“ Ethan? Ethan, y’all right?”
The voice reached him from far away, as from a distant passing ship on still waters.
“Ethan?”
But as soon as he felt someone touch his shoulder, his hand shot up of its own volition and grabbed the speaker’s wrist. He heard a small gasp and, opening his eyes, saw poor Henry kneeling beside him, staring wide-eyed at Ethan’s hand. Ethan let go of him and let his arm fall back to his side.
“Sorry, Henry,” he muttered.
“Godth, Ethan!” the cooper lisped. “What happened to ya?”
Ethan forced himself up off the floor into a sitting position. His head spun a bit, but less than he had feared it might. Still, his body ached as it hadn’t since his days laboring on the plantation; he wondered if Yellow-hair and his friends had broken a few of his ribs.
“Sephira Pryce was here,” Ethan said. “She and her men were waiting for me.” He glanced at Henry. “You didn’t hear them earlier?”
Henry looked hurt. “O’ course I didn’t. Ya think I’d let ya come up, knowin’ they was here?
Ethan shook his head. “No, I don’t. I’m sorry, Henry.”
The cooper’s face colored. “I did hear some commotion and… well, I was afraid to come up. But then I heard them leave. That was all I heard, though. I swear it.”
“I believe you. And it’s probably best that you waited. There’s no telling what they might have done to you.”
“She was really here, eh?” the old man said, gazing wistfully at the door, as if he might still catch a glimpse of Sephira and her men. “Th’ Empress herself?”
Ethan had to laugh, though it hurt to do so. “Aye. It’s my own fault. I saw one of them coming up behind me on the stairs. I should have realized that he wouldn’t be alone.”
“Wha’ does Sephira want with you?”
“New job I’m working on,” Ethan told him. “You really don’t want to know.” He probed his face gingerly with his fingers. Everything felt swollen. “I must look a mess.”
“Ya do,” Henry said. “I’ll get some water and help ya get cleaned up.” He stood, hitting Ethan’s knife with his foot as he did. “They leave that?” he asked.
Ethan shook his head. “It’s mine. It’s pretty much the only thing they didn’t take.”
Henry glanced around the room. “They took stuff?”
“Just my money. Good thing I paid you before coming up here.”
Henry grimaced sympathetically, but he didn’t offer to give Ethan back any of the rent money. He left the room, still looking around, perhaps, Ethan thought, hoping that he might spot something that Sephira had left behind. Ethan thought it likely that nothing he had done before had impressed the old man as much as getting thrashed by Sephira Pryce’s men.
While Henry was gone he gently probed his ribs with his hands, trying to decide if any were broken. It felt like at least one of them was, but Henry entered the room again before he could cut himself and cast a healing spell. For all their years of friendship the old man didn’t know that Ethan was a conjurer. Or if he did, he acted as though he assumed Ethan didn’t cast anymore, for he never mentioned spellmaking or “witchcraft” in front of Ethan.
Henry had brought a bucket of cold water, several pieces of clean cloth, and a bottle of what Ethan guessed was rum. He helped Ethan climb into the chair and then began to clean the wounds on his face. The old cooper was surprisingly gentle and deft, though he worked slowly. It wasn’t long before the cloths were stained red with blood. Henry continually wrung them out into the bucket, and soon the water had shaded toward pink.
“Lot o’ blood,” the cooper said after a lengthy silence.
“I was noticing that. I think I’m glad I don’t have a looking glass.”
“I have one,” Henry told him. “I can get it if you like. Ya don’t look so bad. Probably feels worse than it looks.”
“Aye, probably. My thanks, Henry.”
The cooper finished cleaning him up, and then opened the rum and poured a bit onto a clean cloth.
“Is that necessary?” Ethan asked.
Henry shrugged. “They say i’ keeps away infection.”
“I’m going to smell like a distillery. People will think I’ve been drinking.”
“I’d drink if I looked like you do,” Henry said, cackling.
Ethan frowned, but then gestured for the cooper to use the rum.
Henry leaned forward and began applying the soaked cloth to Ethan’s various cuts.
Ethan spent the next several moments inhaling sharply through his teeth again and again. “Damn!” he said after the sixth or seventh time. “Do you have to use that much?”
