Pell didn’t appear convinced. But he said, “Yes, perhaps it will.”
“If you can, you should also ask Geoffrey Brower for help,” Ethan said. “It’s because of him that I’m in this mess in the first place.”
The agony in Ethan’s shoulders and arms had worsened, and though this was a relatively simple conjuring, he felt his hold on the illusion spell slipping.
“I need to end this conversation. Come quickly, please. I don’t know how soon they intend to carry out whatever sentence they’ve chosen for me. And I can’t hang from these chains forever.”
Pell glanced toward the dead woman, and Ethan knew what the minister was thinking. He had been directed to sit vigil with the body. He couldn’t leave her.
But his friend fixed a brave smile on his youthful face. “I’ll do whatever I can. God bless you, Ethan.”
“And you, Mister Pell.”
Ethan released the spell and slumped against the wall of his cell, the chains at his neck and legs jangling. He opened his eyes and saw that the last glimmer of daylight had almost faded. The rain still fell, and the prison air had grown colder. Uncle Reg stood in the middle of the cell, staring up at him like a man in mourning. At last, the ghost raised a hand in farewell—something he never did—and vanished. Was it possible that Reg thought they would not meet again in this world? Could he have foreseen Ethan’s fate? Ethan had not felt so forsaken since his incarceration.
It promised to be a long, miserable night. Every muscle in his body burned. His jaw had grown stiff around the gag. He was chilled and damp and bone weary. And right now his bladder felt uncomfortably full—what he would have given to have skipped that ale in Janna’s tavern. No doubt Greenleaf and his prison guards wanted him to soil himself, to soak in his humiliation. Ethan refused. Before the night was out he might well have no choice in the matter. But for now, he would cling to his dignity.
He stared out the small window at a sky that didn’t seem to change, and he waited for sleep to take him, welcoming the drooping of his eyelids, much as he remembered himself doing in Charleston and in Barbados, where sleep was his sole refuge from a wretched existence. He heard boots clicking in the stone corridor outside his cell, and instantly snapped awake once more, thinking that someone had come for him, for good or ill. Soon, though, he realized that it was two new guards taking the place of the men who had accompanied him to the prison.
Willing his pulse to slow once more, Ethan tried again to make himself sleep. Slumber, though, came grudgingly, and in fits. He careened from one strange, disturbing dream to the next. First, he was fleeing down an alley, pursued by the dead regulars he had seen in the vaults at Castle William, all of whom carried bayonets. The next thing he knew, he was on a lonely stretch of road near the Mill Pond, battling Osborne and Gant and Mariz, warding himself with spells that he knew would eventually fail. After that, he was at sea, alone on a fourteen-gun sloop, steering her through a howling storm, and then on a hangman’s gallows, his hands bound, a crowd of onlookers shouting for his death.
He woke often to find the sky outside his window that same dull, starless black; it seemed that time itself had ground to a halt. But even after he grew leery of sleep and the dark dreams it brought, he could not manage to keep himself awake for very long. He would stare out the window, only to fall into yet another nightmare. Through it all, the pain remained, both blunt and piercing, overwhelming, pulsing through his body with every beat of his heart.
The last dream he remembered was of Kannice. She stood before him in his cell, naked to the waist, stretching out her arms to him. But when he tried to call her name, her hair darkened, curled. Her features shifted, her voice and laughter rang in the tiny chamber, lower than they should have been. Throatier. And before he could call Kannice’s name Sephira Pryce stood before him, gloating.
He jerked awake, gasped at the anguish that shot through his limbs and back. An erection pressed painfully against the inside of his breeches and his bladder felt like it was about to burst. Ethan groaned. But looking toward the window, he knew a moment of profound relief. The sky was brightening. It remained gray; he could still hear raindrops pattering against the stone and steel. But it might as well have been a sunrise of dazzling yellows and pinks and purples. Never mind that he remained exactly as he had been the previous evening—chained and helpless; he had survived the night.
