Dashing between the estates, Ethan turned on to Long Lane and made his way back toward Milk Street.
At that next corner, though, instead of turning east toward Henry’s cooperage, he went straight, again slipping between two houses into a small lot behind them. He soon reached Water Street. Here he turned west before heading north again onto Pudding Lane, where Diver lived. He was in the heart of Cornhill now, on a street crowded with working men, and people making their way from storefront to storefront. He slowed.
His leg screamed, and his breath came in great gasps, but he seemed to have lost Nigel and the others, at least for the moment. He had cast enough spells that Spectacles wouldn’t have much trouble locating him again; the man might not even have to resort to a finding spell.
Ethan had feared this day for years. Sephira Pryce had long been a formidable rival. Ruthless and clever, as deadly with her bare hands as she was with a blade or gun, she commanded a small army of men and had managed to ally herself with some of Boston’s most powerful leaders. Ethan had but one weapon at his disposal that she couldn’t match: spellmaking. The threat of a conjuring had stayed her hand in countless confrontations that might otherwise have ended in his death. And his ability to cast spells had allowed him to overcome her other advantages as they raced each other to find one stolen treasure or another. For so long, solely by dint of Ethan’s skills as a conjurer, they had battled each other to a stalemate.
But now she had access to the same powers he did. With Mariz working for her, she might well be too strong for him.
Ethan didn’t have much time to ponder this. The resonant pulse of another spell forced him into motion once more. He knew right away that this was a finding spell, and that it came from some distance, probably from back in d’Acosta’s Pasture. Still, once Spectacles found him again, it wouldn’t take Sephira’s men long to surround him.
He managed a few steps before the conjuring reached him, flowing through the cobblestones beneath his feet and twining about his legs like a vine climbing a tree. The casting lingered on him for a few seconds before fading, but Ethan had cast finding spells of his own and so knew that this was more than enough. Mariz had figured out where he was.
Ethan still held his knife, but here in the middle of a lane, he couldn’t cut himself and conjure, at least not without drawing far more attention to himself than he wanted. Instead, he bit down on the inside of his cheek, as he had the previous night in the Dowser. He hated drawing blood this way; it hurt far more than cutting his arm. But he needed to ward himself again, since he had likely removed his previous protection, along with Mariz’s spell and his own concealment conjuring. “Teqimen ex cruore evocatum,” he whispered under his breath. Warding, conjured from blood.
The hum of the casting in the ground would allow Mariz to fix his location with that much more certainty, which meant that Ethan had to keep moving. But the warding made him feel safer.
Uncle Reg still walked with him stride for stride, his expression grim, his glowing eyes flicking Ethan’s way every few seconds. They walked through the center of Cornhill and crossed through Dock Square past Faneuil Hall toward the North End. Ethan didn’t have a destination in mind. He intended to stay away from Cooper’s Alley and from the Dowsing Rod; those were the two places where Sephira knew to look for him.
Once past Faneuil Hall, he crossed over the Market Bridge and followed Mill Creek toward Ann Street. The lanes were less crowded here, and Ethan looked toward the ghost beside him.
“Is he more powerful than I am?” Ethan asked, knowing the shade would understand that he meant Spectacles.
Uncle Reg shook his head, but not before hesitating.
“But he’s no less powerful either, isn’t that right?”
The ghost nodded.
“Aye, I was afraid of that. The spell he tried to use on me, the one blocked by my warding, did you recognize it?”
Uncle Reg nodded again. He held out his hand and a flame appeared in the middle of his palm.
“A fire spell,” Ethan said.
The ghost allowed the flame to die away.
“Was it strong enough to kill me?”
Reg shook his head once more.
Well, that was something at least. Maybe Sephira didn’t want him dead … yet. Ethan slowed, finally halting altogether. If Sephira and her men were still tracking him, they knew by now that he was no longer in Cornhill. He waited for another finding spell, but none came. Had Sephira given up for the time being, knowing that with Mariz working for her she could find him anytime she wished? Had she gone to Henry’s shop or Kannice’s tavern? Or was she back at her home, drinking Madeira and laughing at Ethan, knowing that he still ran from her?
He almost gave in to the temptation to try a finding spell of his own. Knowing where Spectacles was might alert him to whatever Sephira planned to do next. But he didn’t want to give away his location again, nor did he wish to give Sephira the satisfaction of knowing just how alarmed he was by this new ally of hers.
“I can’t run from her forever,” he said aloud.
Uncle Reg smirked and faded from view. Ethan often wondered where the ghost went when Ethan didn’t need him. Reg often seemed eager to return there, and sometimes appeared to resent Ethan’s summonses. There was much about the ghost Ethan didn’t know, beginning with his name and his place on the Jerill side of Ethan’s family tree. But in all important respects he trusted Reg as much as he did his closest friends, despite the shade’s prickly personality.
Still protected by his warding, Ethan turned and started back toward Dall’s cooperage and his room. He kept his knife out, and remained watchful, scanning the streets as he walked, and looking behind him every so often.
He saw no sign of Sephira or her toughs and by the time he reached Cooper’s Alley he had allowed himself to relax. Still, he decided to stop into Henry’s shop to check in on the old man and let him know that he was back.
Henry’s shop was small and old. It had been built by the cooper’s grandfather and had been passed to Henry’s father, and then to Henry. Despite its age, though, it was sturdy. It had survived winds and storms and more than a few fires. Ethan’s room was plain but comfortable. It wasn’t the only place he had lived since his return from the plantation in Barbados on which he had labored as a prisoner, but it was the only one that had felt even remotely like a home.
Henry liked Ethan because he paid his rent on time. Ethan liked Henry because he didn’t ask too many questions about Ethan’s work as a thieftaker, and because he didn’t know that Ethan was a conjurer. As far as the old cooper was concerned, Ethan was just like any other tenant, except with a somewhat more interesting profession.
A sign over Henry’s door read “Dall’s Barrels and Crates,” and a second on the worn oak door said simply, “Open Entr.” Ethan heard hammering as he approached the shop, and so knew before entering that the old cooper was all right. He sheathed his knife and stepped inside.
When he saw Ethan, Henry raised a hand in greeting, gave the hoop he was fitting over a barrel one last whack, and laid his cloth-covered hammer down on the workbench.
“Well met, Ethan!” the man said, his grin revealing a great gap where his front teeth should have been. Like his cooperage, Henry was small, but solid. His head barely came up to Ethan’s chin, but his arms were thick and corded with muscle. His bald head shone with sweat and his grizzled face was ruddy with the exertions of his labor. He removed the leather apron that had been draped over his work shirt and sat down on a low stool, flexing his right hand, which had been injured long ago, and which still grew stiff on cold days. “Buthy today,” he said with his usual lisp. He sounded weary.