D. Jackson - Thieftaker

They again lapsed into silence. A cart rumbled past, hoofbeats echoing off the nearby buildings. Two cats slunk across the lane ahead of them. A few faint stars shone overhead.

“Have you more questions for me?” Derne asked at length, a chill still in his voice. “I’ve had a long, difficult day.”

“I’m sure you have, sir.” Ethan hesitated, considering how best to word his next question. Finally, he said, “How much do you know about the circumstances of Miss Berson’s death?”

“Very little,” Derne answered. “I know that she was murdered, that she was found near where these… these agitators had been, that her grandmother’s brooch was taken. Is there more that matters?”

“Have you… have you gone to view her at King’s Chapel?”

The merchant shook his head. “Not yet. I haven’t had the chance. And to be honest I’ve been dreading it. Why? Is there something I ought to know before I do?”

“No, sir,” Ethan said. “It’s nothing like that.” Again he faltered. “Do you have any idea why Mister Berson came to me with this matter?” he asked at last.

Derne frowned. “What an odd thing to ask. Why should I care why you were hired? Why should you, for that matter? I should think you would be grateful for the work.”

Apparently there was at least one man left in Boston who didn’t know that Ethan was a conjurer. Which probably meant that Derne truly didn’t know how Jennifer had died. Berson might have been too ashamed or too frightened to tell him. “It probably shouldn’t,” he said, eager now to explain away his question. “I’m… I’m a bit out of my element. I’m a thieftaker. I usually don’t involve myself in murders.”

They turned one more corner and Ethan realized that Derne had steered them back within sight of his home. No doubt this was the man’s way of telling Ethan that their conversation was at an end.

“I won’t trouble you more, sir,” Ethan said as they approached the Derne house. “Except to ask you the same thing I asked Mister Berson. Can you think of anyone who would have wanted to hurt Miss Berson, or anyone who wanted to hurt you so badly that he would take vengeance on her?”

Derne sighed, sounding genuinely weary. “Jennifer had no enemies,” he said. “I can’t imagine anyone wanting to hurt her. But her father, and my father and I are another matter entirely. We’re merchants. We make enemies every day, and yes, some of them might go to great lengths to get back at us.” He raised a hand to forestall interruption. “I’m not thinking of someone in particular. I’m just saying that the pursuit of wealth makes men do foolish things, dangerous things.”

He said this last with such earnestness that Ethan was forced to wonder if he did in fact have someone specific in mind. But he had already pushed the man hard enough, and he had no desire to provoke him further, at least not yet.

“I appreciate your candor, sir,” he said, as they stopped in front of the Derne house. “If you think of anything that might help me find Miss Berson’s killer, I hope you’ll let me know.”

“Of course,” Derne said, his tone businesslike. “How might I get in touch with you?”

“I live in the South End, above Dall’s cooperage. And a message can be left for me at the Dowsing Rod on Sudbury Street.”

“Very well.” Derne put out his hand and Ethan gripped it.

“Good night, Mister Derne.”

“Mister Kaille.”

Ethan started away, aware that Derne was staring after him. He kept his gaze fixed on the street ahead of him, however, and after a short while the feeling of being watched faded.

He was hungry, and he considered making his way to the Dowser for some of Kannice’s stew. But Kannice hadn’t been happy with him when he left the tavern that morning-was this really still the same day? — and he had given her good reason. If he had kept his word to himself, and had refused to take any more jobs for a time, he wouldn’t have been beaten by Sephira’s men, and he would still have the money Corbett had paid him the night before.

He knew, though, that he could not have refused Abner Berson’s offer. “Do you have to work every job that calls for a conjurer?” Kannice had asked him. And the truth was that he did. There was no one else. He had tried to explain as much to Kannice that morning, but they had been at odds over the riots and both of them had been angry. Ethan owed it to her to explain again.

Tonight, though, he couldn’t bring himself to face that conversation or her inevitable questions about his injuries. In the end, Ethan chose to walk home. He had some cheese and bread there, and even a small flask of Madeira that Diver had gotten for him-Ethan knew better than to ask where. He didn’t have a lot of any of it, but there was enough to make a meal. And then he could sleep.

As he walked through the lanes he tried to concentrate on what he had learned thus far about Jennifer Berson and the final hours of her life. A good deal of it struck him as odd. He sensed, though, that he had heard much of importance in his encounters with Berson and Derne, and even Sephira Pryce, if only he could sift through it all. But the day’s events had finally caught up with him. He was tired and sore, and he felt like his brain was moving slower than usual.

Still, his senses remained sharp. As he stepped onto Cooper’s Alley he felt the back of his neck prickle. He was being watched again. It wasn’t his conjuring ability that told him this. At least not exactly. There were protection spells a conjurer could use to ward himself, even to make himself blend into his surroundings, though these worked better in crowds than in empty lanes. A speller with enough skill might even cast spells that could alert him to the presence of certain enemies.

But Ethan hadn’t used any such conjurings. He merely sensed the presence of something, or more precisely, someone. He couldn’t always perceive conjuring ability in others, but when he did, the feeling was unmistakable, as though an ethereal tether bound him to that person, charging the air between them as during an electrical storm. He felt that way now. And a moment later, he also sensed a conjuring. The feeling was vague; either the spell was weak or the conjurer was casting at a great distance. He couldn’t say for certain. But he had no doubt that someone was working a spell. The air around him vibrated, like a plucked string on a harp.

He slowed and turned a full circle, looking for a conjurer, thinking it strange that he should feel the person so acutely, but not the spell. He saw no one on the street. Candlelight from the windows of homes along the lane spilled weak pools of light onto the cobblestones, and the moon shone overhead, only a night or two shy of full and gleaming white.

Ethan eased his knife from his belt. “Who’s there?”

He expected to see a conjurer emerge from the shadows. He couldn’t have been more surprised to see a girl of no more than eight or nine years step into the street, her clothes in rags, her dark, lank hair hanging to her shoulders. Without realizing it, he had lowered himself into a fighter’s crouch, his weapon held ready. He straightened now, allowing his blade hand to drop to his side, though he didn’t put the knife away.

He slowly walked toward the girl, glancing from side to side, expecting at any moment to see Sephira Pryce and her men charging at him. The girl watched him with large pale eyes, but she didn’t back away or show any sign of fear. She looked half starved, her cheeks sunken, her skin sallow, bare wrists as thin as sticks.

“Who are you?” Ethan asked, stopping a few paces short of the girl.

“Anna,” she said in a small voice. “Are you Kaille?”

Ethan nodded. Where was the conjurer he had sensed moments before? “Are you here alone?”