At least another hour passed before Ethan heard a set of footsteps approaching and the ringing of keys. The door to his cell creaked open and an army officer stepped in, regarded Ethan, and motioned the guards into the chamber.
Ethan stared at the man, knowing that he had seen him before, but unable to place him at first. The officer was barrel-chested and broad in the shoulders, but he appeared to be several inches shorter than Ethan. His face, open and square, might have been handsome had it not been so careworn. He had the look of a man who hadn’t slept in days, and didn’t expect to any time soon. He wore a powdered wig, and stood straight-backed despite the fatigue Ethan saw in his face.
“Unchain him,” the man said, the command tinged with a subtle Scottish brogue.
One of the soldiers searched through the keys he held until he found the right one. He unlocked the manacles at Ethan’s ankles, and then the one around Ethan’s neck. Ethan tipped his head slowly, first to one side and then the other, wincing at the loud cracks that emanated from his neck joints. Within a few seconds, Ethan’s arms were free as well, and as they fell to his sides, he staggered forward. Had the two regulars not caught him, he would have collapsed onto the filthy stone floor. His limbs trembled, and with every breath, pain coursed through his body.
While the soldiers held him up, the officer removed Ethan’s gag and tossed it aside.
“Who are you?” Ethan asked, his voice sounding like steel scraped across stone.
“Lieutenant Colonel William Dalrymple,” the man said. “Until General Gage arrives, I command the British army here in Boston.”
Ethan nodded, though even that hurt. He remembered at last. The officer he had seen at the Manufactory the day before, the one who had spoken to Elisha Brown.
“I saw you yesterday,” Ethan said. “You were trying to find quarters for your soldiers.”
Dalrymple glowered. “I still am.”
“And why are you here?”
“That’s a fine question, Mister Kaille. I have no earthly idea. But it seems that you have more powerful friends than one might expect of a man who just spent the night in Boston’s gaol.”
“So, I’m free to go?”
Dalrymple shook his head. “Not yet you’re not. The lieutenant governor would like a word with you.”
Ethan knew that he should have been prepared for this, but still he sighed, closing his eyes against another wave of pain in his back and chest.
“Help him out, lads,” Dalrymple said to the soldiers.
“No.”
Ethan got his feet under him and straightened, gently trying to pull his arms from the soldiers’ grasp. The men looked to the lieutenant colonel, who nodded once. They released him, and Ethan swayed, but remained upright. He staggered to the foul-smelling hole beneath the window and relieved himself at long last. When he had finished, he buttoned his breeches, turned, and walked out of the cell, the two soldiers ahead of him and Dalrymple behind.
The Town House stood less than a city block from the prison. But to Ethan the walk seemed interminable. Every step was agony and though he had hoped that his muscles would loosen as he walked, they didn’t. He hardly saw where he was going and took little note of those who watched him stumble past with his impressive escort. He entered the building in a haze of pain, and somehow managed to climb the marble stairs to the second floor.
Dalrymple and his men escorted him to Hutchinson’s courtroom, pausing just outside the oaken door. The colonel slipped into the chambers, leaving Ethan and the soldiers in the corridor. Ethan said nothing, and the men avoided his gaze. Sooner than Ethan expected, Dalrymple opened the doo
r once more.
“This way,” he said, beckoning Ethan inside.
Ethan hobbled into the courtroom.
Hutchinson looked much as he had a few days earlier. He wrinkled his nose at Ethan’s appearance and then waved Dalrymple toward the door.
The colonel hesitated, glancing toward Ethan before letting himself out of the chamber.
“You’ve been the subject of a good many conversations this morning, Mister Kaille,” Hutchinson said, regarding Ethan over steepled fingers. “I’ve heard from Geoffrey Brower of the Customs Board, as well as Captain Preston, and one of his men—a Jonathan Fowler?—and the ship’s surgeon from the Launceston. Doctor Ricker, I believe.”
“Rickman, sir.”
Annoyance flickered in the man’s eyes. “Yes, that’s right. Rickman. I’ve even had a written message championing your cause from no less a personage than the Reverend Henry Caner. Perhaps you’d care to tell me why all these people should be so interested in the arrest of one thieftaker.”
