The second cluster of people walked past him-three couples this time, one with a small child-and yet another appeared on the lane in the distance.
All the while, Ethan could feel Mariz’s ribs gradually knitting back together beneath his hands. The man didn’t stir, but his breathing grew deeper, more rhythmic. When at last Ethan allowed his spell to dissipate, he felt reasonably sure that he had mended the broken bones.
He heard a distant rattle. Looking southward, he saw a black carriage led by a large bay turn onto Chambers Street from Cambridge.
Ethan cut his arm again. “Fini velamentum ex cruore evocatum.” End concealment, conjured from blood.
He felt the pulse of power in his knees and legs where they rested in the grass. Glancing at Uncle Reg, he saw that the ghost was watching him, a disapproving scowl on his lean, glowing face.
“I take it you think I should have left him here to die,” Ethan said.
The ghost stared at him for another second before looking away, his mouth twitching beneath his mustache. Ethan suppressed a grin. Usually Reg made him feel foolish for one lapse or another; it felt good to return the favor.
He stood to face the oncoming carriage. Nigel sat atop the box, steering; Nap and Gordon rode within the carriage, leaning out the doors and eyeing Ethan. Yellow-hair eased back on the reins so that the bay halted just beside Ethan. At first, none of Sephira’s men moved. They simply watched him.
“Mariz is here,” he said, pointing at the wounded man, but keeping his gaze on Nigel.
Yellow-hair glanced down at Mariz before looking at Ethan again. “How do we know that you didn’t do tha’ to him?”
“You’ll just have to take my word for it.” When that didn’t appear to convince the man, Ethan added, “If I had attacked him, why would I stay here and call for all of you?”
Nigel’s mouth twisted in doubt, but he reached back and tapped twice on the door closest to Nap. Nap and Gordon hopped out of the carriage and made their way over to Spectacles.
“Be careful with him,” Ethan said. “Four of his ribs were broken. I think that at least one of them pierced his lung. And I don’t know what kind of head injuries he has, but he hasn’t moved or made a sound since I found him.”
Nap nodded once, and he and Gordon lifted the man and carried him to the carriage. They placed him on the long seat opposite where they had been riding and climbed back in themselves.
“Miss Pryce wants you to come back with us,” Nigel said.
Ethan had been prepared for this. There was no more room within the carriage, and so he climbed onto the box beside Nigel, and gripped it hard as the big man flicked the reins and the carriage pitched forward.
Ethan and Yellow-hair said nothing to each other the entire distance back to Sephira’s house. They passed right by the Dowsing Rod and, a short time later, King’s Chapel. Ethan wondered what Kannice or Pell would have thought had they seen him riding a carriage with Sephira Pryce’s toughs. He grinned at the idea, drawing an odd look from Nigel.
When they reached the Pryce estate, Nigel drove up a dirt path that led to the back of the house and stopped the carriage near a side door. Afton, Mariz’s friend from the Dowser, was waiting by the door and lumbered over to the cart as soon as it had halted.
“What happened to him?” the man asked, staring hard at Ethan.
“He was attacked by a conjurer,” Ethan said. “I didn’t see it, so I don’t know who it was. He had broken ribs, a dislocated elbow, and I’d guess a blow to the head as well.”
Afton helped Nap and Gordon take Mariz into the house. He paused at the doorway, though, and looked back at Nigel, who had remained with Ethan.
“Miss Pryce is in the study,” Afton said, his eyes flicking in Ethan’s direction. He disappeared into the house.
“You heard him,” Nigel said.
Ethan let the tough lead him inside, through a small chamber, the kitchen, and the dining room until at last they came to the study. As he had during previous visits to Sephira’s mansion, Ethan deemed that “study” was not the proper word for the room. He imagined that men like Samuel Adams and James Otis had studies filled with books and papers from the colonies and England, perhaps even from France and Spain. Only a woman like Sephira could have filled a chamber with wood and glass cases containing every imaginable variety of firearm and blade, and called it a “study.”
Sephira sat in a plush chair in the far corner of the room, a half-empty glass of Madeira next to her on a small but elegant wooden table. Her legs were crossed, her arms resting on the arms of the chair. Her long black curls snaked around her neck and draped over her shoulder.
Ethan had a feeling that she had been waiting for him. She pointed at a chair that was identical to hers and said, “Sit.” To Nigel, she said, “Get the door,” a dismissal in the words.
Ethan did as she instructed. For once, Nigel had forgotten to take Ethan’s weapons from him. He had a knife on his belt and that pouch of mullein in his coat pocket. If he wanted to, he could destroy her.
“Tell me again what happened,” Sephira said.
Ethan explained to her how he had felt the initial spell and had followed the pulse of power to the North End, only to be drawn to New Boston by two more conjurings. He told her about finding Mariz, and listed the man’s injuries and what he had done to heal him.
“He still needs a doctor,” Ethan told her.
“I’ve already called for one. But it sounds…” She looked down at the rings on her fingers, twisted one into place. “I believe we owe you a word of thanks.”
“You can show your appreciation by answering some questions for me.”
Her laugh was dry-not the usual throaty laugh that he liked so much in spite of himself. “I don’t think so,” she said.
“Was he looking for Gant?”
Her gaze lingered on Ethan as she reached for her wine and took a long sip.
“If he can do this to Mariz,” Ethan said, “and if he knows that you’re after him, he might come looking for you.”
She smiled. “Ethan, you’re worried about me. I’m touched.”
“I want to find Gant.”
Her smile hardened. “And you thought you could frighten me into helping you? You believe I’m afraid of Simon Gant?”
“Why was Mariz looking for him? What is it you want with him?”
“I’m grateful to you,” she said. “And when Mariz wakes up-if he wakes up-I’ll tell him what you did. That seems the least I can do.” She stood. “You can go now.”
Ethan remained in his chair. “No, I can’t,” he said.
She stared down at him and narrowed her eyes. “What do you mean, you can’t?”
“There’s a spell I need to cast first. There’s nothing any of you can do to stop me from casting it, but I was hoping you would give me your permission.”
“What kind of spell?”
“One that might tell me who cast the spell that hurt him.”
Sephira didn’t say anything at first. But Ethan could see her mind working as she calculated the costs, the risks, the possible benefits of letting him proceed.
“All right,” she said after some time. “I’ll let you cast your spell.” A thin smile touched her lips. “Since I can’t do anything to stop you.”
“Thank you.” Ethan stood. “Where is he?”
“I had him taken upstairs. Come.”
She led him back through the common room to a broad stairway with dark wooden steps and a carved banister to match. The stairs reached a landing halfway up, and continued both to the right and left, reaching an open balcony that looked down on the stairway. On the wall above the landing hung a portrait of Sephira that very nearly did justice to her beauty. The artist had rendered her in her usual street dress: breeches, waistcoat, a white shirt open at the neck. She was posed sitting in her study in a high-backed chair that bore more than a passing resemblance to a throne. Ethan passed the portrait without comment.