“Well, thank you. I’m in your debt.”
“A debt you can repay by renouncing witchery, turning to God, and vowing never to let the words of a conjuring pass your lips again.”
Ethan stared at the man. He opened his mouth, closed it again. He glanced at Pell, whose eyes were trained on the floor, his lips pursed.
At last, Ethan faced the rector once more. “I’m afraid I can’t do that, Mister Caner.”
He expected the man to pursue the point. Instead, Caner’s mouth quirked to the side. “No, I don’t suppose you can. But the Lord wouldn’t forgive me if I didn’t try.” He started toward the door of the chapel. “I won’t always be so tolerant, Mister Kaille. Don’t let me hear of you conjuring again.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“Trevor, I expect you to retire shortly. You have your studies, and I won’t have you wandering the city at all hours.”
“Yes, Mister Caner.” When the rector was gone, Pell beckoned to Ethan. “Come. We’ll get you to a surgeon.”
“I can heal myself. I’ve already done a bit on the bullet wound.”
Pell eyed him sternly, although the effect was muted somewhat by the youthfulness of his face. “I don’t care. Mister Caner and I just lied to Sheriff Greenleaf in order to keep him from imprisoning you as a witch! You will not heal yourself of these wounds!”
Ethan didn’t argue. He gestured for the minister to lead the way. “How did you know where to find me?” he asked as they walked out of the chapel and onto Treamount.
“Mister Caner said they had taken you toward the Neck,” Pell said. “So we started in that direction. When I heard the pistol, I thought it might be aimed at you, so we followed the sound of the report.”
“Well,” Ethan said, “you saved my life. You and Mister Caner. I couldn’t have fought off Sephira and her men much longer.”
“I thought you were doing pretty well.”
“You mean aside from the bullet wound and the bruise and that dented rib I mentioned.”
Pell grinned. “Well, yes, aside from all of that.”
They had turned down Winter Street and were approaching Newbury Street, and the pasture lands.
“Where are we going?” Ethan asked.
“To the home of a doctor I know.”
“A member of the congregation?”
Pell shook his head. “Someone I met when I first came to Boston. I’d come from western Connecticut, and had been taken with a fever. Doctor Church got me well.”
They stopped at a modest house with a gabled roof and a welcoming glow of candles shining from within. Pell knocked once, and after a short wait the door opened, revealing a tall man with stooped shoulders and long, powdered hair. His eyes were deep-set, his nose strong, his chin somewhat weak.
“Mister Pell,” the man said, sounding genuinely surprised and pleased to see the minister.
“Good evening, Doctor Church,” Pell said. “Forgive us for imposing on your time so late in the evening. I bring you a patient; a friend of mine who is in need of your skills.”
The doctor looked at Ethan, his eyes lingering briefly on the bruise on Ethan’s temple and the bloodstains on his coat.
“Of course,” the man said. He stepped aside and waved them into the house.
The door opened onto a comfortable sitting room, illuminated by spermaceti candles and warmed by a fire in the hearth.
“Doctor Benjamin Church,” Pell said, “may I introduce, Ethan Kaille. Ethan, Doctor Church.”
Ethan and the doctor shook hands.
“Who is it, Benjamin?” came a woman’s voice from another room.
“A patient, Hannah,” the doctor called. “No need to trouble yourself.” He eyed Ethan again. “This way, gentlemen,” he said, and led them to a back room.
He lit several candles, their glow building gradually to reveal a chamber that was far more austere than the previous one. Jars and bottles jostled for room atop of a cabinet against one wall. Next to it, a table held a number of steel surgical instruments. Ethan glanced at them before quickly looking away. Healing himself with conjurings was one thing; surgeons made him queasy.
Dr. Church pulled a chair to the middle of the room. “Sit,” he said.
Ethan did as he was told.
“We’ll start with the shoulder,” the doctor said, stepping to a washbasin and scrubbing his hands. “I’d say that’s the worst of it.”
Ethan cast a quick self-conscious look at Pell. He had already healed that wound, at least enough to stop the bleeding.
Pell misunderstood. Or else he was as squeamish as Ethan. “Perhaps I’ll wait in the other room,” he said, a wan smile flitting across his pale features.
“All right,” Church said absently. “Take off your coat if you can manage it,” he told Ethan. “Your waistcoat and shirt, too.”
Reluctantly, Ethan peeled off the bloodstained coat, removed his waistcoat, and pulled his shirt over his head. The doctor stepped around him and leaned over to peer at the bullet wound, which was still badly discolored, despite Ethan’s spell. After a moment, he straightened again.
“I see,” Church muttered. “I take it the bullet never actually entered your body.”
“No, sir. I was fortunate.”
“Indeed, you were. Still, it would have better if you had cleaned that wound before healing it.”
Ethan stared at him, his mouth hanging open. He had expected questions, even accusations; not this blithe acceptance of his healing spell.
“Come now,” the doctor said. “You can’t believe that you are the first of your kind I’ve encountered.”
“No, sir,” Ethan said, recovering from his surprise. “I had to heal it when I did. I couldn’t afford to lose too much blood.”
“At least not that way.”
Ethan chuckled. “That’s right.”
“The bruise at your temple is new. The rest are a few days old.”
“Yes, and I think I might have a broken rib.” He pointed to the spot where Sephira’s man kicked him.
The doctor began to probe Ethan’s rib with deft fingers.
“It isn’t broken,” he said after a few moments. “Though one of these ribs feels like it’s healed from a previous break.” When Ethan didn’t respond, the doctor went on. “You’ve had a rough time of it. Perhaps you should consider finding another line of work.”
“Pell would agree with you.”
“I’m sure.” The doctor examined his shoulder again, then straightened once more, shaking his head. “Well, Mister Kaille, I’m afraid there isn’t much I can do for you. Your bruises will heal on their own. The bullet wound should as well. If it becomes fevered or if there is discharge of any sort, come back and see me.”
“I will, Doctor. Thank you.”
Church crossed to the door. “Get dressed. I’ll be with Mister Pell.”
The doctor left him and Ethan pulled his clothes back on with care, inhaling sharply through his teeth whenever he moved his shoulder too quickly or twisted his torso too suddenly. When at last he was dressed again, he joined Pell and Church in the sitting room.
Pell turned at the sound of Ethan’s approach. The minister looked relieved to see him. “Doctor Church was just asking me what you’ve been doing that would lead to so many injuries. I didn’t know what to tell him.”
“It’s all right,” Ethan told the minister. To Church he said, “I’m looking into the death of Jennifer Berson.”
The doctor’s expression sobered. “I see. Forgive me for asking.”
“It’s all right,” Ethan said, remembering at last something that should have come to him long ago. “You know, before Sephira Pryce’s men invited me into their carriage, I was on my way to King’s Chapel to ask you a question, Mister Pell. But perhaps I would be best served asking both of you. The day Ann and John Richardson were hanged, were there any other unexplained deaths in the city?”
Both men considered the question for a few moments.
At last, Pell shook his head. “Not so far as I know.”
“I don’t recall hearing of any, either,” the doctor said. “Why do you ask?”