The cooper glanced doubtfully at the bottle. “I didn’t think I was using a lot.”
Ethan closed his eyes briefly and shook his head. “I’m sure you weren’t. Just… keep doing what you were doing. I’ll keep my mouth-” He winced again as Henry touched the spirit-soaked cloth to another spot on his temple. “-closed.”
Henry grimaced again. “Ya want me t’ stop?”
Ethan stared at him briefly before picking up the bottle, pulling out the cork, and gulping down a mouthful. It burned, but it tasted good. “Don’t stop.”
The cooper nodded his approval, a toothless grin on his face, and went back to work.
When at last Henry had finished, Ethan had to admit that he felt somewhat better. He stood stiffly, and began to pull off his waistcoat and shirt.
“Ya should rest,” the cooper said.
“I can’t. I have to pay a visit to Beacon Street.”
“Beacon Street!” Henry repeated. “Who d’ya know there?”
“I have a meeting with Abner Berson.”
The cooper’s mouth dropped open and he shook his head. “Pryce and Berson in one day. Ya’re movin’ up in the world, Ethan.”
Ethan didn’t say anything. It probably would have amazed Henry to see the house in which Ethan had grown up. His father had taken great pride in being able to afford a home within a block of the Bristol Cathedral. Ellis Kaille would have been ashamed to see his son living in this single room on Cooper’s Alley.
“My thanks again, Henry. I’m in your debt.”
The old man gathered his bucket, cloths, and rum, and paused at the door. “Not at all. Have a care though. I don’ want t’ have t’ do this again. Never liked blood o’ any kind.”
Ethan watched him go. Once Henry had descended the wooden stairs, Ethan sat again and checked his ribs, determining that only the one was broken. Taking a long breath to prepare himself, he pushed the broken bone back in place, gasping in agony, and fighting not to be sick. When he had set the bone as best he could, he pulled out his knife, cut his forearm, smeared some blood on his side, and said, “ Remedium ex cruore evocatum. ” Healing, conjured from blood.
Uncle Reg appeared, took one look at Ethan’s face, and began to laugh silently. If Ethan could have punched the ghost in the nose, he would have. Despite the specter’s mockery, the effect of Ethan’s spell was immediate. It felt as though cool water were flowing over the bone and surrounding flesh. He hadn’t realized how much it hurt each time he took a breath until he could inhale without pain.
Ethan wished he could do more for his wounds, but Henry had seen the bruises on his face and would notice if he healed too quickly. He would have to be satisfied with mending the broken bone. Healing spells were taxing, and after the beating he had taken, he would have liked nothing better than to take Henry’s advice and rest. But one didn’t keep a man like Abner Berson waiting, and Sephira’s visit had served only to make Ethan more determined to begin his inquiry. He changed into clean clothes and left his room. One of his eyes had swollen shut, making it difficult to see, and his split lip would make speaking a chore.
He had lost track of the time, but the sun was still up, angling sharply across the shops and lanes of Boston. The day had grown warm, and a steady wind blew in off the harbor, carrying the scent of rain.
He walked back up Water Street and School Street, passing King’s Chapel once more, and also the Granary Burying Ground, before turning onto Beacon Street. The night before, while waiting for Ezra Corbett in the merchant’s sitting room, Ethan had remarked to himself how much nicer Corbett’s home was than his own. Now, walking past the mansions at the base of Beacon Hill, he wondered if Corbett felt the same way when he came to call on men like Berson.
Referring to these manors as houses failed to do them justice. They might have been situated within the bounds of the city, but they resembled the country estates of Braintree, Milton, and Roxbury as much as they did even the finer houses of the North End. Beacon Street itself was clean and pleasant, offering fine views of the hill. There were no beggars asking for coin or miscreants lurking in alleys. Each house had its own stone wall and iron gate, and the grounds surrounding the homes were neat and well tended.
Abner Berson’s home was no more grand than those around it, and it was modest when compared with the Hancock estate farther down the road. But still it was impressive. Constructed of white marble, it was solid and square and stood three stories high. A wide flagstone drive led from the street to the door. Before it, broad marble steps led to an ornate portico supported by proud Corinthian columns. A carriage waited by the house, a large chestnut cart horse standing before it with its head lowered, a grizzled driver seated behind the beast. He eyed Ethan with unconcealed curiosity as the thieftaker approached.
