade in which it was fixed. In front of the building, a pile of ash and the charred ends of wooden beams marked the spot where the bonfire had been lit.
Following Queen Street west from the site of the fire, Ethan soon came to William Story’s home, which had been ill treated the night before. Windows had been broken, shattered furniture lay in the yard and the street, and the gardens and walkways around the house were littered with torn and partially burned papers. A small crowd had gathered in the street in front of the house to gawk, and several more people wandered through Story’s yard, picking through ruined furniture and personal effects as if they lived there.
William Story meant nothing to Ethan, but still Ethan was tempted to demand that these people leave the man’s home alone. He had no authority, of course, and he doubted that anyone would listen to him. But not for the first time, he wondered if Boston wouldn’t be better off with a stronger sheriff and a constabulary. True, such an office would render thieftakers like himself and Sephira Pryce unnecessary, but he would find other work. And he liked the idea of Sephira begging someone for a job. Not that this was likely to happen any time soon. He cast a last look at the gawkers and continued up Brattle Street to Hanover, where Benjamin Hallowell lived.
The damage done to the Hallowell home was even more extensive than that inflicted on Story’s house. The wooden fence surrounding Hallowell’s property had been knocked down, many of the windows had been shattered, and Hallowell’s furniture had been wrecked and pieces of it strewn about. Papers, pieces of clothing, and empty bottles of wine had been scattered about the yard and into the street fronting it. The crowd gathered outside this house was far larger than that at the Story home. Benjamin Hallowell was better known and even less well liked than William Story. It stood to reason that the destruction of his property should draw more interest.
Ethan didn’t linger at the Hallowell home. After crossing over Mill Creek into the North End, he came to Cross Street, where Jennifer Berson’s body had been found, and followed it toward the harbor. Compared with Hanover and Middle Streets, Cross Street was quiet and peaceful. There were no crowds of curious onlookers, no men of the watch, no sign that a young girl had been killed here the night before. A few people strolled the lane; a chaise rattled past. But that was all.
Still, Ethan knew he needed to be careful. He wished to cast a spell that might reveal the nature of the conjuring that had killed the Berson girl, but he knew better than to draw blood on the open street. Instead, he casually picked a few leaves off tree branches overhanging the lane.
“ Revela potestatem, ” he muttered under his breath. “ Ex foliis evocatam. ” Reveal power, conjured from leaves.
Reg materialized beside him, pale and insubstantial in the failing light. Ethan felt the spell thrum like a bowstring, but he saw nothing to indicate that his conjuring had worked. Reg stared at him, shaking his head slowly, his expression grim.
“This conjurer hid his handiwork well, didn’t he?” Ethan whispered to the ghost.
Reg nodded.
“Is there another spell I should try?”
A woman eyed him as if he was mad and hurried off.
The old ghost shook his head again, even as he faded from view.
Discouraged, Ethan walked back to the main thoroughfare and made his way to the Hutchinson house on Garden Court Street, off North Square.
As he drew close to the square, Ethan slowed. The damage that had been done to the Story and Hallowell homes paled next to what had been done to Thomas Hutchinson’s house. Ethan had little regard for the rioters, but he had never imagined that they could be capable of such wanton destruction.
Until the night before, this had been one of the more stately homes in the North End. It was similar in many respects to the Berson house; three stories high and perhaps fifty feet across, with a simple, classical design: a solid home befitting one of the most important men in the thirteen colonies.
But in a single night, it had been laid waste. Every window across the front of the house, twenty in all, had been completely shattered. The door had been destroyed, as if by axes, and parts of the roof had been torn away, as had the cupola. The garden fence had been torn down, and all the trees in the yard pulled over or hacked down. Personal effects belonging to the lieutenant governor and his family littered the yard and the narrow street. The crowd of gawkers here dwarfed the gathering Ethan had seen at the Hallowell home, although they remained in the street, seemingly afraid to venture into the lieutenant governor’s yard. Ethan could see people moving about inside the house, but he didn’t recognize Hutchinson himself.
“Got wot he deserved, if ya ask me.”
