The sheriff’s smile melted away. “You can find him?”
“Maybe.”
“And what do I gain if you succeed?”
Ethan knew he should have expected this. “What do you want?” he asked, feeling too weary to play games with him.
“How much are the customs men paying you to do this work you were talking about yesterday?”
“Ten pounds.”
Greenleaf’s face fell. “Ten pounds? You’re doing all of this for ten pounds?”
“Remarkable, isn’t it?”
“You’re even more of a fool than I thought.”
“Take me to see Gant. I can’t offer you much money, but you don’t want the man’s killer getting away any more than I do.”
Greenleaf eyed him for several moments longer. Ethan could see that the sheriff still didn’t believe him, but he hoped that he would hear enough truth in what Ethan had said to know that he couldn’t risk refusing. “Yes, all right,” he said, surrender in the words.
He didn’t put his pistol away, but he pulled the door to his house shut, muttering to himself about stupid thieftakers and stingy agents of the Crown. Ethan did his best to keep his expression neutral. And while the sheriff wasn’t looking, he slipped the mullein leaves back into his pocket.
They walked up Common Street to the old Workhouse, a large two-story brick building where petty thieves and vagrants were housed. Greenleaf led Ethan through the house to a small back chamber. There on the dirt floor, in the center of the small room, was a bulky form covered with a dingy, stained sheet. Greenleaf halted just inside the narrow portal, but he gestured with an open hand at the shrouded body.
Ethan glanced at him before stepping past and pulling back the sheet.
Simon Gant’s mismatched eyes were still open, staring sightlessly at the low ceiling. His mouth was slack, his red hair unkempt, his face white as a winter moon. He still wore the clothes he had been wearing when Ethan chased him from the Manufactory-brown breeches, a stained white linen shirt, and a heavy black coat, threadbare in spots.
Ethan began by examining his head and neck and the upper part of his chest. All were unmarked. There was no blood on Gant’s clothing, but still Ethan struggled to pull the big man’s stiff arms free of his coat so that he might make a more thorough examination. After a few minutes of this he looked at Greenleaf, hoping that the sheriff would offer to help. But though he sensed that the sheriff had been watching his every move, Greenleaf refused to meet his gaze, and Ethan went back to working the dead man’s arms free on his own. When at last he had Gant’s limbs out of the coat, he looked for wounds on the man’s chest and back. Nothing.
“There’s no obvious sign of what killed him,” Ethan said.
“I could have told you that.”
Ethan ignored the remark. “Was there blood on the ground where he was found?”
“Not that I know of.”
He looked over the corpse one last time, making certain that he hadn’t missed anything. Standing once more, he walked back to where the sheriff stood.
“Thank you,” he said. “I’m grateful to you for bringing me here.”
Greenleaf had been leaning against the wall, but now he straightened, alert and suspicious. “What? You mean you’re done already?”
“Yes,” Ethan said. “I’ve looked at him. I see no indication of what killed him. I had hoped I would but…” He shrugged and looked back at Gant.
“But what about your witchery?” the sheriff asked, looking both fearful and excited.
Ethan kept his expression neutral. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t talk to me like I’m a fool! You came here expecting to use your witchery in some manner. I know you did!”
Ethan stepped past him and walked out of the building. Greenleaf hurried after him.
“Kaille! Tell me what you were going to do to him!”
He shouldn’t have said a word, but Ethan found the man so tiresome that he couldn’t resist.
He halted and turned abruptly so that Greenleaf had to stop short to avoid walking into him. “Nothing with you there,” he said, dropping his voice. “I wouldn’t want anything to … happen to you.”
Greenleaf’s eyes went wide. “Happen to … What do you mean?” He licked his lips. “What could…? You mean it could … it could affect me?” He took a step backward.
“Not permanently,” Ethan said, resisting the urge to laugh. “At least probably not. But I didn’t wish to take the chance. These things can be unpredictable. Something might get out of hand and I wouldn’t even realize it until it was too late.”
“But this witchcraft-what was it going to do?”
Ethan shook his head and started away again. “It doesn’t matter. Good day, Sheriff.”
“Kaille!” Greenleaf shouted again. This time, though, Ethan didn’t halt. At least not until he had turned two corners and was certain that the sheriff couldn’t see him anymore. At that point, he made sure that no one else was watching and ducked onto a small lane near King’s Chapel. He drew his knife and cut himself.
“Velamentum ex cruore evocatum.” Concealment, conjured from blood. With the hum of power, and the sudden appearance of Uncle Reg, came the odd, familiar sensation of the concealment spell-like a sprinkle of cold water washing down over him from head to toe.
He stepped out of the small lane, but paused to look at the old ghost.
“I don’t know who might be watching for me,” he said. “You can’t come along.”
Reg’s expression soured, if that was possible for such a dour figure, and he winked out of sight.
Greenleaf had planted himself outside the Workhouse, daring Ethan to return, just as Ethan had assumed he would. The sheriff swept his gaze back and forth over the street, his arms crossed over his broad chest, a fearsome look on his face. But he stared right through Ethan, as did everyone else on Common Street. Ethan crept past him, taking care to make no noise, and entered the building. Once inside, he returned to the small room where lay Gant’s corpse. Greenleaf hadn’t bothered to put the covering sheet back in place over the body, which made things a bit easier for Ethan.
He cut himself once more, and marked Gant’s body with blood. “Revela potestatem ex cruore evocatam,” he whispered. Reveal power, conjured from blood.
Feeling the thrum of his spell, he glanced back toward the doorway, though he knew that Greenleaf wouldn’t have sensed anything. Reg, who had reappeared with the casting of the spell, glared at him from the far side of Gant’s body, but Ethan ignored the ghost and stared down at the corpse.
He had known what he would see, had guessed the instant he heard from Greenleaf that Gant was dead. Still, the sight of that bright orange glow spreading from the center of Gant’s chest over the rest of his body made him wince, as from a physical blow. It was the same color he had seen on the dead sailor aboard the Graystone, and also on Mariz after the attack that left him unconscious. Ethan had been following the wrong person all this time. It had never been Gant.
What else had he gotten wrong? What other assumptions had he embraced without thought, without question?
He considered leaving the spell’s glow on the dead man’s body. He could imagine Greenleaf walking back into the chamber and shrieking like a little girl at the sight. But he didn’t wish to frighten anyone else, nor did he want to give the sheriff any new excuse to pay him another visit.
“Vela potestatem ex cruore evocatam.” Conceal power, conjured from blood. Reg looked disappointed.
Ethan exited the Workhouse, and snuck past Greenleaf once more. A part of him-perhaps not the wisest part-wanted to remain on the street and, while still concealed, toy with the sheriff for a while. But his better instincts prevailed. Instead, he made his way to Sephira’s house.
Several times now-during the night, again as he argued with Hutchinson in the Town House, and once more just now as he saw that orange glow on Gant-it had occurred to him that there was one other conjurer in Boston whom he had yet to factor into all that had happened in the past day. If Gant was dead and Osborne alive, where did that leave Mariz, who had seemingly hovered in between life and death the last time Ethan saw him? If death could be feigned, so could unconsciousness. It seemed too convenient that Mariz should be incapacitated all this time.