As he sat, he turned over the morning’s events in his mind, sifting through his memory of what had been said and done. And so it was that at last he recalled something that should have been foremost in his mind.
“Veni ad me,” he whispered. Come to me.
Uncle Reg winked into view in the chair across the table from him, his eyes burning as bright as brands. He had balled one of his glowing hands into a tight fist; with the other hand he gestured wildly. Ethan had no idea what he was trying to convey, but he didn’t think he had ever seen the ghost more angry.
Calm down. Ethan said this in his mind. No one who wasn’t a conjurer could see Reg, and Ethan didn’t wish to draw the attention of every person in the Dowser by appearing to speak to himself. You’re angry with me. Because you didn’t want me to dismiss you earlier today?
Reg threw his arms wide. Ethan knew that if he were capable of speech, he would have berated him.
I’m sorry. I was thinking about the boy and nothing else.
The specter’s expression softened. He offered a curt nod, and then opened his hands: a questioning gesture.
There’s been no word yet, but I fear the worst. You wished to tell me something?
Another nod.
You felt a conjuring a short while before Richardson fired into the crowd. I did, too. At the time, you couldn’t say where it came from. Do you know now?
Reg shook his head.
Do you know what kind of spell it was?
No.
So then it’s possible that the conjuring had nothing do with what happened on Middle Street.
Reg did not respond at first. After a few seconds he gave a slow shake of his head. He tapped his chest with his fingers and then made a sweeping motion with his hand.
You believe the spell was related to the shooting of the Seider boy. I understand that much. But the rest … Ethan shrugged. I’m sorry. Sometimes I really wish you could speak.
The ghost nodded at that.
Were there other conjurers there today? Did you sense that anyone was casting spells on the street?
No.
Is there a conjuring I can try that would-
Reg held up a hand, forestalling Ethan’s question. He tapped his chest again.
“You,” Ethan whispered.
Reg nodded. He made that same sweeping gesture again.
Ethan shook his head. “I don’t-”
The ghost frowned and rubbed a hand over his face. After considering the matter, he placed an open hand to his brow and swiveled his head, as if he were searching for something.
You were looking around. On Middle Street?
A nod. He pointed to his chest again, then to his eyes, and once more to his chest.
I don’t- A chill passed through Ethan, making him shudder. “My God,” he said under his breath. You were looking around, and you saw a ghost, a spectral guide, a being like you.
Reg nodded with great enthusiasm.
A ghost, Ethan said within his mind, wanting to be clear on exactly what Reg was telling him. Not an illusion spell.
Reg tapped his chest again, more emphatically this time. A ghost.
Ethan’s heart had started to labor. “Was it one you had seen before?”
A man seated at an adjacent table glanced Ethan’s way, his expression a blend of dismay and alarm. At that moment, Ethan didn’t care who heard his question or what they thought of him speaking to himself.
“Was it Nate Ramsey’s guide?”
Nate Ramsey was the merchant captain and conjurer who, during the previous summer, had nearly managed to kill Ethan, as well as Mariz and Ethan’s friend Tarijanna Windcatcher. He did kill Gavin Black, another friend and an accomplished conjurer in his own right. The captain had raised an army of shades by desecrating graves throughout the city, and had come within a hairsbreadth of rendering powerless every conjurer in Boston except himself.
During their final confrontation on Drake’s Wharf, Ramsey set a warehouse ablaze and appeared to perish in the conflagration. But though Sheriff Greenleaf had men of the watch search through the rubble, no one ever found the captain’s body. To this day, the possible implication of that fruitless search haunted Ethan’s dreams, and lurked in the back of his mind during his waking hours.
To Ethan’s profound relief, Reg shook his head. No. It wasn’t Ramsey’s ghost.
You’re certain?
Yes.
Could it have been one of the ghosts Ramsey controlled last summer? Is he trying to deny us access to our spellmaking power again?
Reg shook his head yet again.
Ethan didn’t realize until he exhaled that he had been holding his breath. You didn’t recognize this specter?
No. He tapped a finger to the side of his head, beside his eye, and then raised his hand to his brow again, as if searching.
But you think it was watching, or rather, that the conjurer was watching through the ghost. You think he cast the spell when he did for a reason.
Reg sat back in his chair and nodded, a look of relief on his lined face.
I see. Thank you.
The door to the tavern opened, and a man stepped inside. Every person in the Dowser turned to look at him.
“Richardson and Wilmot have been before Justices Ruddock, Pemberton, Dana, and Quincy,” the man said, his voice carrying through the great room. “They’ve been sent to the gaol and will be tried before the superior court on the thirteenth of March.”
“We don’ need the court!” someone shouted back. “We all seen what they done. They should be hanged, and good riddance to them!”
Others cheered this.
The man at the door shrugged. “That’s not for me to say. I’m only tellin’ you what’s happened.”
“What about the lad?” another voice called.
“I’ve no word on him. I’m sorry.”
He tipped his hat to Kannice, and left the tavern.
Ethan turned back to Reg. Is there anything else you wanted me to know?
Reg shook his head.
Very well. Thank you. I’ll be more attentive next time and I’ll try not to send you away before you’ve had your say.
A rare smile curved the ghost’s lips.
Dimitto te. I release you.
Reg faded from view, leaving Ethan to ponder the implications of what his spectral guide had seen. The pulse of a random spell could be dismissed as mere coincidence, even if it did come only moments before Richardson fired his musket. But if there had been a specter there, watching all that happened, waiting for the precise instant when a spell might do the most harm … that was a different matter.
He recalled Gordon’s sudden attack on Will Pryor the previous night, and the spell he and Mariz thought had preceded the assault. Were the two incidents related? Ethan didn’t see how they could be-one mattered only to himself and to Sephira Pryce. The other had implications for all of Boston. Once more he wondered if he and Mariz had imagined that pulse of power the night before.
On that thought, something else occurred to him. It seemed like folly, but before this night was through he might have no choice but to test his theory.
He had few ideas of how he might proceed, none of them very good. But he couldn’t sit there doing nothing. Making up his mind, he drained his tankard, stood, and walked to the table Diver shared with Deborah.
“May I join you?”
Diver looked up at him, but said nothing.