Ethan turned and saw a young man standing near him. The lad wore shabby, ill-fitting clothes and a stained cap.
“Hutchinson, I mean,” the young man added, unnecessarily.
“Aye,” Ethan said, fighting to keep the rage from his voice. “I’m sure his wife and children did, too.”
“Come again?”
“His wife and children.” Ethan pointed to several dresses and petticoats lying in the yard, soiled and torn. “They deserved to have their home destroyed, and all their belongings pillaged by a crowd of strangers. They’re lucky they didn’t get worse, right?”
The lad frowned. “Well, I don’ know ’bout that.”
“Isn’t it their fault that Parliament’s burdened us with this Stamp Act?”
The young man pulled off his cap and scratched his head. “Well…”
“Think about it,” Ethan said, and started away.
“Right!” the lad called after him. “Right, I’ll do that.”
The Derne mansion was only a block or so from North Square. It wasn’t as impressive as either the Berson or Hutchinson houses, but it was of a similar design: a square, three-story building with large windows spaced evenly across the facade, and impressive columns flanking the main entrance.
The man who answered the door in response to Ethan’s knock was several years younger than William, and quite a bit larger. Burly, tall, stone-faced, he more closely resembled one of Sephira Pryce’s toughs than a house servant. Ethan attempted to explain that he had been hired by Abner Berson and needed to speak with Cyrus Derne, but the man simply glowered at him. When Ethan finished, the man informed him that Cyrus Derne was not at home, and promptly shut the door.
Ethan considered knocking again, but decided against it. It was growing dark. The night watch would begin rounds before long. And men like Cyrus and Fergus Derne would be making their way home from the waterfront. Ethan strolled back to the street, but he remained near the Derne house, nodding to strangers as they walked past, laughing under his breath at their reactions to his battered visage.
He had never met Cyrus Derne or his father, but he knew them as soon as they turned a far corner onto Bennet’s Street. They were both well-dressed in ditto suits as was the current fashion. The younger Derne’s was beige; Derne the Elder wore dark blue. Both men sported dark cloaks and black tricorn hats with elaborate black cockades, and both carried canes tipped with brass. The men were of medium height, the father thicker in the middle and heavier of face. The son was lean, the long gray hair of his wig framing a square chin and high cheekbones. Ethan could see how a young woman might be drawn to him.
Father and son spoke in low tones as they walked, oblivious of all around them. When they were only a few paces from where Ethan stood, he cleared his throat loudly to draw their attention.
The older Derne halted immediately, a frown clouding his face. The son slowed, but put himself between Ethan and his father, firmly gripping his cane.
“Is there something I can do for you?” the younger Derne asked in a strong, cold voice.
“I hope so,” Ethan said, smiling so that his lip and cheek hurt. “I’m looking for Cyrus Derne.”
The younger man hesitated for only a moment, although the knuckles on the hand holding his cane whitened even more.
“You’ve found him.”
“Forgive me if I’ve alarmed you, Mister Derne. My name is Ethan Kaille. Abner Berson has hired me-”
“Of course, Mister Kaille,” the younger Derne said, striding forward and offering a hand. “Mister Berson told me he intended to hire you. Terrible business. I’m still…” He shook his head. “Well, I’m at a loss for words. Jennifer was quite dear to me, as Mister Berson might have told you.”
“He did. I’m terribly sorry for you loss.”
“Thank you.”
The elder Derne joined them and offered a hand as well, even as he examined Ethan’s face.
“You look like you’ve had quite a day, Mister Kaille,” the older man said.
“Yes, sir, I have.” He was growing weary of hearing comments on his cuts and bruises, and he had yet to see Diver or Kannice. “If I may, Mister Derne,” he said to the son, “I would like to ask you a few questions. I won’t keep you long.”
Cyrus and his father exchanged glances.
“Of course,” the young man said. “Would you mind if we walked? I’ve spent most of my day in our offices; I wouldn’t mind a bit of air.”
“That’s fine, sir. Thank you. A pleasure meeting you, sir,” Ethan said to the elder Derne, “despite the circumstances.”
The elder Derne smiled coldly, glanced once more at his son, and then walked toward the house.
