Thieftaker

by D. B. Jackson

  “That’s kind of her,” Ethan said absently, still watchful.

  The truth was Elli didn’t need the money. Her father, Van Taylor, was still one of the wealthiest shipbuilders in Boston. And John Harper, Elli’s husband, had been a successful merchant. When he died, he left her a spacious stone house in the North End. And if that wasn’t enough, she owned a small shop just around the corner from their residence, where she sold lace and ribbons, silk and satin, catering to the finer tastes of Boston’s wealthier women.

  Ethan was a prisoner when Elli married Harper; he was still in the cane fields when John died of pleurisy eight years ago. He could convince himself that during his years on the plantation he had wished Elli happiness, knowing that she would not wait for him. But he couldn’t deny that upon returning to Boston, and learning that she had been widowed, he immediately began to wonder if he might win back his first and only love.

  At first, he refrained from contacting her, knowing that there was no point so long as he remained a pauper, a wretched convict without prospects. But once he had established himself as a thieftaker, he sought her out. The first several times he showed up at her door, Elli sent him away. He had concealed from her the fact that he was a conjurer and had humiliated her by being part of the Ruby Blade mutiny. She wanted nothing to do with him.

  But one day, nearly a year after his return to Boston, he encountered Elli and her children in Faneuil Hall. It was the first warm day of spring, and Ethan was enjoying the sights, smells, and flavors of the market. His imprisonment felt like a distant memory. He greeted Elli jovially, but she remained distant and cold.

  The children, however, eyed him with unconcealed fascination. They had no man in their lives save their aging grandfather; as far as they knew, neither did their mother. And yet, here was this strange man who spoke to their mother as if they were old friends. He bought them sweets over Elli’s objections—thinking back on the day, he took no pride in this, but he had been alone in the city for too long and was desperate to insinuate himself into Elli’s life. Before the day was over, he had wheedled an invitation to dinner—another memory that made him wince.

  But by the time their meal together had ended, it was clear to both Ethan and Elli that the children adored him. What was more, Ethan was taken with them as well. He had always dreamed of having a boy, of raising a son the way he wished his father had raised him. And Clara, Holin’s younger sister, was as beautiful, clever, and serious as her mother. How could Ethan not see in her the daughter he and Elli might have had together?

  He and Elli struck a bargain. She would let him into their lives, allow him to be a friend to the children, but under two conditions. First, he was never to reveal to either child that he was a conjurer. And second, he was to forswear forever his love for her.

  The first was a trifle; the second was almost more than he could bear. In the end, though, he decided that having this small role in their lives was preferable to having none at all.

  Since that time, he had visited with them often. And if being with the children meant he could spend a few hours with Elli, too, all the better. But until this day, his friendship with them had never endangered Clara’s life or Holin’s.

  As they walked the boy prattled on, relating some story one of his friends had told him. Ethan barely listened, his mind still churning over his latest encounter with Sephira’s toughs. That is, until something the boy mentioned caught his attention.

  “… Both of them dead like that. One of them still as could be, the other kicking like an Irishman doing a jig. Had to be a ghost.”

  “Wait,” Ethan said, halting. They were standing in the shadow of the Old North Meeting House, not far from the ruin of Thomas Hutchinson’s home. The dogs had abandoned them; probably they were heading back to Henry’s shop. A few people still milled about in front of the lieutenant governor’s house, but otherwise the street was relatively empty. “Two people dead? This was today?”

  Holin stared back at him as if he were a madman. “No! This was a long time ago. I told you: that couple who were hanged for mistreating their children.”

  “The Richardsons?”

  Holin’s face brightened. “Aye, that was the name. The Richardsons.”

  “And why were you telling me about them?”

  The boy’s expression hardened once more in a way that reminded Ethan of Marielle. “Like I said, their son just started working the wharf with Rory and me.”

  “And this boy was telling you about the hangings…?”

