Ethan slowed, looking around for Henry Caner, the rector of King’s Chapel, or perhaps Sheriff Greenleaf. Pell had proven himself a friend on more than one occasion, but he would have come to Ethan’s home only in the most dire of circumstances.
“I’m alone,” Pell said. “Except for this girl.” He squatted down and Shelly emerged from the byway, her tail wagging. “She’s been keeping an eye on me. She working for you?”
“Aye, she works for me,” Ethan said, grinning as he walked to where the minister waited for him. “Unless someone else gives her food. Then she’ll work for him.”
“Ah.” Pell gave the dog’s head one last scratch before standing. “Sounds like a thieftaker to me.”
Ethan grinned. “I suppose it does.” He looked around again. An old woman hobbled toward them carrying a basket of bread, and Shelly trotted off after her. “Are you just out for a walk?” Ethan asked. “Or did you come for a reason?”
“As it happens,” Pell said, his voice dropping, “I came looking for you yesterday, but couldn’t find you. I … I need to ask you some questions.”
Ethan nodded, understanding far more than Pell knew. “Aye, but not here on the street. Come upstairs.”
They went up to Ethan’s room. Once they were inside, Ethan retrieved a small pouch of mullein from the table by his bed. Mullein was one of the most powerful of all conjuring herbs, and it worked especially well for warding spells. After barely surviving the attacks of a powerful conjurer several summers before, he had made sure that he always had a supply on hand. Taking three leaves from the pouch, he said, “Teqimen ex verbasco evocatum.” Warding, conjured from mullein.
Pell jumped at the pulse of power, and started a second time when he spotted Uncle Reg leering at him from the corner of the room. The minister was not a conjurer; he had never learned to cast spells. But he had conjuring blood in his veins, and so could feel spells when they were cast, and could see spectral guides like Reg. And yet, for all the times he had been present when Ethan cast, he never seemed to get used to the thrum of power or the appearance of Ethan’s ghost.
“What kind of conjuring was that?” the minister asked, in a tremulous voice, still eyeing Reg.
“A warding spell. There’s a new conjurer in the city, and he works for Sephira Pryce.”
Pell faced Ethan. “Well, that may be the answer to the question I came here to ask. Yesterday-”
“You woke to the pulse of a powerful spell.”
“Yes,” the minister said. “You felt it, too.”
“I expect every conjurer in Boston felt it.”
“My first thought was that you had cast it,” Pell told him. “But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that it felt too…” The minister trailed off, shaking his head.
“Strong?” Ethan suggested
Pell looked up. “Dark.”
“You have good instincts,” Ethan said. He told Pell what had happened to the Graystone and about his time at Castle William. Senhouse had asked for his discretion, and yet having been back in Boston for but a short while, he had already told Sephira and Pell of the Graystone’s fate. But he knew that Sephira would keep his secret out of her own self-interest, and Pell would keep it because he was naturally discreet.
“Dear God,” the minister said, his face ashen. “Every one of them. How powerful would a conjurer have to be to do that?” He faltered, but then added, “Could you do it?”
Ethan pondered the question. “I don’t think the casting itself would have been that difficult,” he said, choosing his words with care. “But whoever cast it would have had to source the conjuring in a life.”
“You mean the sorcerer killed someone when he conjured? Like with the Jennifer Berson murder a few years ago?”
“Yes,” Ethan answered, although he was thinking not of the Berson girl, but of a kindly dog: Pitch, Shelly’s constant companion. Ethan had cast a spell sourced in the life of the poor creature in order to fight off the conjurer who murdered Jennifer Berson and thus save his own life. The memory of that casting had haunted him ever since. Aside from Kannice, he had told no one of what he had done that night. “He would have killed someone, or something,” he said. “It could have been an animal rather than a person and it still would have been a powerful casting.”
“But dark.”
“Aye. Very dark.”
“Do you think that this new conjurer did it?”
“I think it’s possible. He and Sephira have seemed unusually interested in the fleet, and it turns out that a former associate of Sephira’s came to Boston aboard the Graystone, but managed to get off before the spell was cast.”
“I see,” Pell said. “Well, tell me how I can help.”
Ethan kept his amusement to himself. Between Diver and Pell one might have thought that Ethan was putting together his own thieftaking empire, one to rival Sephira’s. He understood, of course. Both men were young and saw in Ethan’s work the excitement and adventure that they couldn’t find working the wharves or tending to the souls of the King’s Chapel congregation. As it happened, though, there was something Pell could do for him.
“I’m glad you asked, Mister Pell,” he told the young minister, drawing an eager smile from the man. “Within the next day or two, officers of the fleet or the occupying army will have to deal with the dead, and when they do they’ll need to inform the families of those soldiers who live here in Boston. I’d like you to get the names of any men whose families belong to your congregation.”
Pell’s face fell. “That’s all?”
Ethan considered this. “Well, if you think you can get the names of men who attended other churches that would be very helpful.”
“But even that…” He shook head, frowning once more. “Surely there’s something more that I can do. I mean, yes, of course I’ll do as you ask. But … Where are you going now?”
“First, I’m going to wash off and change into clothes that don’t smell of sweat and dead men. After that … well, I believe Henry Caner would say it’s best that you don’t know. He still thinks that my conjurings will lead you to Satan.”
“Ethan-”
“How many times has Mister Caner threatened to have me arrested, tried, and hanged as a witch?”
Pell looked down at the floor. “Several,” he muttered.
“And do you wish to see him follow through on that threat?”
“Sometimes. It depends on the day.”
Ethan chuckled. A reluctant smile crept across the minister’s face.
Pell crossed to the door. “I’ll leave you to wash,” he said. “If I may offer some advice, use plenty of soap.”
“Very funny.”
“Perfumed soap, if you have any.”
Ethan scowled. “Get out.”
“I’ll let you know what I can learn about the dead soldiers.”
“Thank you,” Ethan said. He watched the young minister leave.
Once Pell was gone, Ethan retrieved a pitcher from the basin in his room, took it down to the street and filled it with water from the pump near Henry’s shop. He didn’t wish to take the time necessary to heat it in his hearth, nor did he wish to invite more attention from Mariz and Sephira by casting. So upon returning to his room he stripped off his stale clothes and washed himself with water so cold it made his skin tingle. After drying himself, he put on clean breeches and a fresh shirt, waistcoat, and coat. He strapped on his blade, and as an afterthought tucked the pouch of mullein in his pocket. Satisfied that he was prepared for Mariz or whoever else he might meet, he left his room.
Upon walking around to the front of Henry’s shop, however, he found the old cooper standing in the street speaking with another man, who towered over him. This second man, imposing, with a bold hook nose and small pale eyes, Ethan recognized at once: Sheriff Stephen Greenleaf. Spotting Ethan, Henry pointed his way. Greenleaf turned, said something more to the cooper, and strode toward Ethan.
“How can I help you, Sheriff?” Ethan asked, halting where he was and resisting the urge to reach for his blade.