Ethan spotted a young man being led away from the Richardson home toward another house. There was blood on his hand and on both of his thighs, but that appeared to be the extent of his wounds. He had been fortunate; all of them had. It seemed Richardson-the idiot-had fired pellets into the crowd, endangering dozens.
And in that moment, Ethan caught sight of the second lad.
He was slight, with wheaten hair, and he couldn’t have been more than twelve years old. His coat had been peeled away to reveal the front of his shirt, which had several holes in it and was soaked with blood.
Two men carried the boy, their faces pale, though not so much as the child’s. His face was white as the snow, and contorted in a rictus of pain. They took him to one of the other houses and shut the door on the mob. A few seconds later two men rushed inside this same structure; Ethan hoped they were physicians.
He felt sick to his stomach. The battle for Richardson’s house went on; he could hear men battering the rear, but he hadn’t the heart to watch more. He walked back toward Lillie’s shop.
Before he was halfway there, he turned and made his way to the house into which they had taken the boy. He couldn’t try to save the boy without revealing to everyone there that he was a conjurer. But he wouldn’t forgive himself if he didn’t make the attempt. Reaching the house, he rapped hard on the door.
Almost immediately it swung open. The man who blocked Ethan’s way into the house had blood on his coat and breeches.
“Are you a surgeon?” he asked.
Ethan hesitated for no more than an instant. “I have experience healing wounds of this sort.”
The man seemed unsure, but he stepped aside. Ethan rushed past him into what appeared to be the dining room. The boy lay on the table in the center of the chamber. His shirt had been removed; his chest and abdomen were a bloody mess. A man stood beside the table, his hands crimson, shocking. Ethan assumed he was a physician.
“Who are you?” the man asked.
“My name is Ethan Kaille, Doctor.”
“Your name is not familiar to me. Are you a surgeon?”
Ethan stepped closer to him. He was aware of Reg hovering at his shoulder, eyeing the boy. “I have the ability to heal,” he said, keeping his voice low and holding the man’s gaze. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”
The doctor’s eyes widened. “I believe I do,” he whispered.
“I can close the wounds, stop the bleeding.”
“The bleeding is only half the problem,” the doctor said. “The boy was struck with swan shot. At least one of the pellets seems to have lodged in a lung. There may be others in his heart or his stomach. Unless we can extract them, he’s going to die.”
Ethan sagged and stared down at the boy.
“Can you get them out?” the doctor asked. “Is that within your … your talents?”
“No,” Ethan said, his voice thick.
The doctor grimaced.
Ethan thought he still might be able to help the lad, but before he could say as much to the doctor, a second gentleman hurried into the room, halted at the sight of Ethan, and scrutinized him with a critical eye.
“Who is this?”
“My name-”
“Are you a physician?”
“No, sir.”
“Then off with you. The boy needs care, not more trouble with rabble and ruffians.”
The doctor appeared ready to tell the man that Ethan was a speller, but Ethan stopped him with a shake of his head. The boy needed a surgeon; he needed more than the crude healing Ethan could offer.
“I’ll be going,” he said to the doctor. “I’m sorry I couldn’t do more.”
“We’ve called for other surgeons,” the man said. “I’m sure they’ll come; one of them might be able to save him.”
Ethan paused, although he didn’t look back. “I hope so.”
“Pray for the boy.”
I believe in neither prayer nor God, Ethan wanted to say. But he kept this to himself and left the house.
Chapter Four
Ethan stepped back onto Middle Street. A church bell had begun to peal nearby and more men had surrounded Richardson’s house. He could hear raised voices from within the residence, and he assumed that some of the mob had managed to get inside. He wondered if they would kill the customs man or merely turn him over to the sheriff. He couldn’t say that he cared much one way or another.
Reg was still with him, watching Ethan as he walked. Ethan didn’t know what the spirit expected of him, and he was too angry and too disturbed to treat with him just then.
“Dimitto te,” Ethan whispered. I release you.
Closer to Lillie’s shop, a few men lingered near the sign and effigies that Richardson had tried to remove, but they barely took notice of Ethan. They were watching the mob and seemed to have all but forgotten the importer Lillie.
Ethan knocked on the door. The merchant unlocked it, waved him inside, and shut it again, taking care to secure the lock once more.
“What happened?” Lillie asked. “Where have you been? I thought I heard a gunshot before, but I can barely see through that window, and I didn’t dare venture outside. Is Ebenezer all right?”
“Ebenezer?” Ethan repeated, picking up his greatcoat. “You’re worried about Richardson?”
“Of course. He and I have been friends for years. And if you remember, it was your concern for him that drove you out into the street in the first place.”
Ethan could hardly blame Lillie for being concerned for his friend. The merchant hadn’t seen the shooting; he didn’t know what Richardson had done. But at that moment Ethan was too enraged and grief-stricken to care.
“You all but ordered me into the street,” he said.
“And did you help him? Is he all right?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea.” He shrugged on his coat and headed toward the door. “To be honest, I hope they kill him.”
“What? How dare you say such a thing!”
Ethan whirled, leveling a finger at Lillie with such passion that the merchant fell back several paces. “He fired into the crowd, without a thought for who he might hit!” He pointed in the general direction of the house in which the boy lay dying. “There’s a boy-I doubt he’s seen his thirteenth birthday! And he’s dying, murdered by your friend!”
Lillie paled, but raised his chin. “If he was in that mob, with the rest of the rabble, he probably deserved it. Ebenezer wouldn’t shoot a child without cause.”
“Aye, he would. I’ve just seen it.”
Ethan pulled the door open.
“Where are you going now?”
“I’m done here for today. I’m going to the Dowsing Rod for an ale.”
“I hired you! You leave when I tell you to!”
“No, sir. I leave when I’m good and ready. You pay me by the day. You can have this morning for free. The afternoon is mine.”
“But that mob-”
Ethan wanted to put as much distance between himself and this shop as he could. But he read genuine fear in Lillie’s round face and so paused on the threshold.
“They no longer care where your goods come from. Not today they don’t. I don’t know what they’ll do to Mister Richardson; I meant what I said before: I don’t care a whit about him. But I believe that you and your shop are safe, at least until tomorrow. Go home, Mister Lillie.”
Ethan swept out of the shop and pulled the door closed with a bang, intending to make his way back to Sudbury Street and Kannice’s tavern. But the mob had worked itself into a frenzy once more, and Ethan could guess why. He squeezed through the throng until he had a clear view of the Richardson house.
The customs man, and the other gentleman who had entered the house and brandished a musket alongside him, stood together near the doorway. Young toughs gripped their arms so that they couldn’t escape. Another man held the muskets, and yet another held a cutlass; Ethan didn’t know where he had gotten it. Richardson and his companion had been beaten. Their faces bore cuts and bruises, and their clothing was torn and bloodstained. The mob shouted obscenities at them. One man held aloft a rope that had been tied into a noose. Seeing this, the crowd cheered. Richardson and his friend were borne down to the street none too gently and dragged toward a post, which the fellow with the rope was already turning into a makeshift gallows.