“I’m fine.” He looked at the bleeding cut on Ethan’s arm and his face fell. “What happened to your arm?”
“It’s nothing.”
Henry seemed more than happy to accept this. “Mith Prythe-” His cheeks colored and he cast a sheepish glance her way. “I mean Thephira,” he went on, his lisp even more pronounced than usual. “She knows a guy-in France no less-who might want my barrels for his wine!”
Ethan looked at Sephira, who returned his gaze steadily, without any sign that she felt ashamed for lying to the old man. “That’s very exciting.”
“I’ve always wanted to go to France. But if I can’t go, at least my barrels can.”
“That’s right,” Ethan said. “Listen, Henry. Sephira and I have some business to discuss. So we’re going to let you get back to work now, all right?”
“There’s no need for that.” Sephira purred the words. “We can talk about it right here. And I’m sure we’re not disturbing Henry. Are we?” She flashed a dazzling smile.
Henry just shook his head. Ethan glanced over at Nap, who had turned away to hide the smirk on his face.
“All right,” he said, looking at Sephira again. “What are you doing here?”
“Nigel mentioned that he saw you a short time ago,” Sephira said. “And that you were somewhere you didn’t belong. I wanted to impress upon you how important it is that you not go there-or anywhere like it-again.”
She might as well have been holding a blade to Henry’s throat.
Even Henry seemed to understand. The joy Ethan had seen on his face upon entering the shop was gone now, and he was looking back and forth between Ethan and Sephira.
“I’ve tried asking you for information,” Ethan said. “That hasn’t worked, and so I’ve had to look into things on my own. If you care to answer my questions, I’ll be more than happy to stay out of your way.”
“The things you want to know don’t concern you. You’re interfering in matters that you don’t understand. People could get hurt.”
People. Henry. Kannice. Ethan knew that she wouldn’t hesitate to harm or kill anyone who meant anything to him. His arm itched where the blood from his cut had begun to dry. He would have loved an excuse to set her hair on fire with a conjuring, but Henry didn’t know that he was a speller, and Ethan wasn’t willing to cast in front of the old cooper unless he had no choice.
“Simon Gant just told me much the same thing,” Ethan said. “None of you seem to understand that I’ve been hired to look into these matters. That makes them my concern. And you should take your own warnings to heart. People could get hurt. Remember that.”
“You saw Gant?” she asked, trying too hard to sound uninterested.
“Yes.”
“Where? When?”
Ethan said nothing.
She sat watching him for another moment, a smile frozen on her lips. There was no amusement at all in her eyes, though, and when she stood and moved toward the door, her movements were taut, as if it was all she could do to leave the shop without lashing out.
“You’re a fool, Ethan,” she said, not bothering to look back at him. “After all these years, it shouldn’t surprise me. But it always does.”
She let herself out, with Nap close behind. They left the door open.
“She didn’t even say good-bye,” Henry whispered, staring after her.
“I’m sorry, Henry.”
The old man shook his head. “No, I am. I should have remembered the stuff she’s done to you. She didn’t come for me; she came for you.” He turned to Ethan. “She was threatening to hurt me, wasn’t she?”
Ethan grimaced. “Aye, she was.”
Henry looked out the door again. “Well, don’t worry about me. Do what you have to do, whatever it is.”
He gripped the man’s shoulder. “I will. Thank you.” He hobbled to the doorway, intending to go up to his room.
“You hurt your leg?” Henry asked.
“It’s nothing.”
“Well, you should do something about that arm,” Henry called after him. “You shouldn’t just let it bleed like that.”
Chapter Sixteen
He wanted to tear Sephira’s home apart stone by stone. He wanted to find Simon Gant and cast a spell that would shatter every bone in the man’s body. He wanted to wring Geoffrey Brower’s neck for getting him involved in this matter in the first place.
Instead, he paced the floors of his tiny room, despite the ache in his bad leg and knee. He felt useless and sensed the hours ticking away. Worst of all, he had the feeling that he was missing something obvious. He knew that Osborne had helped Gant steal the pearls seven years back. And now he knew for certain that Sephira was after the smuggled goods, too, not that there had ever been any doubt.
He had let Gant get away, but he had Diver working on luring the man back out into the open. Thinking of this, he sighed. As tired as he was, he needed to conjure again so that he could tell Diver that the pearls might not be in New Boston after all. This time, at least, he didn’t have to cut himself. Using the water in his washbasin, he cast an illusion spell, and sent an image of himself back to Diver’s room. But when he looked at the room through the eyes of his conjuring, he found that Diver was already gone.
Vowing to try again later in the day, he let the conjuring end and resumed his pacing.
An idea came to him and he halted once more. He knew that neither Gant nor Sephira would help him. But what about Osborne? Ethan wasn’t sure that it was even possible. But perhaps there was someone who could help him find out.
“Veni ad me.” Come to me.
Power thrummed. Uncle Reg appeared before him, glowing like a newly risen moon, his eyes gleaming in the dim room.
“You were a conjurer,” Ethan said. “And when you died you took this form. Is that right?”
The old ghost nodded.
“Is that what happens to all conjurers when they die? Do they all go to wherever it is you are?”
Reg nodded again, more slowly this time.
“And can they be summoned? I can call for you; we both know that. But can I summon any ghost if I know his name?”
The ghost’s expression darkened, his thick eyebrows bunching, his nostrils flaring. He crossed his arms over his chest, his fists clenched, and he shook his head.
“No?” Ethan stared back at him, gauging what he saw on the man’s face. “You’re telling me that it shouldn’t be done,” he said at length. “Not that it can’t. Isn’t that so?”
Reg didn’t move.
“This is important. Osborne should know where the pearls are, and he might know a good deal else that will help me get to Gant.”
Ethan reached first for his knife, but reconsidered and chose to use mullein instead. He couldn’t say why. Most of the time he conjured with whatever was at hand, without giving much thought to how the source for his spells matched the casting itself; it might have been one of the reasons why he was not yet as accomplished a conjurer as Janna. On occasion, though, he gave more careful consideration to his selection of a source. And sometimes, as now, he went on instinct. He was about to summon an unknown and potentially hostile ghost. Somehow using blood for this struck him as risky. Mullein had protective properties; it seemed the wiser choice.
He pulled out nine leaves. It was a lot for any spell, but this was more complicated spellmaking than Ethan usually did.
Turning back to Reg, he found the ghost still glaring at him in that same defiant stance.
“I know you don’t like this. I’m sorry. Truly. But I’m going to do it, and I need you to help me speak with him.”
Reg didn’t shake his head in refusal; Ethan probably couldn’t expect any more acquiescence than that.
“Provoco te, Caleb Osborne, ex regno mortuorum ex verbasco.” I summon thee, Caleb Osborne, from the realm of the dead, conjured from mullein.