He saw no way past the men, nor could he think of any means by which he might enter the gaol through the door without drawing notice.
With slow, deliberate steps, he circled around the building and made his way back to where he knew the prison cells were located. There were several small windows along the wall-each looking in on a cell. But they were too high for Ethan to reach, and even if he could have climbed the brick walls, he couldn’t accomplish much from outside.
Reluctantly, he concluded that he had but one choice. Leaving the prison, he cut across a snowy lea, strode past the church grounds of King’s Chapel, and turned onto Marlborough Street. From there, he continued south to West Street, where lived Sheriff Stephen Greenleaf.
Greenleaf’s spacious stone mansion stood a short distance from the edge of the Common. It was a stately home with extensive gardens that were, during the warmer months, among the most admired in all of Boston. It was, Ethan had decided long ago, a finer home than the good sheriff deserved.
Greenleaf might well have had the most difficult job in the entire Province of Massachusetts Bay. As sheriff of Suffolk County, he was responsible for keeping the peace in Boston. Any and all crimes committed within the city and its environs fell under his jurisdiction. But other than the men of the night watch, most of whom were either incompetent or dishonorable, or both, the sheriff had no men under his command. He was expected to see to the safety of Boston’s citizens, and their personal property, almost entirely on his own. It was no wonder Ethan and Sephira had worked for so many clients over the years.
The near-impossible duties with which the sheriff was tasked should have made Greenleaf a sympathetic figure. As it happened, though, the sheriff’s abrasive manner prevented that. He and Ethan had been at odds practically from the day they met. The sheriff had long been determined to see Ethan hanged as a witch; only Ethan’s discretion, and a few strokes of uncommon good fortune, had kept Greenleaf from following through on his frequent threats. Moreover, when the sheriff wasn’t trying to prove that Ethan consorted with the devil, he was often working with Sephira Pryce to hinder one of Ethan’s inquiries.
Still, on those rare occasions when the sheriff required Ethan’s aid-more often than not to investigate crimes that involved conjurings-he did not hesitate to press Ethan into service. And every now and then, Ethan had no choice but to turn to the sheriff for help, as he did this night.
He walked up the path to the sheriff’s front door and rapped twice with the brass knocker.
Only then did he remember that he was still under a concealment spell. Sparing not a moment, Ethan yanked off his greatcoat, slashed his arm, and whispered in Latin, “Fini velamentum ex cruore evocatum.” End concealment, conjured from blood.
The spell pulsed in the ground and Reg issued forth once more. But concealment spells did not take effect or wear off instantly, and when the door opened, revealing the formidable figure of Stephen Greenleaf, Ethan knew that he was only partially visible. The sheriff wore his usual garb-a coat, waistcoat, and breeches-and he bore a candle, which threw his face, with its hook nose and steep forehead, into sharp relief.
He raised the candle higher and peered into the night through narrowed eyes.
“Who’s there?” he said, the words coming out as a low, menacing growl.
“Sheriff Greenleaf, it’s Ethan Kaille.”
“Kaille?” the sheriff said, leaning forward. He had spotted Ethan, but still he squinted. “Is that really you?”
Ethan took a step toward him. “Aye. I’m sorry to disturb you at this hour.”
Greenleaf held his candle still higher. “I couldn’t see. It’s like your witchery hovers over you, blending you with the night.”
“I require your aid,” Ethan said.
“My aid? Why should I give my aid to you?”
“I can’t offer you any compelling reason why you should. Helping me will bring you no tangible benefit. But I’m hoping you’ll listen to my request anyway.”
“So you want a favor from me, and while you, no doubt, will profit nicely from whatever it is I’m supposed to do, you offer nothing in return.”
“Actually,” Ethan said, “there’s no profit in this for me, either.”
That, of all things, seemed to give the sheriff pause. “What is this about?” he asked.
“Ebenezer Richardson.”
Greenleaf straightened and lowered the hand holding his candle. “What about him?”
Ethan hesitated, searching for some way to tell the sheriff what he wanted without as much as admitting that he was a conjurer. “I can’t tell you everything-”
“Witchery,” the sheriff said, spitting the word.
“Conjuring.”
“Call it what you will, Kaille. It’s still-” The sheriff stopped, his mouth hanging open. “You admit it?”
“I admit nothing about myself. But yes, I do believe that a conjuring may have played some role in the events that unfolded on Middle Street.”
“What kind of conjuring? Done by whom?”
“I don’t know yet. That’s why I require your help.”
“Ebenezer Richardson-”
“Is guilty of murder. There’s no question of that. I was there today. I saw what happened.”
“You were there, eh? Then isn’t it likely that any … conjuring used against Richardson came from you?”
“It wasn’t me,” Ethan said.
“Then how can you be sure that anything unnatural happened?”
Ethan winced inwardly. It was not a question he could answer without incriminating himself. “I thought I might have felt something: a spell.”
“You thought you felt something?” Greenleaf’s grin was cold and smug. “Aye, I’ll wager you did. That’s practically an admission, Kaille. I might even be able to convince a magistrate to let me put a noose around your neck.”
“Only if you manage to find a noose that can hold me.”
The sheriff’s smile slipped.
“You and I both know all too well what harm a rogue conjurer can unleash in this city. If there’s even a chance that some dark spell played a part in today’s tragedy, don’t we owe it to the people of Boston to investigate?”
“You’re the only rogue conjurer I know. Well, you and that crazy old witch who lives on the Neck. Windcatcher, isn’t it?”
“It wasn’t Janna, and it wasn’t me.”
“So you say.”
Ethan gritted his teeth. “I don’t have time for this. We don’t. This is no trifle I’m speaking of. The entire city may be in danger. I sensed something similar last night. So it’s happened twice in two days.”
“And before that?”
“Nothing. Last night was the first time.”
Greenleaf seemed to weigh this, his gaze fixed on the frozen waterfront. “All right, assuming for a moment that I believe you, what is it you require of me?”
“I need to see Richardson. Alone.”
“You don’t ask for much, do you?” the sheriff said, scowling.
“I may be able to determine if something was done to him.”
“Why do you have to see him alone?”
“Witchery can be dangerous, Sheriff. I wouldn’t want anything to happen to you.”
Greenleaf raised his chin. “I don’t believe you. You’ve said similar things to me in the past; I think you wish to frighten me, to keep me away while you use your devilry to cause all manner of mischief.”
“Sheriff-”
“I know you’re a witch, Kaille! Why do you deny it?”
“Why do you let me live?”
Greenleaf blinked.
“If you’re so convinced that I’m a witch, and that my being a witch makes me an instrument of Satan, you should put a bullet through my head, here and now.”
The sheriff stared back at him, saying nothing, and looking uncharacteristically diffident.
“You may not like me, but you need me, much as Sephira does.”
“Miss Pryce?” Greenleaf appeared to grow more confused with each word Ethan said.
Ethan shook his head. “It’s not important. The point is, we can help each other. You know we can-you’ve come to me in the past when you’ve needed help with … inquiries of a particular kind. You can call it witchery if you like; the point is, in the hands of the wrong person, it can do tremendous evil. You and I have seen as much, be it with Nate Ramsey or the Sisters Osborne. I can’t say for certain that a conjurer had a hand in Christopher Seider’s murder. But neither can I rule it out until I’ve seen Richardson.”