D. Jackson - Thieftaker

Henry grimaced again. “Ya want me t’ stop?”

Ethan stared at him briefly before picking up the bottle, pulling out the cork, and gulping down a mouthful. It burned, but it tasted good. “Don’t stop.”

The cooper nodded his approval, a toothless grin on his face, and went back to work.

When at last Henry had finished, Ethan had to admit that he felt somewhat better. He stood stiffly, and began to pull off his waistcoat and shirt.

“Ya should rest,” the cooper said.

“I can’t. I have to pay a visit to Beacon Street.”

“Beacon Street!” Henry repeated. “Who d’ya know there?”

“I have a meeting with Abner Berson.”

The cooper’s mouth dropped open and he shook his head. “Pryce and Berson in one day. Ya’re movin’ up in the world, Ethan.”

Ethan didn’t say anything. It probably would have amazed Henry to see the house in which Ethan had grown up. His father had taken great pride in being able to afford a home within a block of the Bristol Cathedral. Ellis Kaille would have been ashamed to see his son living in this single room on Cooper’s Alley.

“My thanks again, Henry. I’m in your debt.”

The old man gathered his bucket, cloths, and rum, and paused at the door. “Not at all. Have a care though. I don’ want t’ have t’ do this again. Never liked blood o’ any kind.”

Ethan watched him go. Once Henry had descended the wooden stairs, Ethan sat again and checked his ribs, determining that only the one was broken. Taking a long breath to prepare himself, he pushed the broken bone back in place, gasping in agony, and fighting not to be sick. When he had set the bone as best he could, he pulled out his knife, cut his forearm, smeared some blood on his side, and said, “ Remedium ex cruore evocatum. ” Healing, conjured from blood.

Uncle Reg appeared, took one look at Ethan’s face, and began to laugh silently. If Ethan could have punched the ghost in the nose, he would have. Despite the specter’s mockery, the effect of Ethan’s spell was immediate. It felt as though cool water were flowing over the bone and surrounding flesh. He hadn’t realized how much it hurt each time he took a breath until he could inhale without pain.

Ethan wished he could do more for his wounds, but Henry had seen the bruises on his face and would notice if he healed too quickly. He would have to be satisfied with mending the broken bone. Healing spells were taxing, and after the beating he had taken, he would have liked nothing better than to take Henry’s advice and rest. But one didn’t keep a man like Abner Berson waiting, and Sephira’s visit had served only to make Ethan more determined to begin his inquiry. He changed into clean clothes and left his room. One of his eyes had swollen shut, making it difficult to see, and his split lip would make speaking a chore.

He had lost track of the time, but the sun was still up, angling sharply across the shops and lanes of Boston. The day had grown warm, and a steady wind blew in off the harbor, carrying the scent of rain.

He walked back up Water Street and School Street, passing King’s Chapel once more, and also the Granary Burying Ground, before turning onto Beacon Street. The night before, while waiting for Ezra Corbett in the merchant’s sitting room, Ethan had remarked to himself how much nicer Corbett’s home was than his own. Now, walking past the mansions at the base of Beacon Hill, he wondered if Corbett felt the same way when he came to call on men like Berson.

Referring to these manors as houses failed to do them justice. They might have been situated within the bounds of the city, but they resembled the country estates of Braintree, Milton, and Roxbury as much as they did even the finer houses of the North End. Beacon Street itself was clean and pleasant, offering fine views of the hill. There were no beggars asking for coin or miscreants lurking in alleys. Each house had its own stone wall and iron gate, and the grounds surrounding the homes were neat and well tended.

Abner Berson’s home was no more grand than those around it, and it was modest when compared with the Hancock estate farther down the road. But still it was impressive. Constructed of white marble, it was solid and square and stood three stories high. A wide flagstone drive led from the street to the door. Before it, broad marble steps led to an ornate portico supported by proud Corinthian columns. A carriage waited by the house, a large chestnut cart horse standing before it with its head lowered, a grizzled driver seated behind the beast. He eyed Ethan with unconcealed curiosity as the thieftaker approached.

“Wha’ happ’n’d t’ you, mate?” the man asked. “I once hit a felleh with my cart-looked a bit like you do now.”

Ethan chuckled. “It wasn’t a cart,” he said, and climbed the steps to the front entrance.

The servant who answered his knock was a white-haired African man, smartly dressed in black linen. He regarded Ethan dubiously, even after the thieftaker told the man his name.

“Mister Berson is expecting me,” Ethan said. “If you don’t believe me, you can find the man with the silver hair and Scottish accent who hired me earlier today.”

This convinced the servant, who waved Ethan into the house even as he continued to cast disapproving looks his way.

“Wait here,” the man said, and walked off, leaving Ethan just inside the door, in a spacious tiled entrance hall with a high ceiling. Brilliantly colored tapestries covered the walls, and a large, round fixture that held no fewer than a dozen candles hung overhead. Ethan could hardly imagine how much work it took to light and extinguish the flames every night. Rather than smelling of spermaceti, though, the house was redolent of sweet scents: bayberry and beeswax.

He could see into the next chamber, which was also huge. The floors in there were made of some dark, fine-grained wood, and the furniture was of better quality than anything he had seen in the Corbett house.

No wonder Sephira didn’t want Ethan competing for her clientele.

Curtains had been drawn across every window Ethan could see, and in the sitting room a cloth was draped over what he assumed was a looking glass. Even in the wealthiest households, mourning superstitions remained the same.

The click of footsteps on tile and a brisk “Mister Kaille” made Ethan turn.

Abner Berson was striding toward him, though he slowed upon seeing Ethan’s face. “God have mercy! What happened to you?”

He forced a broad smile, which hurt, and walked to where Berson had halted, extending a hand. “A disagreement with a colleague. It’s nothing, sir.”

Berson took his hand and shook it absently, but he continued to study Ethan’s face, frowning as if pained by what he saw. “You call this nothing?”

Silently cursing Sephira, he said, “Not really, no. But I can’t do anything about it now, and you and I have more pressing and difficult matters to discuss.”

“Aye,” Berson agreed soberly. “That we do.”

He started toward the large sitting room, gesturing for Ethan to follow. They stepped through that chamber into a small study, the walls of which were lined with shelves holding more bound volumes than Ethan had ever seen in one place.

“I collect them,” Berson said needlessly, watching Ethan as he scanned the shelves. There were volumes here by Rabelais and Cervantes, Butler and Newton, Hobbes and Locke.

“Most come from England,” the merchant went on. “A few are from France, and some of the newer ones were produced here in Boston, by Edes and Gill. Though I must say that I don’t think much of the quality of their volumes. Do you read, Mister Kaille?”

“Yes, sir, I do. There was a time when I read a lot.”

“You don’t anymore?”