  Holin looked as if he might smack Ethan in the middle of the forehead. “Of course not! Rory was. He was there the day John’s parents swung. He saw it. Said the man danced and danced when the rope went tight, but she didn’t move at all.”

  Ethan nodded. He had no idea who Rory was, but he didn’t dare risk angering the boy further by asking. At least now, what Holin was telling him made sense. He started walking again, and Holin joined him.

  “You get it now?” the boy demanded, plainly still irritated.

  “Yes,” Ethan said quietly. “I’m sorry. I was distracted.”

  “You’re so much like Mother it…” He broke off, his face flushing. Elli would never have mentioned to either child that she and Ethan had ever been anything more than acquaintances, and out of respect for what he assumed her wishes to be, Ethan, too, had said nothing about their past. But Holin and Clara both were intelligent and observant. They had to know.

  “I’m sorry,” Ethan said, breaking an awkward silence. “I should have been listening more closely.”

  “You were still thinking about Sephira Pryce?”

  “Aye.”

  “That man killed a friend of yours, didn’t he?”

  Ethan faltered, falling behind the boy for just an instant. “What makes you say that?”

  “I overheard what you were saying. I’m sorry, Ethan.” Holin kept his gaze fixed on the cobblestones, as if fearful of looking up and finding Ethan’s eyes upon him. “I knew what he was telling you, and I saw how you reacted.”

  Ethan wasn’t sure what to say. Elli wouldn’t want him to tell Holin the truth, but the boy was right. He was fifteen. By showing up when he did, he might well have saved Ethan’s life, either by keeping Nigel from killing him, or by preventing Ethan from dooming himself with a killing burst of power. He deserved an honest answer.

  “They killed a man whose life I had spared,” Ethan finally said. “He had stolen some jewels, and the merchant who hired me wanted me to have him arrested when I got the gems back. Failing that, he wanted me to kill him.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  Ethan glanced his way. The boy was watching him, looking pale and young, and a bit frightened.

  “British justice can be hard—harder than I felt this man deserved. And it’s no trifle taking a life. I didn’t think he deserved to die. I took the jewels, I took his weapons, and I told him to leave the city.” Ethan shrugged. “He didn’t. Not in time, at least.”

  “So Miss Pryce killed him to make the merchant happy?”

  “Sephira killed him because she knew it would make me angry, and because she wanted me to know that she’s watching what I do.”

  Holin said nothing.

  “Your mother wouldn’t have wanted me to tell you that. She would have preferred that I lie to you this one time, tell you something that would be less likely to … to trouble you.”

  “You mean scare me.”

  “Are you scared?” Ethan asked. By now they were on Charter Street, approaching Elli’s house. But they stopped short of it and stood facing each other.

  Holin considered this. “I’m afraid for you,” he said at length. “It sounds like Sephira Pryce is your enemy, and I think that could be dangerous.”

  Ethan smiled, thinking in that moment that Holin would grow up to be a wise man. “It probably is,” he admitted. “But that ship’s long since put out to sea.”

  “Well,” Holin said, “you don’t have to worry about me tellin
g Mother.”

  “Thank you.”

  Holin hesitated a moment. Then, “You ever seen a man hang?”

  Too many times. He had seen prisoners hanged in the West Indies, and he had seen enemy soldiers hanged during the war. “More than once,” he said. “And I can tell you that some dance, and some don’t. It’s all in the way the rope snaps tight. It’s nothing to do with spirits.”

  “You’re sure?”

  Ethan gently laid a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “I’m sure.”

  The door to the house opened and Clara stepped outside, her dark hair tied back from her face to reveal a smooth high forehead.

  “It is Holin,” she called over her shoulder. “And Ethan’s with him.”

  “Good evening, Clara,” Ethan said, smiling at her, even as he surreptitiously sheathed his blade.

  She smiled back but didn’t say anything. A moment later, her mother appeared behind her, her expression severe. Elli wore her hair just as Clara did, so that it accentuated her high cheekbones and the graceful curve of her neck.

