D. Jackson - Thieves' Quarry

He left the shack, his boots scraping first on the porch and then the stairs. Still the women said nothing. They seemed to be listening, and Ethan did the same, until he could no longer hear the man tromping through the tall grass.

Ethan’s one hope was that Hester and Molly might help him once their father was gone. That hope evaporated as soon as Osborne was out of earshot.

“You’re a fool!” Hester said, rounding on him, her hands on her hips. “You wouldn’t listen to me. You couldn’t just leave when I told you to.”

Ethan flicked his gaze to Diver and back to her.

“Yes, I know. Your friend. He’s as stupid as you are. You can’t save him. So you’re both dead, and Molly and I will have two more souls to worry about.”

“I don’t want to do any more conjuring, Hes,” Molly said.

Hester took her hand. “I know, love. Neither do I. Why don’t you sew some more? That always helps.”

Molly cast a furtive glance Ethan’s way one last time and crossed to a chair at the far end of the room. One of her bright, patterned cushions lay on the floor, and several more scraps of matching material rested on the arm of the chair. Molly sat, took up the material, and soon was absorbed in her craft. She didn’t look happy, but the sewing did seem to calm her.

Hester, on the other hand, remained where she was, watching Ethan, the pistol still in her hand.

Ethan thought once more of the mullein in his pocket. He thought he could make a spell work without speaking it aloud. The problem was, two leaves weren’t enough for any casting that could overcome the combined might of the sisters Osborne. He couldn’t defeat their binding spell. He might be able to heal the worst of Diver’s injuries, but the women would use a conjuring to bind his friend, or worse. He could light a fire, or bring the roof of the shack down on them all, but he and Diver were both helpless to escape. He was more comfortable than he had been in the gaol, but the invisible shackles conjured by Hester and Molly were no less effective than Greenleaf’s chains.

The wood of the shack was too old and lifeless to provide much power for a spell. On the other hand, there was more than enough grass outside for several castings. But bound as he was, by both conjuring and rope, he would have to give much thought to which spell he chose to cast. Hester had the pistol, both women could conjure, and Ethan had Diver to worry about as well as himself.

He considered an illusion spell. Though the rain had stopped, leaving him with little water for an elemental spell, there was no reason he couldn’t use grass to send for help using an image of himself as he had at the prison. But as soon as he cast the spell, and sent such an image to Kannice or Pell or anyone else who might have been able to come to his aid, Hester would feel the spell and know that Ethan was conjuring.

Which left him back where he had been before he started thinking in circles: helpless, a captive.

He again glanced at Hester, but then looked away, and let his gaze settle on Molly instead. At first she took no notice of him, so intent was she on her sewing. After some time, though, she happened to look up and catch sight of him watching her. She dropped her gaze, but a few seconds later her eyes flicked his way a second time.

Looking down once more, she shifted in her seat, bent lower over her work, and stared hard at the thread and cloth, seeming to will herself not to glance his way anymore. And yet, seconds later she did.

A small whine escaped her and she looked over at her sister.

“Hester?” she said.

“Stop it, Kaille.”

Ethan didn’t look away.

Hester stepped forward, planting herself directly in front of him so that he could no longer see Molly. He raised his eyes and she slapped him hard on the cheek. Not only did it sting, but it also turned his head enough that he could no longer see Molly. Hester smiled with grim satisfaction and took a seat near her sister, in a chair that was also outside of Ethan’s line of sight.

After that, time slowed to a crawl. Hester remained where she was, Molly sewed, and Ethan sat doing nothing, waiting to be killed.

He must have dozed off, because the next sound that reached him was a low groan that cut through his slumber. He woke with a start, his neck and arms and legs feeling stiff. Someone-Hester-walked to his chair and roughly turned his head so that he could see Molly again, and, more important, so that he could see Diver.

His friend groaned a second time, and his eyes fluttered open. He started to sit up, but stopped when he saw Hester standing over him, the pistol trained on his heart.

“Stay right where you are,” she said.

Diver nodded, groaned again, and raised a hand to the gash on the side of his head. “Where are-?” he started to ask, looking around the shack. But when he spotted Ethan, he stopped, his mouth falling open, astonishment and despair in his gray eyes.

“Ethan! What are you doing here?”

“He can’t answer you,” Hester said.

“Why not? What have you done to him?”

“It’s called a binding spell. He can’t move at all, not to speak, not to conjure, not to help you in any way. It’s just you against the two of us, and we’re both capable of doing to you what we’ve done to him. So sit still, and keep quiet.”

Diver faced Ethan again, a question on his youthful face. All Ethan could do was stare back at him. After a moment or two of this, Diver seemed to realize that the woman had spoken the truth.

“What happened to his arm?” Diver asked. “And that bruise on his face-where did that come from?”

“My father,” Hester said, as if the words tasted bitter in her mouth.

Diver slumped against the wall and reached up once more to the gash on his head. “Your father,” he repeated. “A fine man. He’s the one who did this to me, too.”

“Keep quiet,” Hester said, taking her seat once more, the pistol still held ready.

Diver fell silent, but not for long. “He wasn’t happy when he found out I didn’t have the pearls. The first time we met, I was able to put him off, but not the second. When I didn’t have them, he got angry, pulled out a gun. I tried to run, but he must have used a spell on me, brought me back here.” He gestured at the bruises on his face. “The rest you can see.”

Hester leaned forward in her chair. “Stop talking! We don’t want to hear this.”

But of course, Diver was saying it for Ethan’s benefit, not hers.

“The first time we spoke, he offered me twenty pounds-not a lot for pearls, but enough to make me think that he must think he can get a lot for them. He wanted to know where in New Boston I found them. He asked if they had been near the church. And I told him that they had. That seemed to be the right-”

Hester was on her feet again, standing over Diver, the pistol pressed against his chest.

“Another word, and I swear I’ll kill you!”

Diver stared up at her, his mouth clamped shut.

“Don’t you think I understand what you’re doing?” She gestured back at Ethan, waving the pistol. “You’re telling him all of this. And I want you to stop!”

“Hester, it’s all right,” Molly said, meek and scared.

“No, Molly, it’s not! So just shut your mouth. All of you, keep quiet!”

Molly’s face crumbled and tears slipped from her eyes.

“You see?” Hester cried, glaring down at Diver, looking and sounding more like her father with every word. “If you would just keep silent-”

The report of the pistol was deafening, and for the span of a heartbeat or two, no one moved or said a word. Gray smoke filled the room, along with the acrid scent of gunpowder. At last, Hester looked down at the pistol, which she still held, a look of stunned incredulity on her face.