“Shall we?” Cyrus said, gesturing with an open hand for Ethan to lead the way. “I take it you’ve already spoken with Mister Berson.”
“I’ve just been at his home.”
“And you came straight to me.” The younger Derne’s smile was much as his father’s had been a few moments before. “Should I make anything of that?”
“I assure you it was simply a matter of convenience. I don’t spend much time in the North End. And with the Berson home so close to yours-”
“It’s all right, Mister Kaille. I was attempting a joke. Apparently I failed.” They came to a corner and continued down Fleet Street toward the wharves. “You have questions for me,” Cyrus prompted.
“Yes, sir. When did you last see Miss Berson?”
“Yesterday,” the man said. “I had some business elsewhere in the city that required my attention, but I wished to see her. I try-” He winced. “I tried to see her each day, even when we hadn’t made plans as such. I stopped by late-several hours past midday. We spoke briefly in the sitting room. She wanted to go for a walk, but by then it was growing late, so we sat and…” He paused, looking thoughtful. “And then I left.”
“Did she mention that she intended to leave the house?”
Cyrus shook his head. “No.”
“So you don’t know why she would venture out after dark.”
He stared at the street before them, shaking his head again. “For the life of me, I do not.”
“Do you often have business that takes you into the streets at night, sir?”
Cyrus smirked. “You’re bold, Mister Kaille.” He looked away, so that he was staring straight ahead. They turned another corner and walked past a line of warehouses. The smell of the harbor was heavy here. Flocks of gulls perched on rooftops, preening and crying out mournfully, and a lone osprey circled overhead. “Occasionally, yes. I’m a merchant, from a family of merchants. The Dernes have business in every part of Boston, as well as in Newport, Providence, Norfolk, Newbury, Hartford, even Halifax. And our business doesn’t always end with the setting of the sun.”
“Can you tell me where you were last night?”
“I’m not inclined to, no,” Derne said in a flat voice, his expression unchanged. Still, Ethan could tell that the merchant’s patience had started to run thin.
Ethan said nothing, allowing the silence to stretch on until Derne seemed to grow uncomfortable.
“If you must know,” Derne said at last, “I was home. My father will confirm that if you ask him.”
“Thank you, sir. I don’t think I need trouble him.”
“Have you asked similar questions of the brutes who were abroad last night, behaving like savages and showing themselves capable of the worst kind of violence and mischief?”
“Not yet,” Ethan said. “But I will.”
“Good,” Derne said brusquely. “It seems to me more than coincidence that poor Jennifer should be killed the same night that rabble was rampaging through the streets.”
“Yes, sir. Do you know if Miss Berson had any other suitors-anyone who might have been angered by how close the two of you had grown?”
Derne halted and faced him, forcing Ethan to stop, too. “Are you trying to offend me?” the merchant demanded, his voice low. “Do you find all of this amusing?”
“Neither, sir,” Ethan said evenly. “But Mister Berson is paying me a great deal, and I believe that obligates me to explore every possibility. I’ve no doubt that Miss Berson was devoted to you. But would it be so surprising that a woman of beauty and intelligence and, yes, means, might attract men possessed of less honor than you?”
Derne regarded him a moment longer, and then began walking again. Ethan fell in step beside him. They walked in silence for some time, turning another corner, so that the waters of the harbor were now behind them.
At last Derne exhaled softly and shook his head. “Is it your profession that makes your mind work as it does?”
“Sir?”
“Looking for betrayal and falsehood. Thinking the worst of people. I would think that spending your life among the criminal element would color your perceptions of everyone, even someone like Jennifer.”
“I think no ill of her, sir.”
“Perhaps,” Derne said coldly. “But your questions can hardly be deemed flattering.” He looked at Ethan briefly. “You’re right, of course. It is conceivable that she had other suitors of whom I knew nothing, and that one of them did her harm. It’s not a possibility I’ve considered. I would like to tell you out of hand that there was no one, but I don’t know for certain. Satisfied?”
“I take no satisfaction in offending you, sir. You have my word on that.”
Derne appeared unconvinced. “Did you ask her father about any of this?”
