D. Jackson - Thieftaker

Ethan started to respond, but stopped himself. He and his sister had battled on similar terrain too many times before, and too many of their wounds remained raw. “Very well,” he said, turning once more to go. “I’ll leave it to you to explain to Abner Berson why I couldn’t find his daughter’s killer. It’s really not a conversation I wish to have.”

“That’s unfair,” she said, actually sounding hurt. “You know how I feel about this, Ethan. I haven’t said anything today that I haven’t told you a thousand times before. What did you expect?”

“I expect nothing, Bett. But however much you hate me-”

“I don’t hate you. I’ve never hated you. I pray for your redemption every night.”

It would have been rude to laugh. “Thank you for that. What I meant to say is that whatever you might think of me and what I do, you must know that I never seek to do harm with my conjurings. Surely you understand that I never use my spellmaking to kill.”

“I know.”

“But whoever murdered Jennifer Berson did just that. Wouldn’t you like to see that person punished?”

He watched her, hoping in spite of all he knew of her that she would listen to reason this once. But she showed no sign of relenting and at last Ethan crossed to the archway leading back to the stairs.

“All right,” she said, her voice echoing so loudly that it startled him. Then she said more softly, “Speak your spell. You’ve already desecrated our church. You might as well learn something of value.”

Ethan didn’t say a word or hesitate, lest he give her an excuse to change her mind. He put down his waistcoat once more and walked back to where she was standing. He eyed her briefly, expecting her to leave. When she didn’t, he pulled out his knife, pushed up his sleeve, and cut himself for a second time. Ethan felt self-conscious with Bett there watching him, no doubt disapproving of everything he did. But he tried to ignore her as he dabbed blood on the girl again in the same pattern.

“ Revela originem potestatis, ” he said, “ ex cruore evocatam. ” Reveal source of power, conjured from blood.

Again, the air in the chamber came alive. The ghost appeared beside Ethan, and Bett let out a small gasp. Reg leered at her. Ethan saw Bett shudder and fold her arms over her chest, even as he felt the blood on his arm evaporate and watched it vanish from the dead girl’s face, neck, and chest. The glow surrounding the corpse flickered briefly, like a flame in a sudden breeze, but otherwise the light didn’t change at all.

They stood utterly still for several moments. At last Ethan frowned and cast a quick look at his sister. He half expected her to gloat at the apparent failure of his spell, but she merely continued to stare at the still form on the slab and rubbed her arms to keep warm.

“Well, that was damned peculiar,” Ethan said eventually.

She shot him a disapproving look. But instead of chiding him for his oath she said, “You expected more to happen.”

“Aye.” Ethan thought about trying the spell a second time, but he didn’t think Bett would stand for it. He also didn’t expect that it would make any difference. The killer had gone to great lengths to mask the nature of his-or her-conjuring, something Ethan hadn’t thought possible.

This conjurer possessed skills that Ethan couldn’t fathom, much less match. Where had he-she? — come from, and what had brought such a cursed presence to Boston?

Bett had been watching him, and now she said, “There’s blood on your shirt.”

Ethan glanced down at the stain. “It’s from last night. And it’s not mine.”

“You should put on some clean clothes. You look like a ruffian.”

He laughed. “Do I?”

“I’m serious, Ethan,” she said, sounding so earnest, the way he remembered from when they were children. She had always been far more concerned than he with social niceties.

“I’ll change before I see Mister Berson. You have my word.”

Bett nodded, then turned back to the body. “What will you do?” she asked. “About the girl, I mean. Now that the spell didn’t do what you thought it would.”

Ethan shrugged. “I’ll find another way to track her killer. That’s what I was hired to do.”

Her laugh was dry and humorless, just the way he remembered. “You actually sounded like Father when you said that.”

“He wouldn’t be pleased.”

Bett dismissed the comment with a wave of her hand and turned to leave. “That’s not true and you know it. Good-bye, Ethan.”

“Thank you, Bett.”

She stopped at that and regarded him with obvious surprise. “For what?”

“For not interfering with the spell, even if it didn’t work.”

Her brow creased, as if she realized for the first time that she had done exactly that. “I did it for the girl,” she said. She glanced toward the body. “Will that glow go away, or do you need to cast again?”

He could have claimed that he needed to do one more conjuring. That way he could try the second spell again. But he couldn’t bring himself to lie to her in this place.

“It’ll fade on its own. She should look normal by nightfall.”

“Good,” Bett said, and left him there.

He put away his knife and pulled his sleeve back down. Then he picked up his waistcoat and shrugged it on. He paused at the doorway to look at Jennifer once more. “Grant her rest, Lord,” he whispered.

Ethan climbed the stairs back to the sanctuary. Troutbeck was nowhere to be seen, but Pell stood by the altar. Ethan raised a hand in farewell and continued to the door.

The young minister merely watched him leave.

Ethan thought about making his way directly to the Berson home, as Abner Berson’s man had instructed. But Bett’s remark about the blood on his shirt had reminded him that he ought first to change. He walked down School Street and then on to Water. With each step the stink of the harbor grew stronger.

Dall’s cooperage, which had been built by Henry’s grandfather, stood on the east side of a lane named, appropriately enough, Cooper’s Alley. It was a modest building, but sturdy, with a small sign out front that read simply “Dall’s Barrels and Crates” and a second sign, on the oak door, that read “Open Entr.” Blue-gray smoke rose from a small, crooked chimney on the roof.

Shelly and Pitch lay together outside the door. At Ethan’s approach they raised their heads, their tails thumping the cobblestones in unison.

Ethan stepped over them, pushed the door open, and entered the shop. It was warm within. A fire burned brightly in the stone hearth. Henry sat on a stool by his workbench, his leather apron covering a worn gray shirt, the sleeves of which he had pushed up. The cooper was a small man with a lined, grizzled face, a bald head, and thick, muscular arms. Whenever he worked he furrowed his brow in concentration and opened his mouth in a sort of grimace, revealing a large gap where his two front teeth should have been. That was how he looked now, as he struggled to set the final hoop in place on a large rum barrel. There were fewer distillers in Boston now than there had been as recently as five or ten years ago, but Henry still did a steady business supplying barrels to those that remained.

He was working the hoop into place with a large mallet that he had covered with cloth so that it wouldn’t damage the wood or scrape the hoop. Seeing Ethan enter, he raised a hand in greeting, but continued to work. Ethan remained by the door, watching, saying nothing, until Henry gave the hoop one last whack, threw his mallet onto his workbench, and pushed himself off the stool.

“Damn hoop’th th’ wrong thizthe,” he said, with his usual lisp.

“Is it from Corlin?” Ethan asked.