D. Jackson - Thieftaker

Holin laughed, his blue eyes dancing. “That was well done. Mother never catches herself in time.”

“She doesn’t have to; she’s your mother. Now answer the question.”

“I’ve started working at Hunt’s Wharf,” Holin told him, standing just a bit straighter. “Loading and unloading for one-and-six a day.”

Ethan frowned again. If Holin was working on the waterfront, he had no choice but to cross through this part of the city every day. Ethan had half a mind to tell Elli to keep the boy at home, at least until he had found this sorcerer. But Holin would be angry with him, and chances were that Elli wouldn’t listen anyway.

“How old are you now?” Ethan asked. “Fourteen?”

“Fifteen!” Holin said, indignant.

“Fifteen.” Ethan nodded. “That’s decent money for a… a young man your age.”

Holin laughed. “Aye, you’re much better at that than Mother is.”

“Come on, I’ll walk you home,” Ethan said, glancing in the direction Nigel had gone. He didn’t see the man anymore. He started to put away his blade, but then thought better of it. His leg still ached and he felt sweat trickling down his temples, but his pulse was slowing.

“I offered to give the money to Mother,” Holin said, as they began to walk, the dogs trotting ahead of them. “But she’s letting me keep it. She says we have enough and that grandfather will help us if we need more.”

“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.