They followed one of the side roads to Newbury Street and continued southward toward the Neck, stepping around filthy puddles in the cobblestone, and turning their shoulders when passing carriages and chaises splattered them.
“What is this woman’s name?” Rickman asked at length, raising his voice to be heard over the rain and wind.
“Janna Windcatcher.”
“Windcatcher? What manner of name is that?”
“One she made up.” At Rickman’s puzzled look, Ethan added, “She was a slave once, and managed to win and keep her freedom. She named herself.”
“So she’s a Negro?”
“Yes. Is that a problem?”
The doctor shook his head. “Not as long as she can be trusted. Can she?”
A thousand responses crossed his mind in the heartbeat that followed. Ethan had trusted her with his life in the past and would do so again without hesitation. On the other hand, he had no idea where her sympathies lay-Tory or Whig-and he didn’t know how she would respond to seeing Rickman’s uniform.
“I trust her,” he said at last.
“That’s not quite what I’m asking,” Rickman said, sounding annoyed. “I want to know if she’ll betray my confidence. Of course you trust her. She’s your friend. But I’m-”
Ethan’s laughter stopped the man short.
“You find this amusing?” Rickman asked.
“Forgive me, Doctor. You said that Janna’s my friend. I don’t know that Janna would agree with you. She’s a … a difficult woman, regardless of how well one knows her.”
The doctor scowled, reminding Ethan of Janna. Rainwater dripped from his hat and ran down the lines in his face. “Perhaps this is a bad idea,” he said.
“We want to know if Osborne is still alive. I don’t even know if it’s possible. Janna knows more about conjuring than anyone in Boston, and I swear to you that no one will learn of our conversation from her. Not Osborne or Gant, and not Senhouse or Preston.”
Rickman’s frown lingered, but he walked on toward the Fat Spider, and he asked no more questions.
When they reached Janna’s tavern, though, the doctor faltered, eyeing the building doubtfully. Ethan couldn’t blame him. It appeared to sag under the onslaught of the storm, and as he did so often, Ethan wondered if this would be the day the structure gave way.
Still, he strode to the door and pulled on the handle. The door didn’t open.
Ethan frowned. “It’s locked,” he said. “That’s damned peculiar.”
“Perhaps she closed early this evening,” Rickman said.
“Janna never closes early.” Ethan knocked on the weathered door. “Janna? Are you in there?”
After a few moments he knocked again. He didn’t like this; not at all. Something wasn’t right.
He knocked one last time and just as he started to consider breaking the lock with a spell, the door opened, although only a crack. Aromas of fresh bread and roasting meat seeped out into the cold night air. Janna peered out at him. “Kaille,” she said, stretching out his name so that it sounded like a malediction.
“Are you closed, Janna?”
“Damn right I am,” she said. “Soldiers came an’ shut me down. Can you imagine that? Fifteen years I’ve been here, an’ they just come in an’ shut me down, just like that.”
“When?”
“Just an hour or two ago. I was cookin’ at the time, gettin’ ready for the evenin’ crowd.” She shook her head. “They shut me down,” she said again, disbelieving.
“Did they say why?” Ethan asked. But even as he asked the question he was thinking back on his conversation with Thomas Hutchinson two days before. He sensed that somehow this was directed at him, that it was a warning of more dire actions to come.
“Didn’t tell me nothin’,” Janna said. She glanced at Rickman, her expression guarded.
“Can we come in?”
“Why?” she asked in the same tone she had used to say his name.
“I need help with-”
“No!” she said. “No, no, no! Do you see that this is a business? D’you even understand what that means? I sell food. I sell ale. I sell all sorts of things. I don’t care that I’m closed down. This is still a business; my business. I don’t earn nothin’ by helpin’ you with whatever you’re workin’ on.”
“I know that. But we’ve got-”
“No!” She leveled a bony finger at him. “I’ve done enough for you. And I’m tired-”
“That bread smells very good,” Rickman said.
Ethan and Janna looked his way.
“What kind of meat is that you’re cooking?”
“Venison,” Janna told him, sounding suspicious and looking him up and down. “And some duck, too. Got it from a friend of mine who hunts just over near Roxbury.”
“Well, Miss Windcatcher, I know that you’re closed down, but it’s cold out here and I’m feeling a bit peckish.” The doctor dug into his pocket and pulled out a half crown-a good deal more than the cost of two meals and a few ales. He held it up so that it glinted with the candlelight from within the tavern. “I’d like some of that venison, please. And some bread.” He looked at Ethan. “An ale for you?”
Janna kept her eyes fixed on the coin.
“Aye, thank you,” Ethan said.
Janna still stood in the doorway, though she held the door open a bit wider now. She wore an odd expression on her wizened face. It took Ethan a moment to realize that she was trying not to laugh. At last she stepped back from the door and gestured them inside, all the while shaking her head. “Take a table by the fire,” she said, not bothering to look their way. “I’ll be right out.”
Ethan motioned Rickman inside and then followed him into the smoky warmth and dim light. His eyes were slow to adjust to the darkness, but he wasted no time in shaking the rain off his coat and crossing to the fire to warm himself. After a few moments he joined Rickman at one of the tables.
“I don’t think she likes you very much,” Rickman said, keeping his voice low.
“I know. And she likes me more than she does anyone else in this city.”
Janna emerged from the kitchen a short time later bearing a large trencher that held slices of steaming meat, and a small loaf of brown bread. She placed that in front of them and brought them a pair of ales. Even after she had put the tankards on the table, she continued to stand over them.
Rickman took a bite of meat and washed it down with a swig of ale. “Excellent!” he said, looking up at her.
Janna shifted her weight to her other foot, the corners of her mouth twitching. “Thank you.”
“Why don’t you sit, Miss Windcatcher?”
Her gaze slid toward Ethan. He nodded once and sipped his ale.
She pulled a chair over and lowered herself into it.
“Ask your questions,” Rickman said to Ethan.
“A man has disappeared. Another one. I know he was a conjurer, but I don’t know what he was capable of doing. When I saw him last, he was dead. Or he appeared to be. I need to know if a conjurer could feign his own death-make it appear to others that he wasn’t breathing, that his heart had stopped, that his limbs were stiffening-and then come back to life later, when no one was nearby. Or is it possible for one conjurer to bring another back from death, assuming that the second man really had died?”
“Kaille,” Janna said again, regarding him with the disappointment a mother might show for a wayward son. “All the time you ask me if spells can do this or spells can do that. Haven’t you learned yet? Spells can do anythin’ if the conjurer castin’ them is strong enough.”
Ethan felt the blood drain from his face, making his cheeks grow cold. “So-”
“So, a man who looked like he was dead, might not have been. Or a man who died, might be alive again.”
“How?”
“Well, that’s the thing,” she said. Her eyes flicked toward Rickman, who watched her with interest and chewed another bite of meat. “Before I say more, who are you?”
“Forgive me,” Ethan said. “Tarijanna Windcatcher, this is Doctor William Rickman. He’s the ship’s surgeon aboard the Launceston.”
“British military shut me down,” she said, an accusation in the words.