“Aye.” When Rowan didn’t answer, Ethan said, “I can come back another night, of course. But it would be every bit as much an imposition then. And perhaps it’s best that we do this tonight, while your father is sleeping, rather than trouble him some other evening.”
Rowan didn’t move. “You said that you’re a thieftaker. What do you think you can accomplish here?”
“I believe the appearance of your mother’s ghost may be tied in some way to what was done to her grave. I believe that seeing her might help me determine how it is she’s come to be here.”
“Do you mean to tell me that you have experience with … beings of this sort?”
He couldn’t very well deny it. “Aye, sir. As I’ve said, yours is not the only household to be so afflicted. I believe I can help you. But I need to see her.”
Rowan wiped sweat from his upper lip with a shaking hand. At length he nodded and stood. “Yes, all right. But I beg of you: Please try to remain quiet as we make our way to the room. I don’t wish to wake my father, or Esther for that matter.”
“I understand, sir. Lead the way; I’ll make as little noise as possible.”
Rowan nodded, and led Ethan from the study, back through the parlor, to a broad curving stairway with a polished wood banister and white balusters. The wood of the steps matched that of the banister. A portrait of Mr. and Mrs. Rowan, he in a black suit, she in a pale blue dress, hung on the wall over the stairs. Several of the steps squeaked as they trod on them. Ethan winced each time it happened, but Rowan did not appear to be too alarmed.
At last, with Ethan lagging behind, the young man turned and whispered, “My father is not so light a sleeper, Mister Kaille. I’m more concerned with any noise you might make in his and Mother’s room, or in the corridor upstairs.”
Reaching the top of the stairway, they turned left and made their way down a dark corridor past several closed doors. At this point, Rowan began to walk more slowly, and with greater care. Ethan did the same.
Halfway down the corridor, Rowan stopped in front of a closed door and looked back at Ethan.
“In here,” he mouthed.
Ethan stepped past the man and pressed on the door latch until he felt it give. He cast one quick glance at Rowan before pushing the door open and slipping into the room. Rowan made no effort to follow, which suited Ethan. He didn’t want to explain what he was doing with a pouch of mullein or a bloody cut on his forearm.
As soon as he was in the bedroom, he saw the shade of Abigail Rowan. She sat on the edge of the bed, her hands folded in her lap.
Or what was left of her hands, in what had once had been her lap.
Rowan had prepared him, but still Ethan shuddered at the sight of her. She wore a dark dress; Ethan thought it must be the gown in which she had been buried. Her face was like something out of a child’s nightmare. Her cheeks were sunken, her lips dried up and pulled back to reveal her teeth and the bone that would have been covered by her gums in life. Her nose was gone; all that remained was the split cavity where it had been. No doubt her eyes would have been equally appalling, but they glowed so brightly that Ethan could not see the horror beneath the glare.
Her hands had darkened and were now covered by what looked like a thin layer of hard, leathery skin. Ethan could see the contours of the bones beneath.
She glowed purest white, like starlight, or the color of a winter moon. She had not been a conjurer in life, and so, it seemed, she did not show a conjurer’s hue in death. Or so he thought. Staring at her intently, Ethan realized that he could discern some faint hint of color in her face. But she was insubstantial, translucent, and he couldn’t be sure that what he saw wasn’t pigment from objects behind her.
When she perceived that he was there, she stood and backed away from him.
“Don’t be frightened,” Ethan said, raising his hands in a placating gesture, as he had a short while before upon being greeted at the door by her son and his pistol. “I won’t harm you.” Not that I would even know how. “I met your husband and children today. I’m trying to find out what has happened to you.”
She didn’t back away farther, but she watched him warily, like a bird poised for flight.
“Do you know why you’re here?” Ethan asked.
She stared back at him, giving no indication that she understood, or that she had even heard him.
“Veni ad me,” Ethan said, watching the woman, hoping she wouldn’t vanish when Reg appeared. Come to me.