“Wha’ happ’n’d t’ you, mate?” the man asked. “I once hit a felleh with my cart-looked a bit like you do now.”
Ethan chuckled. “It wasn’t a cart,” he said, and climbed the steps to the front entrance.
The servant who answered his knock was a white-haired African man, smartly dressed in black linen. He regarded Ethan dubiously, even after the thieftaker told the man his name.
“Mister Berson is expecting me,” Ethan said. “If you don’t believe me, you can find the man with the silver hair and Scottish accent who hired me earlier today.”
This convinced the servant, who waved Ethan into the house even as he continued to cast disapproving looks his way.
“Wait here,” the man said, and walked off, leaving Ethan just inside the door, in a spacious tiled entrance hall with a high ceiling. Brilliantly colored tapestries covered the walls, and a large, round fixture that held no fewer than a dozen candles hung overhead. Ethan could hardly imagine how much work it took to light and extinguish the flames every night. Rather than smelling of spermaceti, though, the house was redolent of sweet scents: bayberry and beeswax.
He could see into the next chamber, which was also huge. The floors in there were made of some dark, fine-grained wood, and the furniture was of better quality than anything he had seen in the Corbett house.
No wonder Sephira didn’t want Ethan competing for her clientele.
Curtains had been drawn across every window Ethan could see, and in the sitting room a cloth was draped over what he assumed was a looking glass. Even in the wealthiest households, mourning superstitions remained the same.
The click of footsteps on tile and a brisk “Mister Kaille” made Ethan turn.
Abner Berson was striding toward him, though he slowed upon seeing Ethan’s face. “God have mercy! What happened to you?”
He forced a broad smile, which hurt, and walked to where Berson had halted, extending a hand. “A disagreement with a colleague. It’s nothing, sir.”
Berson took his hand and shook it absently, but he continued to study Ethan’s face, frowning as if pained by what he saw. “You call this nothing?”
Silently cursing Sephira, he said, “Not really, no. But I can’t do anything about it now, and you and I have more pressing and difficult matters to discuss.”
“Aye,” Berson agreed soberly. “That we do.”
He started toward the large sitting room, gesturing for Ethan to follow. They stepped through that chamber into a small study, the walls of which were lined with shelves holding more bound volumes than Ethan had ever seen in one place.
“I collect them,” Berson said needlessly, watching Ethan as he scanned the shelves. There were volumes here by Rabelais and Cervantes, Butler and Newton, Hobbes and Locke.
“Most come from England,” the merchant went on. “A few are from France, and some of the newer ones were produced here in Boston, by Edes and Gill. Though I must say that I don’t think much of the quality of their volumes. Do you read, Mister Kaille?”
“Yes, sir, I do. There was a time when I read a lot.”
“You don’t anymore?”
“I have less time for leisurely pursuits now than I did in my youth.” And less coin.
Berson nodded, staring at the volumes. He was a portly man with a thick neck and a jowly face. His eyes were heavy-lidded; his nose was round and red. A few strands of coarse black hair stuck out from beneath a powdered wig of white curls. He wore a black silk suit and a white cravat.
“William told you why I require your services?” he asked after some time, still avoiding Ethan’s gaze.
The silver-haired man. “Yes, he did, sir. You, Missus Berson, and your younger daughter have my deepest sympathies.”
“She was…” Berson stopped, then swallowed, his eyes misting. “Thank you,” he said roughly. “At a time like this, a stolen brooch may seem like a trifle, an extravagance. But…” He shook his head, his lips quivering.
“I think I understand,” Ethan said. “I’ll need a description of the brooch.”
“Of course. Jennifer’s girl can help you with that.”
“I also have some questions for you, sir. If you can spare me the time. And if I may speak with Missus Berson-”
“I think not, Mister Kaille,” Berson said. “I’ll tell you what I can. But my wife is troubled enough just now. And with you looking the way you do… I don’t think it would be good for her.”
