by Faith Hunter
“A brooch, eh? Did he say what it looked like?”
“He said it was gold, with diamonds and sapphires.”
“And I assume he instructed you to tell me nothing of this.”
Hannah averted her eyes again. “Yes, ma’am.”
Pryce smirked. “As I said, he’s clever. He knows that I prefer he not take on jobs with clients who pay as well as do the Grews.” She held out the blade. Hannah took it and dropped it into her other pocket.
“Shall we reunite you with your loving aunt?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
They started walking again.
“The ma’ams aren’t fooling me, by the way. I fully expect to hear in another few days that you’ve vanished again. I’m happy to take your aunt’s coin as often as she wishes to pay me, but eventually she’ll tire of this game and resort to some other means of keeping you out of trouble. You might consider if you wouldn’t be better off finding more subtle ways to defy her.”
Hannah merely gaped at her, unsure of what to say.
“Close your mouth, dear. You look like a street cur.” She smiled again, more softly this time. “You remind me just a little bit of myself at a similar age.”
There was no time for Hannah to ask her what she meant; they had reached her aunt’s door. Pryce led her up the stairs and rapped on the door with the brass lion’s head knocker.
After a few seconds, the door opened, revealing Clara, the oldest of her aunt’s servants. Short, rotund, with a round face and fierce brown eyes, she regarded Pryce for a moment before turning her glare on Hannah and taking in the state of her garb, her hair.
“Come in,” she said, barking the command like a small dog.
Hannah stepped into the house, with Pryce following close behind. Her men, Hannah noticed, remained outside in the street. Clara shut the door and left them in the foyer, with the bitter smell of spermaceti candles, the sweet scent of lavender, and a lamp that needed its sooty chimney washed. She crossed through the sitting room, and entered the shadows of the dining room.
Several moments later, Aunt Emma appeared, a smile fixed on her lips, the petticoats of her blue gown rustling as she approached. Lamp light gleamed in her curls, red touched with gray, and in her pale blue eyes. Hannah usually thought her quite beautiful, not to mention formidable, but next to Sephira Pryce she appeared plain and small.
“Miss Pryce,” she said. “Welcome.”
“So good to see you again, Missus Smythe. As you can see, I’ve found your niece, none the worse for wear.”
“Yes, and I’m so grateful to you.” Emma didn’t so much as spare Hannah a glance. Only then did Hannah notice that she carried a small silken purse in her other hand. She opened it now and began to count out coins. “I believe I still owe you six pounds and ten.”
“That’s my recollection as well.”
Emma gave Pryce the money, thanked her again, and let her out of the house. Pryce cast another smirk in Hannah’s direction as she left, but she said nothing more to her.
Emma stood at the door for the span of a heartbeat, her back to Hannah. Then she turned, an eyebrow raised.
“Ten pounds, Hannah. That’s a fair bit of coin for another frivolous adventure.”
It wasn’t—isn’t—frivolous! She stared to the side, muttered, “I’m sorry.” But even she could hear the sourness in her tone.
“Go and change into something more appropriate. Then come back down and sup with me. You must be famished.”
“Yes, Aunt.”
Hannah retreated to her bedroom, removed the brooch from her pocket and placed in the back corner of her wardrobe. The glamour remained in place, but she piled some undergarments on it as a precaution. Only then, satisfied that neither her aunt nor Clara would find it, did she strip off the tatters she had donned for her foray into the streets. In their place, she put on a linen gown much like the one Emma wore, though green, to match her eyes, and with a white silk stomacher over the stays. She combed out her hair, which was still damp, and pinned it back, knowing that her aunt preferred she not wear it down, even within the house.
At last, unable to avoid the inevitable any longer, she descended the stairs and stepped into the dining room, now lit with a trio of candles. Emma stood by the hearth, a goblet of wine cupped in both hands. At the sound of Hannah’s steps, she turned.
“Ah!” she said, falsely bright. “Much better. You look lovely.”