She took another step back as the ghost winked into view beside Ethan. For his part, Reg just stared at the shade, his eyes burning like torches.
“She’s being kept here the same way Patience is, isn’t she?”
Reg turned to him and shook his head.
Ethan blinked. “She’s not? Then how—?”
Reg held up his hand right in front of Ethan’s face, and pointed at Abigail’s shade.
Ethan looked at the shade once more, and realized that her right hand did look different from the rest of her. Its glow was darker, and it did have some color: a bluish tinge, or maybe sea-green. It reminded him of a hue he had seen, though he couldn’t place it. Scrutinizing her face once more, he realized that he had not imagined that hint of color a moment before. Her head and her hand both glowed with it.
“So she’s being held here,” Ethan said. “That’s why the heads and hands were removed from the corpses.”
Reg nodded.
“Ask her if she knows why she’s here,” he said. “Please.”
The old ghost stared at the shade for several seconds, before turning to Ethan again and shaking his head.
“Is she in pain? Is she suffering?”
Reg grimaced at the question, but didn’t nod or shake his head.
“You have no easy answer for that, do you?” He eyed Abigail, mulling his own question. “How long has she been here?” he asked, wondering if Abigail would have a different answer than had her son.
But Reg held up three fingers. Three days.
“So, she was at peace already,” Ethan said, the horror of what had been done to her dawning on him. “She was in the realm of the dead, and she was pulled back.”
The old ghost nodded, Ethan’s fury mirrored on his features.
“How?” Ethan asked. “How could they do that? It couldn’t be enough just to take her hand and skull, or even that piece of cloth. It would have to be—” He felt cold radiating from his gut through the rest of his body. “The symbol,” he said in a whisper. “That’s how they’re doing it. Am I right?” he asked the ghost.
There were times when Reg appeared to delight in leaving Ethan uncertain and uninformed. He was a splenetic old fool, and the power binding him to Ethan had spawned a relationship that was complicated to say the least. But his shrug this time conveyed such sadness that Ethan knew he took no pleasure in his inability to answer.
“Before, when we saw Patience, you said that there were more ghosts here in Boston. Are the others more like Patience, or more like this one?”
Reg pointed to the shade of Abigail Rowan.
“I was afraid of that,” Ethan said. “Would that there was some way she could tell us who’s done this to her.”
“Or that she could speak to her husband.”
Ethan spun. Alexander Rowan stood in the doorway, his son behind him. The father was dressed in a sleeping gown and he held a single burning candle.
“I don’t know who you’re talking to, Mister Kaille, but I trust you’ve found a way to communicate with my wife.”
“Sir, I—”
“It’s all right, Mister Kaille. I’ve heard people speak of witches. For a time I didn’t believe in them. And after that I convinced myself they had to be evil. But there stands the ghost of my wife, looking like a monster, and acting like she’s afraid of us all. Who am I to decide what is evil and what is Godly?”
“Aye, sir,” Ethan said, surprised by the man for the second time that day. He faced Reg again. The ghost, who coul
d be seen only by conjurers and those with conjuring blood in their veins, held out a hand to the shade.
Appearing reluctant, almost shy, she came forward to stand before her husband and son.
“I don’t know what she would say to you if she could, sir,” Ethan said. “My powers don’t run that deep. But I also don’t believe you have anything to fear from her. I think that she has been denied her eternal rest by those who desecrated her grave. If I can find them, perhaps I can restore her to where she ought to be.”
“You would be doing a great service to all of us, Mister Kaille.”
“Yes, sir.”
Rowan turned to him. “I lied to you today. You have my apology for doing so. I’d like to hire you, as King’s Chapel has done.”
“Save your money, sir. I’m working on behalf of your congregation. When my work for the chapel is done, so will be any work I might have done for you.”
“All right. Then how about this: When you’ve finished your work for the chapel, come by here. Provided this shade is gone, I’ll have a small reward for you.”
“Thank you, sir. That’s most generous of you.”