“I understand, sir.”
Berson sat in one of two large cushioned chairs before an empty hearth. He indicated with an open hand that Ethan should take the other.
“Thank you, sir,” Ethan said, lowering himself carefully into the chair. “Please forgive me if some of my questions strike you as… indelicate. I need information, and where murder is concerned one can’t always mince words.”
“Of course, Mister Kaille. Proceed.”
“Can you think of anyone who would have wanted to do your daughter harm?”
Berson shook his head. “Not a soul.”
“Did she have suitors, men she might have spurned?”
“She’s had but one suitor for some time now. Cyrus Derne, the eldest son of Fergus Derne, of whom you might have heard.”
Ethan had heard of the elder Derne. He was nearly as successful as Berson-another man Sephira would have wanted Ethan to avoid.
“How long had Mister Derne and your daughter been acquainted?”
“They’ve known each other since they were children,” Berson said. “And he had been courting her for the better part of a year. I expect they would have been married sometime in the fall.”
“There weren’t any others, even men she might have known before Mister Derne and she became close?”
“None who had reason to hurt her,” the merchant said.
Ethan wasn’t entirely certain that he believed this. Berson’s daughter had been young, beautiful, and wealthy; such women were bound to attract at least a few rogues along with more appropriate suitors. Then again, a spurned lover was apt to be more violent in wreaking his vengeance than Jennifer’s killer had been.
“Then what about your enemies, sir?”
“Mine?” Berson said in a way that told Ethan the man hadn’t even considered the possibility.
“A man in your position is bound to have rivals. Is that not so?”
“Well, of course, but-”
“Do any of them dislike you enough to strike at your family in this way?”
“I–I don’t know.”
Ethan eyed him closely. “Then there are some who might.”
“Well… I suppose that… some… Derrin Cormack, for instance. He and I have disliked each other for years. And Gregory Kellirand-he and I had a falling-out some years back over a shipment of wine from Spain. I’ve never forgiven him, nor he me. I suppose you could list Louis Deblois and his brothers, or even Godfrey Malbone.”
“I thought Colonel Malbone lived in Newport,” Ethan said.
“He does,” Berson said, growing more impatient by the moment. “My point is that these men are merchants, as am I. We are all of us rivals, and therefore can be said to wish each other ill in some sense. But we are also successful men, and we try to leave our business and our disputes in the warehouses and the markets, where they belong. Why would any of them kill Jennifer for her brooch?”
“I don’t know that one of them did,” Ethan said. “I’m a thieftaker, and I’ve little experience with murders. I have to start somewhere. Thieves can be quite specific in choosing their victims, but they can also be random. If your daughter had wandered into the lower lanes of the South End and been robbed, I probably wouldn’t be asking such questions. But she was murdered, and though my experience with killings is meager, I believe that such acts are less arbitrary. Someone might have killed her to steal the brooch. Or might have stolen it as an afterthought. Or perhaps she was killed for some other reason and the villain took the brooch to confuse matters, to conceal the true purpose behind her murder.”
Berson’s face had paled and his hand trembled as he rubbed it across his mouth. But he shook his head vehemently. “I believe you’re thinking about this the wrong way, Mister Kaille.”
Ethan didn’t so much as raise an eyebrow, though he wanted to. Did Berson now fancy himself a thieftaker? “Is that so, sir?”
“Yes. No doubt you’ve heard of the unpleasantness last night.”
“The destruction of the lieutenant governor’s home.”
“And the homes of Hallowell and Story,” Berson said pointedly.
It took Ethan a moment. “You believe this crowd also killed your daughter?” he asked.
“I believe this rabble was capable of the cruelest sort of mischief. They were obviously determined to do as much injury as possible to Boston’s finer families. Is it so hard to credit that they would also harm my poor girl?” His voice broke on these last words.
Ethan began to respond, his voice gentle. “I suppose-”
“She was found last night on Cross Street,” Berson went on, growing more animated by the moment. “She was only a few steps from the path these ruffians followed from the Hallowell home to Thomas Hutchinson’s house. She left here only a short time before the fire was lit at the Town House, and by the time the mob had finished with Hutchinson’s home, she was dead.”
