He was allowed two meals each day: water, hardtack, and a morsel of cheese at midday, and much the same in the evening, with the occasional bit of rancid meat thrown in. Their one delicacy was a small piece of sweet, red fruit they were given every second or third day to keep scurvy at bay. The fruit was usually half rotted, but it was so much better than everything else they ate that it tasted ambrosial.
But even with this treat, Ethan recalled constantly being hungry. When it became more than he could bear, he ate roaches, beetles, and moths. Once he caught and killed a rat behind the hovel and ate it raw, but it made him violently ill and he never tried that again. He prayed for rainy days, not because they offered a respite from the labor-they didn’t-but because working in the rain was so much less onerous than working under the sun.
Harvests were the worst: backbreaking work, endless days. One year, a stray blow from an old man wielding a cane knife left a bloody gash on Ethan’s left foot. At this time, he had forsworn conjuring the way a reformed drunk rejects spirits. Spells, he decided, had robbed him of his reason, and thus of his freedom and his love. But even had he still been casting, he would not have dared attempt to heal himself while living in such close proximity with his guards and fellow prisoners. Within two days, the wound was infected. Within four, Ethan’s entire leg from the knee down was bloated and hot to the touch. The overseers managed to save the leg, but they had to cut off three of his toes to do it.
Memories of the plantation pounded at him. Ethan didn’t know why Greenleaf had come for him, but he decided in that moment that he would die before he allowed himself to be transported again.
“I’ve done nothing wrong,” he muttered to himself, trying once more to calm his nerves.
One man of the watch walking beside him laughed. Ethan glowered, but the man just stared back at him, obviously enjoying himself, knowing all too well that Ethan could do nothing to wipe the grin from his face.
The people they passed in the streets eyed Ethan with unconcealed curiosity. A few shouted at him, and though he couldn’t make out all they said, he gathered they thought him part of the mob that attacked Hutchinson’s home. Hearing their remarks, Ethan wondered if the sheriff thought this as well.
Leading him from the Dowsing Rod to the Boston prison, the men had to march him down Queen Street, past the ruined home of William Story. Story’s yard had been cleaned up since the day before, and there were fewer gawkers now. Still, as they walked by, the sheriff’s men eyed him keenly. Ethan refused to look directly at any of them.
Boston’s prison stood opposite Story’s home, where Brattle Street intersected Queen. It was an odd spot for a prison, set in the midst of some of the nicer houses in Boston and within hailing distance of the First Church. The prison itself was a simple building, notable only for its ancient, ponderous oak door and the heavily rusted iron hardware that held it in place. Its windows were small, the stonework plain and homely. It was no more or less inviting than any other gaol. Yet, as they approached it, Ethan couldn’t help but quail. Too many memories; too many years lost.
Then they were past that massive door and the shadow of the building itself, still walking eastward on Queen Street. Relief washed over him, followed immediately by a new kind of fear. If they didn’t intend to place him in the prison, what was this about?
“Where are you taking me?” Ethan asked.
Greenleaf glanced back at him, amused. “I was wondering when you would ask.” He waved a hand vaguely in the direction of the prison. “You assumed we were taking you there. A guilty conscience, perhaps?”
Ethan ignored the gibe. “Where are we going?”
“The Town House,” the man said, facing forward again.
Ethan couldn’t have been more surprised if the man had said that he was being taken to the governor’s mansion.
“Why?” he asked.
The sheriff didn’t answer, and they walked the rest of the way in silence.
The people of Boston referred to the brick building on King Street as the Second Town House. The first structure built on the site had burned to the ground at the beginning of the century. The Town House that stood before Ethan now had also burned, back in the 1740s. The brick exterior survived, but everything within its walls was gutted and had to be rebuilt yet again.
Ethan had been in the Town House countless times before. As a thieftaker he was often interested in the proceedings that took place in the courtrooms at the west end of the second floor.
That was where Greenleaf and his men led Ethan now. They entered the building, crossed the great hall to the nearer of two broad stone stairways, and began to make their way up to the second floor. As they climbed the stairs, Ethan thought he saw a shock of bright yellow hair that reminded him strongly of Sephira’s tough. But when he paused on the stairs and tried to get a better look, the man vanished from view.
“Come along, Mister Kaille,” the sheriff said.
Ethan searched for another few seconds, but he didn’t see the man again. He would have liked to go back down and find him. If Sephira’s henchman was here, Ethan wanted to know why. But the men of the watch stood with him, and Greenleaf was waiting. Ethan followed him up to the second floor.
They turned at the top of the stairway and walked to a pair of polished wooden doors: the entrance to the chambers of the Superior Court. The sheriff halted.
“Wait here,” he said.
He opened one of the doors and slipped inside.
For several moments, Ethan and the rest of his escort stood together in the broad corridor, saying nothing. Outside the representatives’ chamber, in the middle of the second floor, men in wigs and suits spoke in groups of three and four, their voices echoing and blending into an incoherent din. None of them took much notice of Ethan and the men with him.
At last, the door to the court opened again and the sheriff peered out into the corridor.
“The chief justice will see you now,” Greenleaf said.
Ethan didn’t move. “The chief justice?”
“He asked to speak with you.”
“What about?”
“Just get in here. He isn’t a man to be kept waiting.” He motioned Ethan into the chamber.
Taking a long, steadying breath, Ethan entered.
The chamber was empty save for the sheriff and a man who sat behind the grand, dark wood court’s bench at the far end of the chamber. Seeing the man, Ethan understood at last, and he chided himself for not reasoning it out sooner. The chief justice of the province also happened to be the lieutenant governor. Thomas Hutchinson.
Ethan walked to the bench and stopped in front of Hutchinson. The man regarded him appraisingly for a moment.
“That’s all, Sheriff,” Hutchinson said. “Thank you.”
Greenleaf let himself out of the chamber, closing the door behind him.
Hutchinson faced Ethan once more, and for what felt like several minutes, as their eyes remained locked, they were like foes in a card game, each taking the measure of the other. Hutchinson was a tall man and he sat forward in his chair, his shoulders thrust back slightly, which gave him a barrel-chested look despite his slender build. He had large, dark eyes, a high forehead, and a long, prominent nose. The curls of his powdered wig framed his face. His clothes were simple, but immaculate: a black suit with a white shirt and cravat. His eyes were bloodshot and there were dark rings under them. He looked to Ethan like he hadn’t slept in days.