Mr. Rowan the elder returned to the bed in his daughter’s room, while his son led Ethan back to the front door.
“I’m sorry that I woke your father,” Ethan said.
Rowan waved the apology away. “You didn’t. I did while lurking outside the room you were in. In the end, I think you did him a great service tonight. You have my thanks, Mister Kaille.”
“Yes, sir. With your permission, I might return here as my inquiry progresses. It may be that your mother can provide me with more information.”
Rowan crossed his arms over his chest, as if suddenly cold. “And how is it you might get that information? My father said something about witches.”
“It’s enough to say that I have access to the realm in which your mother now dwells,” Ethan said.
The young man huffed a breath, obviously dissatisfied with that response. Before he could ask anything more, Ethan bade him good night, and walked back out to Ellis Street. He had yet to dismiss Reg, and the ghost glided beside him, watching him.
“I have more questions for you,” Ethan said, his voice low. “That’s why I haven’t yet let you go.”
It was too late for him to knock on more doors, but he was eager to visit with the families of those dead whose graves had been disturbed. He headed back to King’s Chapel so that he could find out where some of the other families lived. He kept to side streets and narrow lanes. He was determined to avoid the occupying soldiers, to say nothing of Sephira Pryce’s men, and he wished to make sure that he was not overheard speaking to Uncle Reg.
“Are there spells that can summon the dead back into the world of the living?” he asked. “Even if they’ve been dead for months? Janna would tell me that a conjurer can do anything with the right spell and enough spellmaking ability. But can a conjurer do even this?”
Reg nodded.
“Do you know how to do it?” Ethan asked, feeling resentful of the ghost’s certainty. “Am I strong enough to do it?”
The old warrior pointed to Ethan’s head and nodded. He then pointed to his chest and shook his head.
Ethan glowered at him. “You believe I have the ability to do it, but I lack the courage. Isn’t that so?”
He was angry enough that he almost sent the ghost away. But Reg thrust a glowing hand in front of Ethan, clearly intending to stop him.
Ethan heaved a sigh, halted, and turned to face the ghost. Again, Reg pointed to his head and nodded. He placed his hand on Ethan’s chest, and holding Ethan’s gaze with his brilliant glowing eyes, he shook his head slowly.
And Ethan understood.
A year before, as British naval vessels carrying troops for the occupation lay anchored in Boston Harbor, a powerful conjuring struck one of the ships, HMS Graystone out of Bristol, killing every man aboard, close to a hundred in all. Agents of the Customs Board hired Ethan to learn what had happened to the ship. In the course of his inquiry, Ethan demanded that Reg help him summon the shade of a conjurer who had been among the dead. Ethan needed to communicate with the dead conjurer to ask what kind of spell had killed him and his shipmates. Or he thought he needed to. Reg had disapproved from the start, and Ethan soon realized why: Summoning the spirit from the realm of the dead had been wrong; it had been a violation of the living man’s humanity. He wound up releasing the poor soul after asking just a few questions.
What the grave robbers who struck at King’s Chapel, Copp’s Hill, and the Granary had done was worse by far than Ethan’s transgression. Ethan knew this, and so did Reg.
The old ghost wasn’t questioning Ethan’s courage; he was saying that while Ethan had the ability to cast such spells, his heart would not allow it. It might well have been the greatest kindness Reg had ever shown him.
“Aye,” Ethan said. “I see now. My thanks.”
A rare smile crossed the old warrior’s lips.
Ethan resumed walking. “Have you ever seen that symbol before?” he asked the ghost. “The one carved into the corpses?”
Another shake of the head.
“I hadn’t either. But what bothers me most, is that I’ve yet to feel a spell, at least one that I know for certain was cast for this dark purpose.”
Again Reg stopped him. This time, the old ghost squatted and laid his hand on the cobblestones of the street on which they stood. His gaze never strayed from Ethan’s face.
Ethan shook his head. “I’m sorry. I don’t—”
Reg slapped his hand on the street three times, though of course this made not a sound.
