Their smiles were fleeting.
“But for now,” Ethan went on, “I don’t know what to do or where to go.”
“I understand. You know that you’re welcome here as long as you wish to stay. But…” She broke off, seeming to wince at what she intended to say.
“It’s all right, Kannice. Go on.”
“Don’t be angry with me for suggesting this, but maybe you should leave Boston. Ramsey, or whoever this is, can’t hurt you if you’re not here, and he can’t use you to hurt others.”
“He can hurt you. He can hurt Janna and Mariz, Diver and Henry. And someone has to defeat him. Janna and Mariz can’t do it without me, and I wouldn’t want them to try.”
“I’m sure that’s true, but if you’re just hiding from him…”
“I don’t intend to hide forever. I’m going to find him, but right now I don’t even know where to look. Still, perhaps I should leave, because in the meantime, I’m not making any money.”
“You know you don’t need money to stay here.”
“I do know it. Thank you. But I don’t feel right taking your food and ale. And I’ll owe rent to Henry before long.”
Kannice stood. “I’ll leave you. But know this: I was concerned for you; nothing more. You can stay here as long as you wish. I like having you here.”
They both smiled.
She started to walk away, but then stopped and faced him again. “I haven’t brought this up in some time, because I know that you don’t want to discuss it. But if you lived here, and worked here, even some of the time, you wouldn’t need to pay for food, and you wouldn’t owe any rent to Henry.”
It was a conversation they’d had many times before, though perhaps never under such dire circumstances.
“I’ll consider it,” he said.
Her smile returned. “You’re humoring me again.”
“Perhaps a little.”
“Fine. Do you want another ale?”
He peered into his tankard, which was nigh to empty. “Please.”
“I’ll send Kelf over.”
“Thank you. I’ll be here, trying not to start any fights.”
She laughed, but Ethan could see that as she turned away her brow was creased once more.
He didn’t leave the Dowser for much of the following day, which was the first of March. He could have searched the waterfront again, and several times he reached for his greatcoat, intending to do precisely that. But he had little confidence that he would find the Muirenn, and he remained convinced that the risks of venturing into the city streets were too great to justify leaving the tavern.
Late in the day, however, a soldier arrived at the Dowser bearing a message. Ethan assumed that it was from the lieutenant governor, expressing his impatience for tidings about the Seider shooting. But instead the missive came from Geoffrey Brower, the husband of Ethan’s sister, Bett. Brower, who worked as a customs official, offered little information in his note, but requested that Ethan come as soon as possible to the Royal Customs House on King Street.
Curious as to what Geoffrey could want of him, and glad to have some reason other than dark conjurings to venture out into the lanes, Ethan grabbed his greatcoat and strode toward the door, indicating to the soldier that he should lead the way.
“Who was it from?” Kannice asked him from behind the bar.
“My sister’s husband.”
“What does he want?”
“He didn’t say. I’ll be back.”
Ethan and the regular stepped out into the cold, and followed Sudbury Street down to Queen. After being cooped up in the tavern for so long, Ethan was glad to be outside. The streets remained icy, and a cold wind off the harbor whistled through alleys and past shops. The sky was clear but had begun to darken, and the sun, low in the west, cast elongated shadows across the city.
As they passed Brattle Street and a cluster of soldiers, Ethan tensed, expecting at any moment to feel a spell. But no pulse of power came, and soon they were beyond the men.
Upon reaching the Customs House, a nondescript brick building to the east of the Town House, the soldier accompanied Ethan inside.
“Ah, here he is now.” Geoffrey Brower stood near an oaken desk at the back of the room onto which the door opened. He was tall and thin, with a steep forehead and hook nose that gave him an aspect of superciliousness that matched perfectly his personality. He wore a ditto suit of forest green, and a plaited, powdered wig.
A second man stood with him. He was several inches shorter than Geoffrey and narrow-shouldered, with a straight nose, dark eyes, and a grave expression. He, too, wore a silk suit and powdered wig. Ethan knew without asking who this was, and he regretted having left the Dowser.
“Ethan Kaille,” Geoffrey said, crossing the room on long strides, “I would like you to meet Mister Charles Paxton, of the Customs Board.”
Paxton offered a thin smile, but made no effort to approach Ethan or proffer a hand in greeting.
“It is my pleasure, sir,” Ethan said. “Geoffrey it’s … it’s good to see you again.”
“And you, Ethan. Mister Paxton has recently suffered a most grievous loss, and I have been telling him that you are one of Boston’s most skilled thieftakers.”
Of course. Paxton was infamous throughout all of Massachusetts as one of only two Boston-born commissioners on the Royal Customs Board. Boston’s Whigs considered him as much a villain as they did Francis Bernard, the former governor, and Andrew Oliver, Boston’s first Stamp Tax collector. Not surprisingly, therefore, he was a hero to the city’s Tories. More to the point, though, as a customs commissioner, he was also in a position to advance dear Geoffrey’s career. This was the only reason Brower would ever have admitted knowing Ethan, much less being related to him, albeit by marriage.
Ethan was tempted to leave without hearing another word. But as he had mentioned to Kannice the night before, he needed work. Paxton was a man of means; Ethan intended to charge the commissioner accordingly for his services.
“I’m sorry to hear of your loss, sir,” he said. “What can you tell me about the stolen items?”
“Most of what was taken belongs to my wife. A pearl necklace, a brooch set with sapphires and diamonds, and a few baubles. There was also a pocket watch that once belonged to my father. It’s gold, but its value is more sentimental than pecuniary.” He cleared his throat. “To be honest, Mister Kaille, I had planned to speak of this matter with Sephira Pryce. I have nothing against you personally, but she enjoys a sterling reputation. I’ve agreed to speak with you first as a courtesy to Mister Brower.”
“Of course, sir, I understand. When were these items taken?”
“Only yesterday.” He paused, as if casting about for something else to say. “Geoffrey tells me that you solved the Berson murder a few years ago?”
“That’s right.”
“Ethan also found those responsible for the deaths aboard the Graystone,” Geoffrey added, sounding too eager.
“Yes, I had heard that. I take it you have had other successful inquiries aside from these.”
“I have, sir,” Ethan said. “But I’ve no interest in cataloging them for you.”
“Ethan!”
“Be quiet, Geoffrey.” Facing Paxton once more, Ethan said, “I have been a successful thieftaker in this city for the better part of ten years. I’m skilled at my trade, I’m honest, and I’m discreet. If you prefer Sephira Pryce, I understand. I’ll say nothing against her, though I will tell you that I’m sure either of us can recover the items you’ve lost. Hire me. Don’t hire me. The choice is yours.”
Paxton stared openmouthed; one might have thought Ethan had struck his face with a glove. Ethan was certain that the man would tell him to leave. For his part, Geoffrey appeared apoplectic. To Ethan’s great surprise, however-and no doubt Geoffrey’s as well-the commissioner began to laugh.
“Well played, Mister Kaille. Well played. Very well, what do you charge for your services?”
For any other man, Ethan would have done the work for five pounds total. But not Paxton.