“Didn’t get-” Geoffrey shook his head. “Good God, Ethan! What happened to the discretion you bragged about the other day?”
Ethan walked a few more paces in silence before halting again. Though loath to admit it, Ethan had to admit that Geoffrey was right. Adams had sworn that he would keep their conversation to himself, but Ethan doubted that Brower or any of his colleagues would place much stock in the word of Samuel Adams. And Ethan had promised William Senhouse that he would be circumspect in pursuing the matter. Already he had told too many people.
“You’re right,” he said. “I apologize. I’ll be more careful in the future.”
Brower seemed surprised by his apology. “Thank you.” He hesitated, and when next he spoke it was with a note of surrender in his voice. “Did Adams tell you anything?”
“No. He claimed to know nothing about the Graystone and her fate. And,” he added, anticipating Geoffrey’s next question, “I believe him.”
“So, what have you learned, other than that Samuel Adams claims to know nothing of the attack?”
Before Ethan could answer, he felt power pulse in the street. By now he recognized the conjuring: It was another finding spell, probably cast by Mariz. It had originated nearby, perhaps at Sephira’s home. Ethan felt the spell flow past him, like ocean water running up a beach and over his feet and legs. But it passed him by. It seemed that Mariz was tired of finding Ethan. He was looking for someone else.
“Ethan!” Geoffrey said, his voice stern. “I asked you a question.”
“Aye, you did,” Ethan said, striding away once more. “I’ve learned plenty, but not enough. I’ll be in touch when I have more to tell you.”
Geoffrey was still calling after him when Ethan turned the corner onto Cornhill and headed toward the North End.
Chapter Eleven
Ethan wasn’t sure where he was headed. Mariz had been searching the North End yesterday, and it stood to reason that he would be looking there again. But beyond that Ethan had no sense of where to begin his search; he was working on instinct, nothing more.
He crossed over Mill Creek into the North End and ducked into a small alleyway. There, hidden from view, he pulled out the pouch of mullein and removed three more leaves for a warding. After a moment’s indecision, he put them back, thinking better of the spell. If Mariz was looking for Gant, the casting would alert both men to Ethan’s approach. Better to eschew conjurings for now.
He followed the winding lane that fronted the harbor and led eventually to the dock for the Charlestown ferry. The name of the street changed every few blocks-Ann, Fish, Ship, Lynn, and finally Ferry Way. No matter what it was called, though, most days, it would be crowded with wharfmen, merchants, and travelers to and from Charlestown. But today, even here, the streets were quiet, no doubt because of the impending occupation. He kept to the edges of the lane, moving from shadow to shadow, knowing how easy it would have been for Mariz or Gant to spot him, had they been there.
By the time he reached Gee’s Shipyard at the end of Ferry Way, he had started to wonder if he had been too quick to assume that the men were in the North End. He could search the streets in the center of this part of Boston, closer to the Old North Church. But those were finer neighborhoods; a man as rough in manners and appearance as Simon Gant would be conspicuous there.
He turned south on Princes Street, intending to head back south. But he had taken only a few steps when he felt a new burst of power, followed but a second later by another.
This second conjuring was by far the stronger of the two. It was so powerful in fact, so startling, that Ethan didn’t realize he had drawn his knife until he found himself pushing up his sleeve to cast. Like the spells he had sensed earlier, neither of these conjurings had been directed at him. But he also felt sure that at least the second conjuring had been no mere finding spell. He didn’t know what it was; only that it was strong, and had come from the west.
He hesitated, unsure of where he ought to go. He didn’t know the northern lanes as well as he did the streets of Cornhill and the South End nearer to his home. He could smell the Charles River, though, and the Mill Pond as well. The dam.
He sprinted to the causeway that ran between river and pond, and followed it toward New Boston. Unlike most of Boston’s avenues, the Mill Dam was still unpaved, consisting of compacted dirt and gravel. His leg was aching before he was halfway across, but he could see the ancient windmill in the distance, and to its south the wooden spire of the West Church. Keeping his eyes fixed on the church, he hobbled on. By the time he reached the end of the dam and the shipyard there, he was breathing hard and starting to sweat through his waistcoat.
He paused, bent over, and rested his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath. Sephira would have laughed at him and called him an old man. He could hardly have blamed her.
“Where now?” he muttered, his gaze sweeping over New Boston and Beacon Hill. This part of the city was far more sparsely populated than either the North or South Ends, but Ethan couldn’t decide if this made it easier or harder to find someone.
He hadn’t felt any spells since those two conjurings, and while he still didn’t wish to give his position away, he also had no desire to confront Gant or Mariz defenseless, without a warding in place. Making his decision, he cut his forearm.
“Tegimen ex cruore evocatum,” he said. Warding, conjured from blood.
His own spell pulsed in the street. He glanced at Uncle Reg, who had appeared at his elbow.
“Do you know where those spells were cast?” he asked the ghost.
Reg shook his head.
Once more, Ethan surveyed the lanes and occasional low roofs sprawled across the hill and fields before him. Making his decision, he struck out toward West Church. The chapel stood at the center of New Boston, near one of the few lanes in this part of the city as busy as the lanes of the North and South Ends. He didn’t know if he was any more likely to find Mariz and Gant there than in the streets that lay closer to the Charles River. Again, he was acting on instinct.
He walked down the deserted lane, wary, his blade held ready, his sleeve still pushed up. If Mariz and Gant appeared before him in that moment, dueling with spells, Ethan didn’t know what he would do, or which man he would help. It seemed he was leaving that to instinct, too. If it turned out that the two men were working together, and they simultaneously cast spells against him, he would be in trouble, even with the warding he had conjured.
He reached Lynde Street and the church, but still saw no sign of either conjurer. Continuing past, he circled the block and cut south and east around the small cluster of houses on Staniford Street and Green Lane. Still nothing.
It had been more than a quarter of an hour now since he had felt any spells other than his own, and neither conjurer had come looking for him after he cast the warding spell.
“I’m going to try a finding spell,” he said.
Reg offered no response. He just stared back at Ethan, his bright gaze unblinking.
Ethan picked three mullein leaves from the pouch he carried and held them in the palm of his hand.
“Locus magi ex verbasco evocatus.” Location of conjurer, conjured from mullein.
Once more the cobblestones thrummed with his casting. The leaves vanished from his hand and he felt tendrils of power spreading out in all directions from where he stood, questing for another conjurer, like shoots on a vine looking for the next tree or trellis to climb. At first he sensed no one, and he began to wonder if both men had escaped New Boston without his knowledge.
He soon realized, though, that in fact his spell had found someone. The power emanating from whoever it was felt so weak that he hadn’t noticed at first. The conjurer was close by, just a short distance to the north and west.