“He’s scarred, too,” Rickman said.
“Yes. They were both active conjurers. I wonder if each knew that the other was a speller.”
“I had no idea that there were so many of your kind,” the doctor said, his voice low.
“There aren’t. I was rather surprised to find even one among these men. To have found two is … most odd.”
“And yet you knew to look.” Rickman’s tone was mild enough, but he watched Ethan, perhaps expecting him to flee at any moment. Or to attack.
“A conjuring killed these men. That much is clear to me. And so it struck me as logical that there might be conjurers aboard the ship.”
“And you think that whoever is responsible might have been directing his attack at one or both of these … these conjurers.”
“I believe that’s one possibility.”
“Are there other possibilities?”
“Of course,” Ethan said, thinking of Spectacles and of Sephira Pryce.
Torches flickered and spluttered in the ensuing silence. Aboveground, commanders continued to exhort their men.
“There’s nothing more that I can do here,” Ethan said, his gaze sweeping over the dead one last time. “And I’d like to return home.”
Rickman took a long breath. “Yes, of course. Let’s get out of here. I’ll see to it that you’re rowed back to Long Wharf immediately.”
They left the vaults, climbing back up into the light of day, like reprieved souls rising from the devil’s realm. As much as he had tried to inure himself to moving among the dead, Ethan was deeply relieved to know he wouldn’t have to go back down there again.
It took some time for Rickman to find someone who could get a message to Lieutenant Senhouse on the Launceston, and still a while longer for Senhouse to dispatch a pinnace to the island. But eventually, late in the morning, the small boat that would take Ethan back to Boston reached the fortress.
Rickman accompanied Ethan onto the wharf. “Thank you for your help,” he said, extending a hand. “I found our time together most educational.”
Ethan grinned. “I was glad to be of service. As my inquiry continues, I may need your expertise. Will I be able to reach you aboard the Launceston?”
Rickman’s expression sobered, and he leaned closer, still gripping Ethan’s hand. “For a while longer, yes,” he said, speaking softly. “But the fleet is only here to transport the British army. Once they’re settled on land, our presence here is no longer necessary. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“The occupation will begin soon. Today? Tomorrow?”
Rickman straightened without answering and released Ethan’s hand. “Take care of yourself, Mister Kaille.”
“And you, Doctor.”
Ethan stepped into the boat. Once he had settled himself, the oarsmen pushed off from the dock and started back across the harbor to Long Wharf.
With the tide heading out, and a strong breeze roughening the waters, the journey back to the city took the better part of an hour. Ethan spent much of the time wondering whether it was happenstance that had put Jonathan Sharpe and Caleb Osborne together in the Twenty-ninth Regiment, or if the two men might have known each other and planned to wind up in the same company. What, if anything, did they have to do with Simon Gant? And what role, if any, had they played in the spell that killed them and ninety-five of their comrades? There were too many coincidences and too many questions hanging over this one ship.
Upon landing at Long Wharf, Ethan made his way back toward Henry’s cooperage. It had been the better part of a day since last he had eaten a decent meal, and he could smell the staleness in his clothes.
But as he approached his home, he felt an unexpected brush of power. It wasn’t a pulse, as it would have been if someone had spoken a conjuring. Rather, it felt as if he had walked through a spell, a conjured spiderweb, minute fibers of power stretching and breaking across his face and limbs.
A pulse of power followed an instant later. Ethan grabbed for his knife, knowing that he had too little time, that he had been careless, and fearing that his foolishness would cost him his life.
He felt the spell rushing toward him; he could almost hear it humming in the cobblestones. It hit him full in the chest, knocking him off his feet, stealing his breath. He hit the ground hard, tried to get to his feet.
But he could feel darkness taking him, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.
Chapter Eight
A splatter of cold water to the face woke Ethan up. He opened his eyes, felt the world heave and spin, and squeezed them shut again. The last time he felt this way, he had spent the previous night celebrating his release from Barbados by drinking two flasks of Madeira wine all by himself.
“More water.”
He recognized that voice, but before he could open his eyes again, or tell them that the first splash of water had been enough, he was doused a second time.
“Time to wake up, Ethan,” Sephira said.
Someone snickered. Yellow-hair probably, or maybe Nap.
Ethan opened his eyes again, and though the world around him still spun, he managed to force himself up onto an elbow. He was lying on grass, and his first thought was that they had taken him to the Common again, as they had once before when intending to kill him. In the next instant he realized that if Sephira had wanted him dead, he would never have awakened. Surveying his surroundings, Ethan saw that he was on a lawn behind Sephira’s house. Yellow-hair, Nap, and Gordon stood nearby. Yellow-hair-Nigel-had a bucket in his hand and a mocking grin on his face.
Mariz stood apart from them. He had his sleeve rolled up and he had already cut himself. A small trickle of blood ran down his forearm toward his wrist. It was like having a loaded pistol pointed at Ethan’s head. Feeling the way he did, there was no way Ethan could conjure quickly enough to best the man.
“Those were good spells,” Ethan said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Detection?”
Mariz smiled and nodded, his spectacles flashing white for an instant as they reflected the glare.
“And a sleep spell?”
“Basically,” he said, his accent thickening the word.
“I have access to witchcraft now,” Sephira purred, looking far too pleased with herself. Her hair was down, black curls shining. She wore her usual clothes: black breeches, a matching waistcoat fitted snugly around her curves, a silk shirt cut low. As always, she looked stunning. “And I have my men as well. There’s nothing you can do to hurt me, and no way you can leave here without my consent. So you’re going to answer some questions for me, and after we’re done I’ll decide whether or not to kill you.”
Ethan answered with a short, breathless laugh. “That sounds fair. But can we do this over supper? I haven’t eaten all day.”
Sephira stared at him, then gave a laugh of her own. “All right.” She turned on her heel and started toward the house. “Bring him.”
The three toughs closed on him, but to Ethan’s surprise, Nap offered a hand and pulled him to his feet. They arrayed themselves around him, with Mariz following a few paces behind, and escorted him into the house.
Sephira had seated herself at the head of a long table in her dining room. Not for the first time, Ethan admired the tasteful artwork and tapestries that adorned her walls. She indicated with an open hand the seat to her right.
“Sit,” she said. “The food will be out momentarily.”
Ethan took his seat. The others remained standing nearby.
“You were eavesdropping yesterday.”
He saw no sense in denying it. “Aye. Rude of me, I know.”
“Why?” she asked, ignoring him. “What did you hope to learn?”
“I wanted to know more about Spectacles here,” he said, lifting his chin toward Mariz. “I overheard him in the Dowsing Rod the night before, and I saw that he sensed my spell.”