Ethan’s mouth dropped open. He lowered himself to the ground to rest his hand on the stone. And doing so, he felt a low hum in the stone, a soft tickle of vibration. Power. A conjuring.
“Good lord,” Ethan said. “They’re conjuring right now?”
The ghost nodded.
“And they have been all this time, haven’t they?”
Reg nodded again.
“Can you tell where it’s coming from?”
No.
Ethan drew his knife and cut his arm. “Locus magi ex cruore evocatus.” Location of conjurer, conjured from blood.
His finding spell pulsed in the street, dwarfing the touch of that other conjuring. But though he felt his power radiate out from where they stood, the spell had no effect.
“He’s masked himself?” Ethan asked.
Reg shrugged.
Ethan cursed under his breath. He walked the rest of the way to the chapel in silence. When he and Reg reached the gate to the churchyard, he dismissed the ghost.
“I don’t think Reverend Caner would want you here,” Ethan said.
The ghost smirked; an instant later, he vanished.
He walked into the sanctuary, aware of how late it was and expecting that he would have to search for Caner or Pell. But Trevor Pell sat in one of the pews, a few rows down the central aisle from the door.
“You appear to be waiting for someone, Mister Pell.”
The young minister stood. “And he’s just arrived.”
“You’re waiting for me?” Ethan said, halting. “Why? How did you know I’d be coming back?”
“I would tell the rector that it was merely intuition.”
Ethan raised an eyebrow. “What would you tell me?”
“That a voice in my mind wouldn’t let me retire for the evening. What have you learned?”
Ethan regarded Pell closely, thinking that Caner wouldn’t have been pleased at all to hear what the young minister had just said. He kept this to himself, however.
“I’d rather speak of this outside,” he said.
Pell nodded, and they went out into the darkness and struck out across the yard. Once they had put some distance between themselves and the chapel, Ethan told the minister about the ghosts he had encountered at the Walters home and the Rowan estate.
“I believe both families would prefer that no on
e else hear of this,” Ethan said. “But I need to see if other families are being haunted as well. That’s why I came back. I was hoping you could direct me to the homes of the others whose graves were desecrated.”
“Of course. But they might be reluctant to speak with you.”
“I’m sure they will be. Mister Rowan’s son was, until I convinced him that I could help return his mother’s spirit to where it belongs.”
“And do you truly believe you can?” Pell asked.
“I hope so.”
“All right,” Pell said. “Wait here. I’ll be just a few moments.”
He walked back to the chapel, leaving Ethan alone in the churchyard. Ethan soon discovered, though, that the grounds weren’t as deserted as he had thought. As he waited for Pell to return, he spotted a faint orange glow near the burying ground. He pulled his knife, pushed up his sleeve, and started in that direction, wary, making little sound.
When he had covered half the distance, he heard a familiar voice say, “It’s all right, thieftaker. You can put your knife away.”
James Thomson, the sexton.
He sheathed his blade. “You’re watching for them?”
Thomson puffed on his pipe and blew a great cloud of smoke into the warm air. “Aye. But they must know I’m here. Aside from you and Mister Pell, I’ve seen no one. Thought you might be one of them when you first arrived, but once you went inside the chapel, I knew better.”
“I’m sorry if I gave you a fright.”
Thomson held up a hunting rifle, which had been resting beside him. “Wasn’t frightened at all,” he said, and patted the weapon.
Ethan wasn’t convinced that a rifle would help him against the conjurer who was responsible for the desecrations, but he nodded and said nothing. They remained thus for a few minutes, neither of them speaking, until at last Pell emerged from the chapel once more.
“Well, good night, Mister Thomson,” Ethan said, eager to be away.
“Good night,” the sexton said, his tone mild.
“Who was that?” Pell asked, when Ethan reached him.
“Your sexton. He’s sitting watch over the burying ground.”
“Bless him,” Pell said. “It’s not a duty I would want.”
A Plunder of Souls (The Thieftaker Chronicles) Page 11