“I think you can answer that question yourself, Your Honor. We’ve spoken of my inquiry; you know the work I’ve been doing on behalf of the Crown.”
“Indeed. I also know that all this ‘work’ has yet to yield any results of consequence.”
“That’s not—”
“In fact,” Hutchinson went on, “as I understand it, another man is dead. Is this true?”
Ethan knew in that moment that he hadn’t been brought here as a precursor to his release. Hutchinson meant to follow through on the threats he had made a few days before. As far as he was concerned, Ethan had already failed.
“Well?” the lieutenant governor said.
“Aye, Your Honor. Simon Gant is dead.”
“And do you know who killed him?”
“I believe he was killed by a man named Caleb Osborne, but I can’t prove that yet.”
“No,” Hutchinson said, his tone dry. “Of course you can’t. As I’m sure you know, Sheriff Greenleaf is quite certain that you are the guilty party.”
“Sheriff Greenleaf is wrong.”
“Sheriff Greenleaf gets results. He speaks of evidence, of motive.” Hutchinson’s glance fell to the fading bruises on Ethan’s jaw. “You have nothing to show for the time I’ve given you. Nothing, that is, save for one more corpse. I’m afraid you’re out of time.”
“No!” Ethan said. “You gave me five days! I still have two in which to find Osborne!”
“Not anymore.”
“You gave me your word!”
“This city is under occupation!” Hutchinson said, his voice echoing through the chamber. “I haven’t the luxury of two days! Already soldiers are deserting, and the Lord knows what Samuel Adams and his mob have in store for us! I need to billet Gage’s men and ruffians continue to occupy the Manufactory! And all the while men are dying, victims of all manner of devilry! You dare to speak of me keeping my word? Damn your two days!”
“And so your solution is to mete out punishment on a whim! To hang men and women who have done nothing wrong, and whose deaths will do nothing to end these killings!”
“What choice do I have? You’re asking me to place my trust in a witch!”
“It is not witchcraft! It is spellmaking—I’m a conjurer—and the mere fact that you don’t understand what I do doesn’t make it wicked! Killing me would be foolhardy. Killing Janna and the others would be criminal!”
Hutchinson’s face had turned crimson. No doubt he was unaccustomed to having people speak to him so. Ethan couldn’t have cared less.
“Well, if not them, perhaps you can give me someone else,” the man said, his voice tight.
“What do you mean?”
“Think, man. What else would I mean?”
Ethan was slow to understand, though once it dawned on him what the lieutenant governor was saying, he realized that he should have guessed right away. “You want Adams and Otis,” he said, a sick feeling in his gut. “That’s who you’ve wanted all along.”
“Brower tells me that you met with Samuel Adams the morning the occupation began.”
“That’s right.”
“You’re in our employ. Agents of the Crown came to you seeking your help with this matter of the Graystone. And I would like to know why you felt it necessary to seek out the one man in Boston most likely to be behind it all.”
“You’ve answered your own question, Your Honor. How could I not speak with Adams about this, knowing as I did how concerned he would have been about the presence of the fleet in Boston Harbor?”
Hutchinson frowned at this, but he didn’t argue the point. Instead he asked, “And what did you learn from your conversation?”
“That he had nothing to do with what happened to your ship.”
“I think you mean our ship. As I recall you were once a navy man yourself, and we are all subjects of His Majesty King George the Third.”
“Of course,” Ethan said.
“So, Adams told you he had done nothing wrong and you took him at his word.”
“Aye. I believe he told me the truth.”
A bark of laughter escaped the lieutenant governor, scornful and dismissive. “Either you’re a hopeless naif, or you’re working with him.”
“I’m neither, sir. I’m trying to find a conjurer. I don’t care about your politics or Sephira Pryce’s treasure hunt or anything else for that matter. I want to solve this mystery, preferably before I’m killed or arrested again. And then I want to be done with it.”
