D. Jackson - Thieftaker

Berson smiled and dug into his pocket for the change purse Ethan had seen the other day. “Of course, Mister Kaille. Will five pounds be enough?”

“Two would be enough, sir.”

“Well, I’ll give you five anyway.” The merchant handed him the coins. “Considering all you’ve done on our behalf and what you have endured to retrieve the brooch, it’s the least I can do.”

Berson led him back to the entrance hall and pulled open the door. He glanced behind him and said in a booming voice, no doubt so the others would hear, “Well, Mister Kaille, I’m grateful to you for finding my daughter’s brooch and putting this matter to rest. Best of luck to you.”

“Thank you, sir,” Ethan said, gripping the merchant’s proffered hand.

Berson winked at him and said in a low voice. “May the Lord keep you safe, Mister Kaille. I’ll look forward to our next conversation.”

Ethan nodded and left the house, thinking that for all the complaining he heard in the Dowser about wealthy men and their ways, Abner Berson struck him as no less kind or honorable than anyone living in one of Boston’s more modest quarters.

Reaching the end of the broad stone path in front of Berson’s house, Ethan stepped out into Beacon Street, and immediately found himself face-to-face with Nigel, who looked as wet and bedraggled as an overlarge hound. Ethan took a step back, intending to run, but then thought better of it. If there was one of them, there were probably five. Ethan had no doubt that Sephira’s toughs had him trapped. Instead, he pulled out his blade and pushed up the sleeve of his coat.

“No need for that,” Nigel said in a low drawl. “She jus’ wants a word.”

“Right,” Ethan said. “If you don’t mind, I’ll keep my blade out anyway.”

Nigel merely shrugged and started walking away. “Follow me,” he said, not even bothering to look back.

Ethan hesitated, then followed. Gordon and Nap fell in step beside him, seeming to materialize out of nowhere. He heard footsteps trailing him as well.

“Do you all live together, too?” Ethan asked, glancing at the two men walking with him.

Gordon glowered at him but said nothing. Nap chuckled.

The toughs escorted him east and then south, past King’s Chapel and the Old South Church toward the more open lands around d’Acosta’s Pasture. At last, they came to a large house on Summer Street that stood only a short distance from the soaring wooden steeple of the New South Church. This wasn’t considered the most desirable place to live in Boston-that would have been back where the Bersons had their home. It wasn’t even the best street of the South End. But it was a good neighborhood nevertheless, and far better than Sephira Pryce deserved.

The house, Ethan had to admit, appeared from the street to be tasteful and elegant. It was large and constructed of the same white marble used to build the Berson home, but it wasn’t as ostentatious as Ethan would have expected the Empress of the South End’s home to be.

The men escorted Ethan up a cobbled path to the door. Nigel knocked once, and at a faint response from within pushed the door open. Ethan started to enter, but Nigel put out a massive arm to block his way.

“Yar knife,” he said, holding out his other hand.

Without his blade, Ethan would be at a distinct disadvantage in any confrontation with Sephira and her men. “I don’t think so.”

“Then ya’re not goin’ in.”

“Fine with me.”

“You have my word, Ethan,” came Sephira’s voice from within the house. “You’ll be safe. Maybe not the next time we meet, but for now, no harm will come to you.”

He had to admit that he was now curious. He took a breath, handed Nigel the knife, and stepped inside.

The interior of the house was far more ornate than the exterior, though again Ethan was surprised and a little disappointed to discover that Sephira had refined taste. A small entrance hall with a white tile floor and colorful wall tapestries led into a vast common room that was well furnished and brightly lit with bay-scented candles. The rugs covering the dark wooden floor were colorful without being tawdry, and they matched the tapestries. Ethan thought it likely that the rugs and tapestries came from the Orient. Everywhere he looked he saw paintings and sculptures, and though he didn’t pretend to know much of such things, he couldn’t help but be impressed by the quality of every piece.

“In here,” she called to him from a chamber to the left of the common room.

He followed her voice into a study that was similar in size to the Berson library. But where Abner Berson’s room had been filled with volumes, this chamber was filled with blades. Swords of every imaginable shape and size hung from the walls. There were scimitars from the Holy Land, their hilts studded with a galaxy of gems, and austere bastard swords that might well have come from the Scottish Highlands. There were fine long blades that had to have been made on the Iberian Peninsula, and one short sword that appeared to have been forged entirely from solid gold.

“That one was made by the Turks,” Sephira said, seeing where his gaze lingered. “Would you like to hold it?”

Ethan shook his head, glancing her way before crossing to a small glass case at the far end of the room. This was filled with a variety of firearms. They were all hand weapons, mostly of the flintlock variety, but there were older pistols as well-wheel locks and at least one matchlock that might also have been from the Orient. Each was as unique as the blades adorning the walls. One had a grip of carved ivory, another of some polished, light-grained wood Ethan didn’t recognize, and still another of what Ethan guessed was solid silver.

Beside this case stood yet another that held daggers and dirks. As with the swords and pistols, Ethan could scarcely believe the diversity of Sephira’s collection. Forced to guess, he would have said that there were blades and firearms in this room from every continent, and from nearly every country in Europe.

After gazing at the smaller blades for some time, Ethan turned to Sephira, a thousand questions on his tongue. But seeing how she watched him, the calculation in those cold blue eyes, Ethan swallowed them all and chided himself for allowing her to distract him in this way. He was like a little boy, too easily enthralled with sweets and shiny toys.

Looking at Sephira-at how she was dressed and how her hair had been styled-he also understood that the blades and pistols hadn’t been the only things meant to entice. Ethan had never seen her in a gown, and he doubted he ever would. But while she was still dressed in the garb of the streets, her clothes this day were more feminine than usual. Instead of breeches, she wore a long black skirt. Her silk blouse, open at the neck, and the black silk waistcoat she wore over it both fit her closely, accentuating the curves of her body. A sapphire pendant hung from a silver necklace, drawing Ethan’s eyes where they already wished to go. Her hair spilled down her back in dark ringlets, and even from across the room, Ethan could smell her perfume.

She smiled, perhaps seeing more in his gaze than he wished to reveal. “You like my collection?” she said, sauntering over to where he stood.

“I have to admit I do. That curved blade near the back, the one with the ebony hilt, that’s from India, isn’t it?”

“Why, Ethan, I had no idea you knew so much about knives.” She sounded genuinely surprised.

“I once had a small collection myself. Nothing like this, but I spent a number of years as a sailor and a soldier, and I traded for a few keepsakes along the way.”

“And where is this collection now?”

“I have no idea. I haven’t seen them since I was taken to Barbados nineteen years ago.” He faced her, his eyes locking on hers. “Why am I here, Sephira?”