“I did. He said he knew of no one. But I thought perhaps he sought to protect her, or that maybe she had hidden such things from him.” Ethan shrugged. “There probably was no one. I apologize for upsetting you.” This last he added for Derne’s benefit. In fact, angering the man had served its purpose. He now knew Cyrus Derne’s composure could be shaken. That knowledge might eventually prove valuable.
They again lapsed into silence. A cart rumbled past, hoofbeats echoing off the nearby buildings. Two cats slunk across the lane ahead of them. A few faint stars shone overhead.
“Have you more questions for me?” Derne asked at length, a chill still in his voice. “I’ve had a long, difficult day.”
“I’m sure you have, sir.” Ethan hesitated, considering how best to word his next question. Finally, he said, “How much do you know about the circumstances of Miss Berson’s death?”
“Very little,” Derne answered. “I know that she was murdered, that she was found near where these… these agitators had been, that her grandmother’s brooch was taken. Is there more that matters?”
“Have you… have you gone to view her at King’s Chapel?”
The merchant shook his head. “Not yet. I haven’t had the chance. And to be honest I’ve been dreading it. Why? Is there something I ought to know before I do?”
“No, sir,” Ethan said. “It’s nothing like that.” Again he faltered. “Do you have any idea why Mister Berson came to me with this matter?” he asked at last.
Derne frowned. “What an odd thing to ask. Why should I care why you were hired? Why should you, for that matter? I should think you would be grateful for the work.”
Apparently there was at least one man left in Boston who didn’t know that Ethan was a conjurer. Which probably meant that Derne truly didn’t know how Jennifer had died. Berson might have been too ashamed or too frightened to tell him. “It probably shouldn’t,” he said, eager now to explain away his question. “I’m… I’m a bit out of my element. I’m a thieftaker. I usually don’t involve myself in murders.”
They turned one more corner and Ethan realized that Derne had steered them back within sight of his home. No doubt this was the man’s way of telling Ethan that their conversation was at an end.
“I won’t trouble you more, sir,” Ethan said as they approached the Derne house. “Except to ask you the same thing I asked Mister Berson. Can you think of anyone who would have wanted to hurt Miss Berson, or anyone who wanted to hurt you so badly that he would take vengeance on her?”
Derne sighed, sounding genuinely weary. “Jennifer had no enemies,” he said. “I can’t imagine anyone wanting to hurt her. But her father, and my father and I are another matter entirely. We’re merchants. We make enemies every day, and yes, some of them might go to great lengths to get back at us.” He raised a hand to forestall interruption. “I’m not thinking of someone in particular. I’m just saying that the pursuit of wealth makes men do foolish things, dangerous things.”
He said this last with such earnestness that Ethan was forced to wonder if he did in fact have someone specific in mind. But he had already pushed the man hard enough, and he had no desire to provoke him further, at least not yet.
“I appreciate your candor, sir,” he said, as they stopped in front of the Derne house. “If you think of anything that might help me find Miss Berson’s killer, I hope you’ll let me know.”
“Of course,” Derne said, his tone businesslike. “How might I get in touch with you?”
“I live in the South End, above Dall’s cooperage. And a message can be left for me at the Dowsing Rod on Sudbury Street.”
“Very well.” Derne put out his hand and Ethan gripped it.
“Good night, Mister Derne.”
“Mister Kaille.”
Ethan started away, aware that Derne was staring after him. He kept his gaze fixed on the street ahead of him, however, and after a short while the feeling of being watched faded.
He was hungry, and he considered making his way to the Dowser for some of Kannice’s stew. But Kannice hadn’t been happy with him when he left the tavern that morning-was this really still the same day? — and he had given her good reason. If he had kept his word to himself, and had refused to take any more jobs for a time, he wouldn’t have been beaten by Sephira’s men, and he would still have the money Corbett had paid him the night before.
He knew, though, that he could not have refused Abner Berson’s offer. “Do you have to work every job that calls for a conjurer?” Kannice had asked him. And the truth was that he did. There was no one else. He had tried to explain as much to Kannice that morning, but they had been at odds over the riots and both of them had been angry. Ethan owed it to her to explain again.