“I’m sure you do. I would enjoy the same, but I can’t relieve myself of responsibilities so easily. The Crown’s enemies are real. They have killed nearly one hundred of the king’s men! And we will have justice!” He pounded his fist on his desk as he said this last, spittle flying from his mouth.
“And your idea of justice includes false accusations against Samuel Adams? Or against Boston’s conjurers, who have done you no harm? What a fine leader you are, Your Honor.”
Hutchinson straightened, a menacing glint in his eyes. “What would you suggest I do?” he asked, biting off each word.
Ethan threw his hands wide, the motion rekindling the pain in his shoulders. “Allow me to my conduct my inquiry! Give me the time you promised me when last we spoke!”
Hutchinson glared at him, and Ethan knew that the lieutenant governor would refuse, that he would call Dalrymple and his soldiers back into the chamber and have Ethan returned to the prison. But Hutchinson surprised him.
“One day,” he said. “No more than that. You have until dawn tomorrow. At that point I will send the king’s men for you and for every witch in Boston.”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
Ethan didn’t wait to be dismissed. He turned on his heel and strode toward the door, cursing the stiffness in his back and legs.
“Mister Kaille.”
He had his hand on the door handle, and he considered leaving without hearing what Hutchinson had to say. But this was the second most powerful man in all of Massachusetts, and there was nothing to stop him from changing his mind. Ethan exhaled and turned.
“Witchcraft or spellmaking—whatever you call it, the power you wield still comes from Satan.”
“That’s your opinion, Your Honor.”
“I suppose you would claim that it comes from God.”
“No, sir. I know for a fact that my abilities come from my mother.” He pulled the door open and walked out.
Chapter
NINETEEN
One day.
Three days ago, Hutchinson hadn’t given him enough time; not nearly. And now the lieutenant governor had cut his remaining time in half. He couldn’t do this in a single day. But one day was all he had.
It took him several minutes to convince Dalrymple that the lieutenant governor had granted him leave to go, and several more to convince the colonel to return his knife to him. Once he felt the weight of the blade on his belt, he felt a bit more like himself. He was still sore all over, but there was little he could do ab
out that without conjuring, and he didn’t think it wise to start casting spells in the middle of the city after the conversation he had just concluded with Hutchinson.
If convincing Dalrymple to give him back his blade had been difficult, his next task bordered on the impossible. Ethan, though, had no choice but to try.
Stephen Greenleaf lived on West Street, near the Common, in a large stone mansion that was far more luxurious than the man deserved. The gardens surrounding his house were lush and had been tended to with such care over the years that they had become renowned throughout the city. Like the understated elegance of Sephira Pryce’s home, Ethan found the sheriff’s gardens curiously at odds with all that he had gleaned about the man from their many encounters. In the past, he had admired the sheriff’s home from afar, but on this morning, Ethan walked up to his door and rapped on it with the brass knocker.
An African man opened the door and stared out at him. He had white hair and wore a linen suit of pale blue. Pausing to look at Ethan’s clothes, he frowned.
“Can I help you, sir?”
“Yes, I’m looking for the sheriff. Can you please tell him that Ethan Kaille is here?”
“Sheriff Greenleaf is busy just now. You’ll have to come back later.”
“Please tell him I’m here,” Ethan said. “He’ll be eager to see me. Again, my name is Kaille.”
The man looked like he might argue, his eyes dropping once more to Ethan’s grimy breeches, and coat. “Wait here,” he said, and closed the door.
Ethan stood for several minutes, staring at the white door and its lion’s-head knocker. After a while he began to stretch his arms and shoulders, and to walk in small circles to keep his legs from stiffening once more. He thought he could hear voices within, and footsteps, but still no one came to the door. He began to wonder if he had been foolish to come here, and as a precaution he pulled out his last two leaves of mullein, and held them concealed in the curl of his left hand.
When next he heard footsteps within the house, they were far clearer than they had been before. And so he wasn’t completely caught off guard when the door was flung open, revealing Greenleaf with a flintlock pistol in hand, its barrel aimed at Ethan’s forehead.
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