“Is this the ghost you saw two days ago?” Ethan asked his own spectral guide.
No.
“Does the color of his power look familiar?”
No.
Ethan wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or disappointed.
“Are you satisfied?” the man asked, sounding self-righteous and angry. Ethan could hardly blame him.
“I am. Please accept my apologies, sir, and my thanks for your cooperation.”
“I’m not much inclined to accept either.”
Ethan donned his hat. “No, I don’t imagine.” He started toward the stairway. “Good day, sir.”
“I want to know what crime you thought I had committed.”
Ethan halted, turned. “I beg your pardon.”
“The crime for which you were ready to blame me. I should like to know what it was. I believe you owe me that small courtesy.”
“I don’t believe I owe you anything, sir.”
“You were lying. There was no crime.”
The man spoke bravely, but when Ethan took a step back in his direction, he quailed.
“What is your name?” Ethan asked.
“Why should I tell you that?”
“Small courtesies.”
His eyebrows bunched in a way that told Ethan he didn’t appreciate having his words thrown back at him. But he said, “Jonathan Grant.”
“I wasn’t lying, Mister Grant. And you might consider that accusing a stranger of such a thing, when you don’t know how powerful a conjurer he is, might not be so wise. The crime in question is not one others know about, but it was committed on Middle Street, two days ago.”
Ethan walked away again.
“Two days-Hold on there.”
He didn’t stop, and was halfway up the stairs when he heard Grant behind him.
“Please wait.”
Once more Ethan halted. He looked down at the man.
“Two days ago?” Grant said. “On Middle Street?”
“Aye.”
“You were there, and you felt a conjuring.”
“That’s right.”
“Damn,” Grant whispered.
“I probably shouldn’t have told you that,” Ethan said, walking back down to where Grant stood. “But you were right: I did owe you as much after threatening you. Please, breathe not a word of this to anyone else.”
“Could it have been Richardson who cast?”
Ethan shook his head. “I don’t believe so.”
“What sort of spell was it?”
“I don’t know that, either. Mister Grant, I would prefer-”
“Fear not, Mister Kaille,” Grant said in a weak voice. “Whom would I tell? No one here knows that I’m a conjurer, and as a clerk working for the Customs Board, few at my place of business know that I spend my free hours in the Green Dragon.”
Ethan grinned. “A clerk with the Customs Board? I believe, sir, that I misjudged you. You might be the bravest man in the tavern.”
“Hardly.”
“Since you work with the Customs boys, I would imagine that you know my brother-in-law, Geoffrey Brower.”
The smile Grant pasted on his face didn’t fool Ethan at all. “Of course. He’s a fine man.”
“You’re kind to say so. I think he’s an ass.” Ethan proffered a hand, which Grant gripped. “Your secrets are safe with me, Mister Grant.”
“And yours with me, Mister Kaille.”
Ethan tipped his hat to the man, and left the Dragon.
The snow had not abated at all; it might well have been falling harder than before. Ethan’s walk back to the Dowser proved nearly as difficult as the walk to Union Street had been. He could see the furrow in the snow where he had walked, but already it was covered with new snowfall. It would be days before the city’s streets were clear. If the air remained this cold, or grew more so once the storm blew through, it might take a week or more.
Adams could plan day and night, but with this much snow on the ground, Ethan did not expect that his funeral for Christopher Seider would amount to much.
Chapter Nine
The storm ended that night, leaving more than two feet of snow on Boston’s streets and rooftops. As Ethan expected-his years at sea had taught him to read the sky and the wind-after the storm passed, the air turned frigid once more, even as the clouds cleared away, leaving a sky bright with stars.
Kannice did not open the Dowser at all that day, and Kelf never made it to the tavern. Ethan and Kannice enjoyed a rare evening alone. They ate a modest meal before retreating to the warmth of her bedroom.
Lying with her, listening to the crackle of the fire burning in the hearth, Ethan realized that he could hear no other sounds. Outside, the streets were empty, the air had gone still, and the snowfall had ended. He had never known Boston to be so utterly silent. It was both eerie and wondrous.
At one point, he and Kannice opened the shutters on her bedroom window and peered out into the night, staring in awe at the blanketed city, which appeared to glow with starlight. Then they closed the shutters once more and burrowed under the blankets to escape the cold.
On Sunday morning, the streets of the city came to life again, not with commerce and carriages, but with families wading through the snow to church, and then, once the day’s sermons were over, with children lured out into the snow by the promise of sledding and snowball fights. From within the tavern, Ethan could also hear the muffled scrape of metal shovels on snow-covered cobblestone.
Kelf reached the tavern at about midday, his breeches caked with snow and his face ruddy. Not long after, Diver arrived, his coat and hair damp. He grinned sheepishly at Ethan.
“Got into a bit of combat with the lads on Treamount,” he said, crossing the great room to stand before the hearth. “They threw snowballs at me, I threw one back, and before I knew it, we were in a pitched battle. There were at least six of them, but I gave as good as I got.”
Ethan sipped a toddy. “I’m sure.”
Even Kannice seemed amused.
“Where’s Deborah?” Ethan asked.
“She’s back in her room. I only came out because I had matters to see to on Union Street.”
Ethan straightened in his chair. “The Sons?”
Diver glanced at Kannice, perhaps fearful of her response. On most nights, she did not allow in her tavern discussions of politics-or anything else that might lead to a row. But she ignored Diver’s remark, even though Ethan was sure she had heard him.
“Aye,” Diver said, facing Ethan again. “They want each of us to bring as many people as possible. Adams is hoping for a huge crowd.”
“He’s still planning to do this tomorrow?”
“Of course. Why shouldn’t he be?”
“Have you looked at the streets, Diver? He’ll be fortunate to get a dozen people there.”
Diver grinned. “I think you’re wrong. It’s going to be the biggest assembly this city has seen in many years. But if you’d care to place a small wager on the matter, I’d be more than happy to lighten your purse by a pound or two.”
“I don’t think so,” Ethan said.
“A half sovereign?”
“An ale,” Ethan said. “Kannice’s Kent pale. I don’t want you buying me some swill from another tavern.”
Diver’s smile broadened. “Done.”
Ethan spent the rest of that day and much of Monday at the Dowser. Kannice took advantage of the lack of customers to straighten up her kitchen and bar, something she had wanted to do for months. Ethan helped Kelf lift, carry, and clean as she directed, enjoying the work far more than he would have guessed. He was glad to labor and sweat without giving a thought to spells and shadowy conjurers, to Sephira and her toughs, and to the possible whereabouts of Nate Ramsey. He felt no conjurings, and even started to question whether he had been too quick to assume that the spells he had noticed in recent days were responsible for Gordon’s attack on Will Pryor and Richardson’s shooting of Chris Seider.
Late on Monday afternoon, Ethan, Kelf, and Kannice set out from the Dowsing Rod for the Liberty Tree. Some effort had been made to clear the streets of snow, and many merchants and craftsmen had shoveled paths to the doors of their shops. Still, Ethan found it hard to believe that more than a handful of people would come to the Seider funeral.