“Are you going to let me in?” Ethan asked. “Or am I going to have to fight my way past you?”
“Do you think you could?”
Ethan looked him directly in the eye. “I know it.”
Kelf considered him, and for the first time in the many years of their friendship, there was a hint of fear in his gaze. He took a step back out of Ethan’s way.
“Where is she?” Ethan asked, as he swept past the man.
“Where you left her. I’ve been sittin’ with her.”
“Has she awakened?”
“No. But there’s some color in her cheeks.”
Ethan made his way into the kitchen and knelt beside Kannice. Kelf was right: there was a blush to her cheeks that hadn’t been there when he left. Her breathing was steady and stronger.
His eyes stung.
He kissed her lightly on her brow, which felt warm again. “Kannice? Can you hear me?”
Her head moved slightly, and her eyelids twitched but then were still again.
“Kannice?”
She mouthed his name.
“Aye, it’s me.”
Kelf came to the doorway. “Did she say somethin’?”
“My name; nothing more.” Ethan smoothed her blanket and kissed her again, but she had fallen into a deep slumber and said no more. Ethan stood. “I can’t stay.” He kept his eyes on Kannice, but he said it to Kelf.
The barkeep seemed to understand. “I’m not goin’ anywhere. Not tonight at least.”
“Thank you, Kelf.”
“I’m not doin’ it for you.”
Ethan met his gaze. “Thank you just the same.” He stepped past him into the great room, and crossed back to the door.
“Did you find Diver?” Kelf called.
“Aye. He was shot.”
“Shot?” Kelf said, his voice sharp. “Is he all right?”
“He’ll live.” The words almost caught in his throat. He couldn’t bring himself to say more.
“Shot by who?”
“Have you heard yet what happened on King Street?”
“No.”
“You will,” Ethan said, and left.
He started back toward the Town House, walking at a swift pace, his hands in his pockets. Despite what Ramsey’s illusion had said to him, Ethan had not seen Morrison on King Street or in front of the barracks. And when Ramsey cast his spell, he used Ethan’s power rather than someone else’s. This was significant in some way; Ethan was sure of it. But he didn’t yet know why.
Following Queen Street eastward, Ethan was forced to stop well before he reached the Town House. A great many soldiers, likely every man billeted at Murray’s Barracks, had gathered at the near end of King Street, with the Town House at their backs, and had taken up firing positions. The men in the front row were on one knee, their weapons raised. Behind them, soldiers stood in rows ready to take their places after the men in front fired. Preston stood at the end of the front row, his cutlass in hand, and he eyed yet another mob that had formed before him.
With the church bells ringing, and word of the shootings on King Street spreading through the town, more and more people crowded the street. Boston was moments away from more killings.
More to the point, Morrison stood with his fellow soldiers, in the second or third row behind the kneeling men. He scanned the angry faces arrayed before him, as did his comrades. But Ethan sensed a purpose to Morrison’s search; the man was looking for him.
Ethan edged away from the mob, taking care not to draw attention to himself. When he could no longer see the soldiers, or be seen by them, he hurried on to Dock Square. Here, too, an angry crowd of men had gathered and were shouting insults at a pair of retreating figures, who made their way west and south, back the way Ethan had come.
“Damn you, Hutchinson!” cried one man bearing a cudgel. “Stand like a man!”
Others around him laughed. Ethan wondered if one of the figures in retreat was truly the lieutenant governor.
Once again, though, he was surrounded by men, many of them bearing weapons of one sort or another. He continued past and through Dock Square, before heading south on Merchant’s Row. He intended to follow it past King Street, thinking that surely it would not be safe to return to that bloodied lane.
But as he crossed the street and gazed westward, back toward the Town House, he saw that the area in front of the Customs House was now largely deserted. Unsure of why he did so, Ethan turned and walked back to the scene of the shootings.
Aside from a few stragglers who wandered the street, their eyes drawn to the bloodstains on the ice and snow, most of the mob had moved on, as had the uniformed men. The rest of the wounded, he hoped, were being attended to; the dead had been removed. Only the blood in the street told of the recent tragedy.
“Is that you, Kaille?”
Ethan spun, reaching for his knife, but the man approaching raised his hands in a placating gesture.
“It’s all right,” Sheriff Greenleaf said. “It’s just me.”
Ethan exhaled, vapor billowing in the night air, and let his blade hand drop.
“Who did you think I was?”
“Nate Ramsey, or someone working with him.”
Greenleaf nodded, but said nothing. His gaze wandered the street. It was a measure of how calamitous this night had been that Ethan’s mention of Ramsey drew so little response from the man.
“Were you here when it happened?” the sheriff asked.
“Aye.”
“You seem to have come through unscathed.” There was no goad in the words; it was merely an observation.
“I was fortunate,” Ethan said. “A friend of mine was shot: Diver Jervis.”
Greenleaf looked at him. “Dead?”
Ethan shook his head. “I suppose he was fortunate, too. How many died?”
“Three so far. But some who were hit won’t last the night.”
“There’s another mob on the far side of the Town House. And Preston has his soldiers lined up to fire. This isn’t over.”
“Aye,” the sheriff said. “The lieutenant governor was on his way, but another mob chased him off. I’m not sure where he is now. We know how bad this night has been; we’re trying to keep it from getting worse.”
Ethan said nothing. The pealing of bells echoed through the street, but thus far he had heard no more musket fire.
“What did you see?”
“I’m sorry?” Ethan said.
“You were here; you saw it happen. And I’m asking what exactly you saw.”
“I hardly know where to begin. The soldiers were besieged-outnumbered, surrounded by a mob that was shouting insults and pelting them with snow and ice. One soldier was hit by an object thrown at him; it appeared to be a stick. He fell, got back up, and fired. Before those in the street could flee, the rest of the soldiers-perhaps eight in all-opened fire as well.”
“Did they fire more than once?”
“Not that I saw,” Ethan said. “But after the initial volley, I took Diver away to a surgeon. Why?”
“The soldiers claim they only fired the one volley. But we know of three dead, and many others wounded. More, frankly, than can be accounted for given the number of regulars present.”
“Perhaps they double-loaded their weapons,” Ethan said. “I’ve heard of soldiers doing that.”
“As have I. You may be right. Did Preston give the order to fire? I’ve spoken to a number of witnesses who say he did.”
Ethan hesitated. “As you may recall, I have no love for Thomas Preston.” Captain Preston, along with the sheriff himself, had arrested Ethan during the Graystone affair. Ethan passed a miserable night in the town gaol, the memory of which still gave him nightmares. “But I heard no order. There were people in the mob yelling for the soldiers to fire; it would have been easy for someone to mistake these taunts for an order.”
“My thanks, Kaille. That will be helpful to us.”
“You should know something else, Sheriff. Before the first man pulled the trigger, before he was struck by that thrown club, I felt a conjuring.” He didn’t mention that the power for the spell had been his. Greenleaf’s understanding of conjurings was rudimentary at best, and despite the civility of this conversation, he still would have been glad for an excuse to put Ethan back in prison.