It occurred to Ethan that if he was right about that pulse of power and its connection to Jennifer’s murder, he could have pinpointed the time of her death even more precisely. For now, though, he kept this to himself.
“Forgive me for asking, sir, but why was she abroad in the city so late in the evening?”
The merchant rubbed a hand over his face once more. “I don’t know. I’ve been asking myself the same thing.”
“And who found her?”
“A young man walking home from the wharves,” Berson said. “A customs clerk, I believe. I never learned his name or those of the men of the watch for that matter.”
There was a knock at the door and at Berson’s reply the African servant who had greeted Ethan at the entrance stepped into the room.
“What is it, Nathaniel?”
“Forgive me, sir,” he said, addressing Berson. “But Missus Berson is asking after you.”
“Of course,” Berson said, standing. “Tell her I’ll be along shortly.”
The man withdrew, leaving Ethan and Berson alone once more. Ethan stood, but remained by his chair, though he could tell Berson wanted him to go.
“I have just a few more questions, sir, and then I’ll be on my way.”
“Yes, all right.”
“I went to King’s Chapel today, as your man instructed. Have you been to see your daughter’s body as well?”
“Of course I have!” Berson said, his brow knitting in anger. “What kind of question is that?”
“Did anything strike you as odd about what you saw?”
The merchant started to answer, faltered. At last he said, “I’m not sure what you’re getting at, Mister Kaille. Perhaps you should just come out and say it.”
“All right,” Ethan said. “Why did you hire me, sir?”
The man stared back at him, his expression unreadable. Finally, he looked away and said, “You’re a thieftaker, aren’t you? I’m paying you handsomely. I thought you would be eager-”
“Why not Sephira Pryce? She’s far better known than I am. To be honest, I’m surprised you had even heard of me.”
A humorless smile flitted across Berson’s face. “Come now, Mister Kaille,” he said in a low voice. “There was a time when everyone in Boston knew your name. You and the Ruby Blade were quite the sensation some years back.”
“It’s not the same,” Ethan said. “Sephira Pryce is the most renowned thieftaker in all of Boston. So again I ask: Why did you hire me?”
Berson eyed him a moment longer, and then sagged. “You saw her,” he said. “There wasn’t a mark on her, nothing to tell us what had killed her, much less who. At first we didn’t even suspect foul play. But then we realized that the brooch was gone. And that mob was still in the streets.”
“Did you think perhaps that she had died of natural causes, and that the brooch was stolen after?”
A spark of hope lit Berson’s eyes. “Is that what you think happened?”
The man deserved the truth, but Ethan needed answers first. “I’m trying to understand how you came to hire me, sir.”
“Isn’t it clear? Jennifer was dead, and for no reason we could see or understand. She was a healthy girl, and there was no indication that anything had been done to her. It had to be… devilry.” He stumbled over the word and his face went white at his own mention of it. He even took a step back from Ethan, seeming to realize that he ought to be frightened of him. But then he went on.
“That’s the only explanation for what happened to her. I thought about going to Pryce. Of course I did. But she would be the first to admit that she doesn’t know much about your kind. And so we… we asked around. I’ve always known there were spellers in Boston. A person just needed to know where to look. And when I heard that there was a thieftaker who was also a speller…” He shrugged. “Well, how could I not seek you out?”
“Who told you I was a conjurer?”
“I don’t know. I have men who work for me. I’ve had them combing the streets for information since last night. I suppose one of them heard of your… talent.” Berson said all this without meeting Ethan’s gaze, leaving the thieftaker to wonder if he was being completely truthful.
Still, the events of the last day had made it clear to Ethan that too many people knew his secret. The last thing he wanted or needed was for every man and woman in the city to be talking about his past and the fact that he was a conjurer.
“I won’t tell anyone else, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Berson said. “You have my word.”
“Too many people know already.” He exhaled heavily and raised his gaze only to find the merchant already eyeing him. “It was a conjuring that killed her. I know that beyond a doubt. I used a spell at the chapel and… well, you don’t need to know the details. But there is no doubt in my mind. I don’t know who cast the spell that killed her, but he or she is powerful. There can’t be more than a handful of people in all the colonies who could have murdered her that way.”