Hannah felt the corners of her mouth twitch upward, but she said not a word. I never look lovely.
Emma crossed to her chair at the head of the table. “We have cod chowder. I thought you’d like something warm after being out for so long in that fog. And I’ve watered some Madeira for you as well.”
“Thank you.”
Hannah took her place to Emma’s right, folded her hands as her aunt said grace, and tasted the chowder. It was creamy and savory, with a hint of pepper, and Hannah couldn’t help but close her eyes and relish that first sip.
“Did you eat at all while you were gone?”
Hannah opened her eyes and sat up a bit straighter. “Yes, I ate.”
She knew Emma wanted to hear more, and she took some satisfaction in holding her tongue and taking another spoonful of her chowder.
“You look so much like your mother.”
Hannah froze, her spoon hovering over her bowl.
“It’s true. You have her eyes, and her hair. I always wanted hair like hers—yours.” She gestured at her own hair. “These curls are . . .”
“Lovely,” Hannah said, barely making herself heard.
“Sarah always thought so, too. I find them a nuisance.”
Hannah wasn’t sure what to say. Her aunt didn’t usually talk to her this way. How much wine had she drunk?
“I haven’t done this very well, have I?”
Hannah looked at her. “Done what?”
Emma shrugged, a brittle smile fixed on her face. “I haven’t been a very good guardian for you.”
What was she supposed to say?
“I thought I should try to . . . to give you a normal upbringing. Let you see how other girls your age live. But the truth is, I have no idea what their lives are like.”
Normal?
“How long have you been able to cast, Hannah?”
Emma kept her voice low as she asked this, perhaps to keep Clara and the other servants from overhearing, and so at first Hannah wasn’t sure she had heard correctly. Still, all the blood drained from her cheeks, leaving her face as cold as the harbor mist. She dropped her spoon, so that it splashed in the bowl with a muffled clatter, and rested her trembling hands on the table.
“It’s all right. You can tell me.”
“I— How long have you known?”
Emma threw back her head and laughed. It was unexpected; Hannah couldn’t help but smile.
“You’re an Everhart, my dear. I’ve known since the day you were born.” Her smile gave way to a grimace. “Your mother knew as well. She was a talented witch, even as a girl, which is rare. Had the cancer not taken her, she could have taught you, helped you hone your craft. I’m afraid I’m not much use in that regard.”
“Mother could cast?” Hannah asked, thinking of the lie she had told Kaille earlier. Not a lie after all, it seemed. Extraordinary.
“Oh, dear me, yes. She used to torment your uncles, much to your grandmother’s delight. What sort of witch are you?”
Hannah frowned. “Um . . . a pretty good one?”
Her aunt laughed again. “I’m sure you are. What I mean is, how do your castings work? What do you draw upon for power?”
“Oh!” The idea of speaking so openly about her craft felt alien to her. She could think of no reason not to answer except that she had been harboring these secrets for so long. Candor came grudgingly. “I use the harbor, or the Charles. Sometimes I can even use rain and mist.”
“You’re a water witch, like your Grandmother Edith!”
“A water witch,” Hanna
h repeated softly, liking the sound of it.
“Your mother was an earth witch,” Emma said, anticipating Hannah’s next question.
“What was she like?”
“You already know much about her.”
“I didn’t know she was a witch,” Hannah said, a reproach in her tone.
“No, you didn’t." Aunt Emma breathed softly. She sipped her chowder, a far off look in her eyes. Hannah would have given anything, even the brooch, to know what she was thinking, what memories had taken her. "But now you do. And from this night forward, I’ll answer your questions and tell you all I can. You have my word. First, though, I need to know what you were doing in the street.”
Her cheeks burned. “Nothing. I was only—”
Emma raised a hand, stopping her. “What was the glamoured object in the left pocket of those old breeches? And where on earth did you find those trousers in the first place?”
Hannah could do nothing more than stare.