  “Why are you with him?” she asked, her voice as cold as her eyes. “Has something happened?” And then, before he could answer, “Where did you get all those bruises? What have the two of you been doing?”

  “I’m fine,” Ethan said pointedly. “Thank you for asking.” He paused, hoping to see some sign that she regretted speaking to him as she had. He was surprised to see a bit of color warm her cheeks. “The bruises are from yesterday,” he said. “They had nothing to do with your son. Holin and I ran into each other down by the harbor, and I offered to walk him home.”

  “Mother and I have made a pudding,” Clara said. “There’s plenty.”

  The look Elli gave her daughter would have made King George flinch, but the girl showed no sign of noticing.

  “Thank you, Clara,” Ethan said, his eyes flicking to Elli’s face. “But I can’t stay long.”

  Elli scowled, understanding from his words and quick glance that he wanted to speak with her. It had been years since they had been in love, but still she knew him as few people did. “All right then,” she said, sighing. “You can come in for a moment or two.”

  Holin and Ethan ascended the low steps leading to the door and entered the house. It had been warm out on the street, but it was cooler inside. Candle flames reflected off the polished wood floor of the sitting room and the warm scent of that pudding Clara had mentioned made Ethan’s stomach growl. He crossed to the empty hearth to wait for Elli.

  “Holin, get out of those clothes,” she said. “And Clara, darling, why don’t you check on the pudding again.”

  “But, Mother, it’s done.”

  “Yes, well, you can make certain it’s still warm.”

  “Yes, Mother,” Clara said in a flat voice.

  Elli walked into the room but halted several feet from him. Ethan silently cursed himself for wishing that she would come closer. She had always been stunning—black hair, green eyes, olive skin—and the years had done nothing to diminish her beauty. But through all the time he had spent in the cane fields she had remained frozen in his mind as the young woman he had left at the wharves when the Ruby Blade sailed. To this day that memory lingered. When he dreamed of her, as he still did, though with ever less frequency, she looked just as she had that day twenty years ago.

  Even now, after five years in Boston, he was still mildly surprised each time he saw her, though not by the small lines in the skin around her mouth and eyes, or the few narrow streaks of silver shining in her hair. Rather, it was the hardening of her beauty that gave him pause. He had to remind himself that she had borne these two children and a third who had died at birth; that she had lost a husband; and yes, that she had lost him as well. Difficult as it was to credit now, he knew that had pained her once.

  She had always been reserved, slow to smile, and slower still to laugh. But the years had left her grave, and as remote as the moon.

  “You look awful,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest.

  “I know.”

  He thought she might say more about his bruises, but she merely regarded him for another moment before saying, “You wanted to speak with me.”

  “It’s about Holin. He tells me he’s working at Hunt’s Wharf.”

  “What of it?”

  “I’ve learned of two murders that have been committed in the streets over the past several months,” Ethan said, lowering his voice. “Both victims were young—one was older than the boy, the other younger. I think they’re connected in some way, though I don’t know how. But the point is, I want him to have a care as he walks through the city.”

  All the color drained from Elli’s face. “You don’t know who’s doing it?”

  “No. They’ve been killed with powerful spells, but beyond that I know nothing.”

  “God have mercy,” she whispered.

  “He mentioned a boy to me,” Ethan said. “Rory?”

  “Rory Harren,” Elli said. “His father’s a sailor on a merchant ship. Rory’s a bit older, and he started at the wharf first; I didn’t want to let Holin go down there at all, but with Rory working, too, I thought it would be all right.”

  “If they could walk home together in the evenings, I think they would be fine.”

  “But if this … this conjurer—”

  “It would be harder to attack two.” He hesitated, his mind going back over what he knew of Jennifer Berson, and what Pell had told him about the Brown boy. Two victims, both alone, but in the vicinity of large crowds. “He wants his victims isolated,” Ethan said. “It’s easier that way.” He couldn’t say how the insight came to him, but as soon as he spoke the words he knew it was true.

