Deborah eyed her beau before indicating the chair between them. “Of course you may, Mister Kaille. Please, sit.”
Still Ethan waited, watching his friend. At last Diver offered a slight shrug, which Ethan took as an invitation.
He sat and, holding up his tankard, caught Kelf’s eye. “Can I buy you one?” he asked Diver.
“No, thank you.”
If Ethan needed further proof of the depth of Diver’s anger, here it was: He couldn’t remember the younger man ever refusing a free ale.
“I was there today,” he said. “I saw Christopher Seider get shot.”
“I thought you might have.” Diver didn’t face him, but at least he replied. “I knew that they were going to be at Lillie’s shop, and I know that you’re working for him.”
Ethan’s anger flared. Diver had known that there would be a mob on Middle Street, and he had given him no warning. He held his tongue, knowing that no good would come of another confrontation. But something in his chest tightened. Once he had been Diver’s closest friend; now, apparently, Diver felt greater loyalty to the Sons of Liberty than to him.
“I have been working for him. I don’t know if I can anymore.”
At these words, Diver met his gaze.
“Truly?”
“He made excuses for Richardson; he said the boy deserved what he got.” Ethan cringed. “How can I take his money after that?”
Diver leaned forward. “You can’t,” he said. “He doesn’t deserve to have you working for him, Ethan.” It was the nicest thing Diver had said to him in months.
Kelf arrived with Ethan’s ale and glanced first at Diver and then at Ethan. “It’s nice to see the two of you chattin’ so amiably,” he said, the words a great jumble.
A smile crossed Diver’s face, though it vanished as quickly as it had come. Once Kelf was gone he said, “I owe you an apology, Ethan. With all the fool things I’ve done over the years, and all the times I’ve made trouble for you-and you’ve always stuck by me. I shouldn’t have said all those things to you last night.”
“It’s all right,” Ethan said, waving away the apology. “I have to ask you, though-” He dropped his voice. “Do the Sons of Liberty ever use conjurers to help them with all they do?”
Diver fairly beamed. “You’re ready to join the cause?”
Ethan was too pleased by the civil turn their conversation had taken to disabuse Diver of the notion. Also, he didn’t think Diver would take well to being told that Ebenezer Richardson might have been the victim of a spell, and was not the villain so many thought him to be. “For now I’m asking out of nothing more than curiosity,” he said, hoping that he sounded coy rather than evasive. “Do they have access to spells?”
“Well, not that I know of, but I’m still new to the Sons. I’ve been to only a few meetings.”
“Of course.”
“But if you want me to ask-”
“No, that’s not necessary.”
“Right,” Diver said, grinning. He cast a look at Deborah. “Our friend here has had dealings with Samuel Adams himself. You don’t need my help talking to them, do you, Ethan?”
“At some point I might, and I’ll be sure to let you know when that time comes.” He sipped his ale.
Diver did the same, clearly pleased.
An instant later, though, the Dowser’s door opened again and a different man stepped inside.
“He’s dead,” this man said, his voice forlorn. “Chris Seider’s dead.”
Ethan placed his tankard on the table and closed his eyes, a dull pain in his heart.
“God grant him rest,” came a voice from near the bar.
“To Chris Seider,” another man said. “May he rest in peace.”
“Chris Seider,” the other patrons answered, the lad’s name resonating like a spell through the tavern.
Ethan opened his eyes again. Deborah was crying. Diver had walked around the table to where she sat and put his arm around her shoulders. Ethan searched the tavern and soon spotted Kannice near the bar; she was already looking his way. Her cheeks were dry, but he could see grief in her lovely eyes.
He stood with a scrape of his chair legs on the tavern’s wooden floor, and picked up his hat off the table.
“Where are you going?” Diver asked.
“There’s something I need to look into. I told you, I was on the street today when Richardson shot him, and while I was there … well, it’s hard to explain.”
Diver’s face fell. “You’re not going to try to prove that he didn’t do it, are you? I know that you protect people when they’re innocent and all, but this-”
“He did it, Diver. I saw him pull the trigger. I could no more prove Ebenezer Richardson innocent than I could teach him how to fly.”
“Good,” Diver said. “I want to see him swing for this.”
Chapter Five
Kannice was not happy to see him leaving, but he assured her that he would be back before long, and that he would try to explain where he had gone and why.
Leaving the warmth of the tavern, he found the icy street hushed save for the tolling of several church bells around the city-no doubt a tribute to the fallen lad. He had feared that a new mob might take to the lanes upon hearing the news of Christopher Seider’s death, but for now at least, all remained quiet. A pall had fallen over Boston.
He headed south on Sudbury to Queen Street, which he followed toward the city gaol. On most occasions he took pains to keep his distance from Brattle Street and Murray’s Barracks, but on this night there could be no avoiding the soldiers occupying the city. Indeed, Ethan was headed to the very seat of the Crown’s military presence in Massachusetts.
As he came within sight of the gaol, however, he saw a large crowd gathered in the street outside the austere building. Here, at last, was the gathering he had thought to find in the lanes. Many carried torches, and though from this distance he could not make out what the throng was shouting, he could imagine easily enough. He retreated a short distance and found a lonely byway in which he could remove his greatcoat, cut his forearm, and whisper, “Velamentum ex cruore evocatum.” Concealment, conjured from blood.
His conjuring hummed in the street, and Reg appeared before him, vivid against the whites and grays of the city in winter. At the same time, the spell settled over Ethan, like a fine cool mist.
“This might be incredibly stupid of me,” he said.
The ghost grinned and vanished.
Once more, Ethan headed toward the gaol, placing his feet with care so as to make as little noise as possible on the lane. Even so, his shoes crunched the ice and snow. Fortunately, by the time he was near enough to other people to be heard, the clamor from the mob was enough to overwhelm the sound of his footsteps.
He slipped through the crowd, avoiding any contact when he could, and when he couldn’t, making it seem that some other person was responsible for the gentle jostle or shove.
“Give ’em to us and we’ll be on our way!” one man called to the young regulars guarding the prison door. Several men laughed.
Cries from others gathered there were less humorous.
“They’re murderers, and should be dealt with as such!”
“Damn lobsters! Protectin’ child killers!”
“Richardson and Wilmot deserve what’s comin’ to them! And so do them what keeps ’em safe!”
With each new imprecation, the mob grew increasingly agitated, until Ethan wondered if he would be able to extricate himself before the gathering became a riot. He could find no path of escape; the throng had closed in on all sides. He could do nothing but continue forward, pushing his way closer and closer to the front of the crowd and the facade of the city gaol.
When at last he slipped free of the mob, with a final shove that left a tall young man glancing about in confusion, Ethan found himself even closer to the gaol’s ancient oaken door than he had expected. From so near, the four regulars posted in front of the gaol appeared younger and more frightened than they had from the rear of the crowd.