“I have some ability. I don’t cast well, but I can sense power when it’s used. It has a . . . a flavor. I don’t know how else to explain it. Yours tastes of mint and sage, again, much like your mother’s, but with a hint of apple, like your father’s. The glamour—”
“You knew my father?”
Emma pursed her lips, giving Hannah the impression that she wished she hadn’t said that last. “I met him once. He was a witch as well, and as handsome as you are beautiful.”
Hannah didn’t know how to respond to the compliment. “Did he die, too?”
Her aunt faltered, but only briefly. “I don’t know. He left your mother soon after . . . They never married. And by the time she knew she was with child, he was gone. That’s why you’re named as you are: Hannah Amelia Everhart. No surname from your father. You’re simply an Everhart.” She settled back in her chair. “Now, tell me what you were carrying.”
Hannah watched her, twisting her mouth as she had as a child. “It’s a brooch,” she said at last. “It was . . . I stole it.”
“Hannah!”
“From the Grews,” she said, and cringed.
“You stole from Thomas and Mary?” Emma said, her voice spiraling.
“I had no choice. I need the stone. When I’m done with it, I’ll give it back.”
“And just how do you intend to do that?”
“There’s a thieftaker—”
“Miss Pryce.”
Hannah shook her head. “No, another. A man. His name is Kaille.”
Emma dipped her chin. “Ethan Kaille,” she said. “I’ve heard of him.”
“Yes, that’s the one. He found me today, but then so did Miss Pryce, and he let me go. He knows I have it, though, and I promised him I’d give it back to him tomorrow.” The confession tumbled out of her. In a way, it felt good to be speaking of it, despite the disapproval manifest in her aunt’s mien. “But there’s a sapphire at the center of it. A big one. And I need that to . . . for a working.”
She hadn’t thought Emma’s expression could darken further. She was wrong.
“More secrets,” her aunt said.
“I’m sorry.” She picked up her spoon, hoping to forestall additional questions. Emma watched her eat, and Hannah did her best to ignore her. When she had finished her meal, she excused herself from the table and fled to her bedroom.
She shut the door behind her, and leaning back against it, closed her eyes, able at last to unbridle the excitement she had worked so hard to control while at the dining table.
Her mother was a witch! And her father, too! Thinking about it, she realized that this shouldn’t have come as such a surprise. She had inherited her red hair and green eyes from her mother. Why not this as well? But always she had believed her ability to cast marked her as different, as a monster, as something to be feared. That was what Mister Lathrop, her pastor, said. Not about her, of course, but about witches in general. "Suffer not a witch to live:" the subject of a sermon last year.
But now . . . Of course she was different. Her mother had been, too. And her father. Even her aunt was in her own way. And what about the thieftaker, Ethan Kaille? He spoke to her of spells and wardings.
She wasn’t alone. Not at all. She couldn’t say if knowing this would make any easier what she needed to do with the brooch, but it did occupy her thoughts as she climbed into her bed, and it might even have kept at bay the darkest of her fears for the next day.
• • •
Hannah slept later than she had intended, lulled into blissful slumber by her soft bed and pillows, by the warmth of the quilt lying over her. When finally she woke, to bright sunshine streaming through the lace curtains beside her, it was with a start, and an imprecation that would have shocked her aunt.
She flung herself out of bed, dressed in the same gown and shoes she had worn to dinner the previous night—pausing this time to tie on pockets beneath her petticoats—and ran a comb through her hair with far less care than the task likely required. She then retrieved from her wardrobe the brooch, which was still concealed with the glamour she had woven. Would Mother have been impressed with the working? Or would she have seen through it as Emma did?
She placed the brooch in a pocket, dropped her petticoats and skirt over it, and eyed herself in a mirror. No one would notice that she carried the jewel. She frowned at the state of her hair, the prominence of her freckles, the fullness of cheeks. With a sigh, she smoothed her gown, donned a cap, and left her room.