  “All right,” Elli said. “I’ll make sure he goes down there with Rory.”

  “And comes back with him, too. Dusk is the more dangerous time.”

  “Of course.” She still sounded frightened, but her cheeks had regained some of their color.

  They stood in silence for a moment or two, until Ethan looked away, smiling self-consciously. “Your pudding is getting cold.”

  “Probably.” She started to say something, stopped, biting her lip. “Clara is right,” she told him at last. “There is plenty.”

  “Thank you,” Ethan said. “But I think I should go. I’m … I’m working on something.”

  She nodded.

  After another awkward moment, Ethan said, “Good-bye, Elli,” and walked past her back toward the door.

  Elli didn’t turn, but as he pulled the door open she called, “Thank you for telling me.”

  “Tell them I said good-bye.”

  Then he was outside, descending the steps and striding back down the lane, eager to be out of the North End. The warm evening air felt good on his face, and he was breathing easier now that he was out of Elli’s house.

  He didn’t love her anymore. He grew more certain of that every time he saw her. But he did desperately miss being in love with her. He had been happiest in those months before the Ruby Blade sailed, and during his years as a prisoner he had clung to the memory of that happiness the way a sailor lost amid the swells of an angry sea clings to a scrap of wood. There was a part of him that still feared letting go.

  In that moment he wanted nothing so much as to go to the Dowser and see Kannice. He needed to tell her that he was fine and no longer being held by the sheriff. But with night falling, he had an engagement to keep with the illusory little girl of this conjurer he pursued. He started back toward the South End, drawing his knife once more and pushing up his sleeve. He didn’t know what kind of spell might work against a conjurer as skilled as this one, but he wanted to be ready to try anything.

  Ethan had faced skilled conjurers before, a few here in Boston in the years since his release from the plantation, and one or two from before his imprisonment. Only two years ago, he had tried and failed to bring to justice a speller who killed two merchants and attempted to murder another. The speller, Nate Ramsey, had sought
to avenge his father, whom the merchants had cheated out of ship and fortune. Ramsey had been as potent a speller as any he had known; Ethan still dreaded the day when he might have to face the man again. But he was starting to believe that this conjurer who had summoned the ghostly girl Anna from thin air was even more skilled than Ramsey.

  He cut himself and whispered, “Veni ad me.” Come to me. The night air pulsed, and an instant later, Uncle Reg was striding beside him, grave and resolved.

  They crossed over Mill Creek and cut south at Dock Square. Soon they were in the narrow lanes of the South End not far from the waterfront. The air had grown cooler, and a fine mist crept over the city from the harbor. Still Ethan walked, the ghost with him, and still he saw no sign of the little girl. The moon hung low in the east, nearly full, its glow muted by the haze.

  They were less than a block from Ethan’s home when he felt at last that same vague awareness of spellmaking. A moment later, he spotted her, standing in the street next to a darkened storefront. This time he noticed immediately all that had eluded him the previous night. The moonlight touched her clothing, but she cast no shadow, and her face glowed faintly as if lit from within. On the one hand this reassured him: There were limits to this conjurer’s power and skill. On the other hand, seeing these flaws in the illusion made him wonder anew how he could have failed to notice them during their first encounter.

  The girl marked his approach, a mischievous smile on her grimy face. “You came,” she said, when he was within a few paces of her. “That was smart, Kaille.” She gazed at the ghost beside him, looking him up and down for a moment before dismissing him with a flip of her hair. “He won’t be of much use to you.”

  Uncle Reg bared his teeth at the girl, like a feral dog, but she didn’t spare him another glance.

  Ethan looked around, though he didn’t expect the conjurer to allow himself to be seen.

  “We’re quite alone,” the girl told him.

  “I’ll have to take your word on that.”