Tonight, though, he couldn’t bring himself to face that conversation or her inevitable questions about his injuries. In the end, Ethan chose to walk home. He had some cheese and bread there, and even a small flask of Madeira that Diver had gotten for him-Ethan knew better than to ask where. He didn’t have a lot of any of it, but there was enough to make a meal. And then he could sleep.
As he walked through the lanes he tried to concentrate on what he had learned thus far about Jennifer Berson and the final hours of her life. A good deal of it struck him as odd. He sensed, though, that he had heard much of importance in his encounters with Berson and Derne, and even Sephira Pryce, if only he could sift through it all. But the day’s events had finally caught up with him. He was tired and sore, and he felt like his brain was moving slower than usual.
Still, his senses remained sharp. As he stepped onto Cooper’s Alley he felt the back of his neck prickle. He was being watched again. It wasn’t his conjuring ability that told him this. At least not exactly. There were protection spells a conjurer could use to ward himself, even to make himself blend into his surroundings, though these worked better in crowds than in empty lanes. A speller with enough skill might even cast spells that could alert him to the presence of certain enemies.
But Ethan hadn’t used any such conjurings. He merely sensed the presence of something, or more precisely, someone. He couldn’t always perceive conjuring ability in others, but when he did, the feeling was unmistakable, as though an ethereal tether bound him to that person, charging the air between them as during an electrical storm. He felt that way now. And a moment later, he also sensed a conjuring. The feeling was vague; either the spell was weak or the conjurer was casting at a great distance. He couldn’t say for certain. But he had no doubt that someone was working a spell. The air around him vibrated, like a plucked string on a harp.
He slowed and turned a full circle, looking for a conjurer, thinking it strange that he should feel the person so acutely, but not the spell. He saw no one on the street. Candlelight from the windows of homes along the lane spilled weak pools of light onto the cobblestones, and the moon shone overhead, only a night or two shy of full and gleaming white.
Ethan eased his knife from his belt. “Who’s there?”
He expected to see a conjurer emerge from the shadows. He couldn’t have been more surprised to see a girl of no more than eight or nine years step into the street, her clothes in rags, her dark, lank hair hanging to her shoulders. Without realizing it, he had lowered himself into a fighter’s crouch, his weapon held ready. He straightened now, allowing his blade hand to drop to his side, though he didn’t put the knife away.
He slowly walked toward the girl, glancing from side to side, expecting at any moment to see Sephira Pryce and her men charging at him. The girl watched him with large pale eyes, but she didn’t back away or show any sign of fear. She looked half starved, her cheeks sunken, her skin sallow, bare wrists as thin as sticks.
“Who are you?” Ethan asked, stopping a few paces short of the girl.
“Anna,” she said in a small voice. “Are you Kaille?”
Ethan nodded. Where was the conjurer he had sensed moments before? “Are you here alone?”
“You’re working for the Bersons,” the girl said. “Is that right?”
Ethan scanned the street again, taking care to check the nearest windows. “Someone sent you, is that it?”
“Are you working for the Bersons?”
He stared at the girl briefly. Perhaps by answering her questions he might learn something of whoever had sent her. “Yes, the Bersons hired me.”
“You seek a piece of jewelry,” Anna said. “A brooch. Rubies and diamonds.”
“That’s right. You know a great deal about me.”
“I know enough,” she said calmly, looking up at him.
“And yet I know nothing about you except your name.” Ethan smiled. “That’s not fair, is it?”
“My name’s Anna. I live here. What more do you want to know?”
“Here?” Ethan repeated. “You mean in the South End?”
“Here, in the streets.”
That wiped the smile from his face. “You have no home?”
She gazed back at him, saying nothing.
“Who takes care of you?”
“I don’t need anyone taking care of me.”
“But where do you sleep? Where do you get your food?”
“I get what I need,” she said, still with that maddening air of calm. “I get along fine without anyone helping me.”
“But you must have some family.”
“I want to talk about the brooch,” she said.
Ethan shook his head. “No. What’s your last name?”