Emma was nowhere to be seen; she had probably gone to the school already. Hannah could hear Clara and one of the other servants in the kitchen. She hurried to the front door and let herself out of the house, as cautious and quiet as a thief.
Descending the brick stairway to the street, she glanced both ways before heading toward Cornhill and the center of the city.
She had only taken a few steps when she heard someone behind her say, “Miss Everhart, I almost didn’t recognize you.”
Hannah spun, nearly losing her balance.
Ethan Kaille stood a few feet away, his tricorn in his hand, his grim expression at odds with the light tone in which he had spoken.
“Mister Kaille.” Her heart pounded in her breast and she struggled to draw breath, wishing she hadn’t tied her stays quite so tightly.
“You and I have a bit of unfinished business.”
She straightened. “I’m afraid it will have to wait,” she said, with as much force as she could muster. She turned, intending to leave him there.
But he fell in step beside her and placed the tricorn on his head. “It can’t wait. You may have traded your street clothes for a gown—you look lovely, if I may say—but you’re still a thief. And I am still in the employ of Mister Grew.”
“I told you I needed a day,” she said, her voice dropping to an urgent whisper.
“Aye, I heard you. But the brooch is not yours for bartering.”
“I know that. Truly, I do. But I need it, just for a short while longer.”
“So you’re borrowing it,” Kaille said, in a tone that dripped irony. “Well, that’s different.”
Hannah glowered at him beneath the ruffles of her cap. “I wouldn’t expect . . .” She stopped herself, thinking about all that had happened the previous evening. She had been about to say that she didn’t expect him to understand. But wasn’t it possible that he would sense the logic of what she had in mind, indeed, better than most?
“I think I grasp the situation better than you might believe,” he said. Could he read her thoughts? “It’s been some time, but I was once young, too.”
By now they were on Middle Street, passing the spire of the North Meeting House. The street was crowded with men and women making their way to and from the wharves and the Faneuil Hall markets. At the next corner, Beer Lane, she turned, forcing Kaille to follow.
This street was far less full, and she felt more at ease speaking her mind.
“Are you a witch, Mister Kaille?”
“I’m a conjurer,” he said, w
ith more heat than she thought warranted by her question.
“What’s the difference?”
“The difference is . . . It’s a matter of what we call ourselves. Witchery is the stuff of preachers’ sermons, of nightmare and superstition. Conjuring is a craft.”
“All right,” Hannah said. “A conjurer then. You admit that’s what you are.”
He hesitated. “What of it?”
“So am I.”
“I gathered as much when you tried to attack me last night.”
“Then you’ll know I speak truly when I tell you that I require the brooch for a working. In particular, I need the sapphire at the center of it. For some reason sapphires have an affinity for water.”
The way Kaille regarded her one might have thought she had slipped into a foreign tongue. “What are you talking about?” He shook his head. “I don’t have time for this. Where is Missus Grew’s brooch?”
She nearly accused him of toying with her. But she could see from the bunching of his eyebrows and the hard cast of his jaw that he had asked the question in earnest. He could not sense the brooch as Emma had.
Could she have been mistaken about him being a witch? Could he have been lying to her when he claimed to be a “conjurer?” If so, why had her working the previous night not rendered him unconscious?
“Miss Everhart?”
“It’s . . . it’s nearby. If you’ll allow me to retrieve it, I give you my word I’ll bring it to you this evening.”
He scrutinized her, eyes narrowing. “I’d wager every coin in my purse that you have it with you. And what’s more, you’ve warded it in some way. I sensed a spell last night as you were leaving with Sephira.”
“Do you know this, or are simply speculating?” She tried to speak confidently, hoping to sow doubt in his mind, but she despaired at the ease with which the thieftaker had seen through her deception.
“My guesses tend to be quite accurate.” He waited, watching her. When Hannah didn’t say more, he sighed. “I can make this simple for both of us. Sheriff Greenleaf’s home is some distance from here, but I’ll drag you to his door if I have to. You’re guilty of theft, and my patience has run out.”