“So, do you… do you think you can find the person who did this?” the man asked, sounding both hopeful and frightened.
“Yes, sir. I believe I can.”
Berson nodded, his gaze drifting toward the door.
“I’ll leave you to your family, sir,” Ethan said. He started to leave. Then he halted and faced the merchant again. “Is there really a brooch, Mister Berson, or was that just something you and your man made up to get me to take the job?”
Berson shook his head again, his eyes wide. “No, the brooch is real, and it’s missing.”
“All right,” Ethan said. “Then if you’ll direct me to your daughter’s servant, I’ll begin my inquiry straightaway.”
Berson led Ethan out of the study back into the large chamber with glazed windows. The merchant called for William, the white-haired man who had come to the Dowsing Rod that morning, and sent him in search of Jennifer’s servant. He then bade Ethan farewell.
William returned a few moments later accompanied by a plain-looking young woman with reddish hair and freckles. Her eyes were red-rimmed and her face was blotchy, and even after William introduced Ethan to her she continued to stare at the floor. She looked frightened; Ethan thought it likely that his bruised face did nothing to set her mind at ease.
Ethan smiled at her, but she barely met his gaze. “This won’t take long,” he said gently. “I just need you to tell me about the brooch stolen from Miss Berson.”
A tear slipped from the girl’s eye and ran down her cheek. “It was oval,” she said in a low voice. “With a gold setting. There was a large round ruby in the center, and it was surrounded by small diamonds. And then around them were more rubies. Small ones.” The ghost of a smile touched her lips and was gone. “It was my mistress’s favorite. Mine, too.”
“Is there anything else you can tell me about it?” Ethan asked.
The girl shook her head.
“It belonged t’ Jennifer’s grandmother,” William said. “Missus Berson’s mother. Her initials are etched in th’ back: CN. Caroline Neale.”
“I didn’t know that,” the girl whispered.
“I’ve worked in this house a good many years,” William said, eyeing Ethan. “Little escapes my notice.”
Ethan heard a warning in the words. He held the man’s gaze until at last the servant looked away. After thanking the girl, he allowed William to lead him to the entrance.
“Th’ brooch is worth more than they’re paying ya,” the Scotsman said, as Ethan stepped past him out into the cool twilight air.
“That’s usually the case,” Ethan told him. “It’s never stopped me from returning an item.”
“An’ why is that?”
“People won’t hire me if they don’t trust me.”
“One brooch like this one an’ you’d never need t’ work again.”
“Are you trying to tempt me, William, or warn me?” Ethan didn’t give the man a chance to respond. “I have no interest in stealing from the Bersons, or anyone else for that matter. Believe it or not, I like my work.”
“Ya can say tha’ looking as ya do right now?”
Ethan laughed. “Remarkable, isn’t it?”
The man surprised him with a smile. “Rather, yes.”
“Good-bye, William.” Ethan started down the stairway.
“Wait.”
Ethan turned again. The servant stared at him another moment, tight-lipped, his brow creased. He glanced behind him into the house, before descending the steps to where Ethan had stopped.
“Ya know tha’ Miss Berson was… was being courted?” he asked in a hushed voice.
“By Cyrus Derne,” Ethan said. “Mister Berson mentioned it.”
“Not all of us were as pleased with th’ match as Jennifer,” the man said.
William sounded more like a concerned uncle than a servant. Abner Berson probably would have thought it impertinent had he heard. But this man, whatever his station, cared about the family he served.
“Do you suspect Mister Derne of doing her harm?” Ethan asked.
William shook his head. “Nothin’ so… heinous,” he said. “But he strikes me as a careless man, someone who coulda led her int’ peril.” He glanced back toward the door. “If my master knew that I was telling ya this-”
Ethan raised a hand, stopping him. “He’ll hear nothing of this conversation from me. Derne would have been the first person I sought out regardless. Now I’ll meet the man armed with your perceptions of him. Thank you for that.”
William ascended the steps. “Watch yourself, Mister Kaille,” he said over his shoulder. “Judging from th’ way ya look, I’d say ya have some trouble with that.”
Ethan was in no condition to argue.