Anna started to walk away. “Fine,” she said, tossing the word over her shoulder. “Then you’ll never find it.”
She didn’t walk quickly, and in turning her back on him she showed no fear. But neither did she give any indication that she was doing this for effect. If he let her go, she would leave.
“Wait!” Ethan called in surrender, as she reached the next illuminated window. “Come back. Please.”
She had halted beneath the window at his first word. Now she started back toward him. There was something odd about her, though Ethan couldn’t quite figure out what it was.
“No more questions about my family,” she said, as she drew nigh again. “Or I’ll leave.”
“All right,” Ethan agreed reluctantly. “Can you at least tell me who sent you?” He glanced around again, his unease growing by the moment. He still sensed someone conjuring, closer now. But where?
She frowned, then shook her head. “I don’t think so.”
Ethan took a step toward her, and then another. She didn’t flinch, but he didn’t want to risk scaring her off. He squatted down so that he was looking her in the eye. “Listen to me, Anna. Whoever sent you could be dangerous. That brooch-it was taken from a girl-”
“Jennifer Berson.”
“That’s right,” Ethan said. “She’s…” He hesitated. He didn’t want to frighten the girl, but she needed to understand her peril. “She’s dead now.”
“I know,” the girl said solemnly.
“Whoever sent you-whoever has that brooch-might well have been the person who killed her.”
“You’re a thieftaker,” she said. “Isn’t that right?”
He nodded, frowning. “Yes, but-”
“Then all that matters to you is the brooch. If you find that and give it back to her family, you’ll be paid.”
“How is it you know so much about thieftaking?”
“Am I right?” she asked.
Ethan stared at her. He wasn’t just talking to the girl, he knew. This was a negotiation with the person who had sent her, who might well be close enough to hear everything they said. In the end, he decided to treat it that way. “It’s not that easy,” he told her. “Jennifer Berson is dead, and her family is entitled to know why, and who’s responsible.”
The girl shook her head. “You’re a thieftaker. The brooch is all that matters. And I can get it for you. I know where it is.”
“Can you take me there now?” Ethan asked.
“I can get it for you.”
Ethan shook his head. “No. The person who has it now-”
“Is none of your concern,” the girl said sternly. “Meet me tomorrow at this time, right here. I’ll take you to it. You can give it to Berson and get your money.”
“There’s more to this than the brooch,” Ethan said. “Even if you don’t understand that, the person who sent you does.”
He was still squatting, and his knees were starting to ache. Ten years ago, he could have stayed thus for longer. But not anymore. He straightened his legs slowly, stiffly. His stomach and sides ached from the beating.
As he stood he realized two things simultaneously. First, the girl had said nothing about the bruises on his face. And second, standing in a dark portion of the street, Ethan could see his shadow cast on the cobblestone lane by the glow of the moon.
The girl cast no shadow. That was why she had looked so strange before, when she had walked away and then faced him again. She had cast no shadow then, either. Not from the moon; not from the window. And the light on her face hadn’t changed in the least.
“What are you?” Ethan asked, in a breathless voice.
A faint smile touched the girl’s lips. “Tomorrow night,” she said. “I’ll take you to the brooch. Or else you’re a dead man.”
With that, she vanished, like a candle flame extinguished in a sudden wind. Ethan spun around, searching for the conjurer who had created her, summoned her from the air, much as Ethan had summoned that white horse the night before. An elemental spell. An illusion. That was why he had felt a casting, but not a potent one. And yet this spell went so far beyond any he was capable of wielding, it struck him dumb.
The vision Ethan had conjured to scare Daniel the previous night had lasted mere moments, and Ethan hadn’t even managed to make the horse’s hooves click on the wharf fill. But this conjurer had sustained his illusion-or hers-for several minutes. The girl had spoken to him, asked him questions, responded to Ethan’s words. She had been… alive, or as close to alive as a creature of a conjurer’s art could be.
And she had warned him, too. Tomorrow night… Or else you’re a dead man. He knew better than to dismiss this as an idle threat. A conjurer who could summon an illusion like this one could probably overcome even Ethan’s most powerful wardings.