D. Jackson - Thieves' Quarry

“Yes. In the chest.”

He looked down as she did. There was a hole in Diver’s shirt and waistcoat, but very little blood.

She shook her head. “It doesn’t look-”

“Listen to me.” He touched her chin gently, forcing her to meet his gaze. “He was shot in the chest. By all rights, he should be dead. You understand why he’s not?”

She nodded.

“He needs more attention, and I haven’t the skill or the time to help him. The bullet is still in him; I think he needs to see a surgeon.”

“The one who was here,” Kannice said, one step ahead of him.

“Yes. William Rickman. He’s probably back on board the Launceston. You’ll need to get word-”

“I know.” Her eyes held his for the length of a single breath. “He’ll be all right. I’ll see to it. Go do whatever you have to.”

Ethan forced himself back to his feet, his gut hurting where Osborne had kicked him. He staggered, and might well have fallen to the floor had Kelf not caught hold of his shoulder with a massive hand.

“You sure you don’t want t’ sit awhile and eat somethin’, Ethan?” Kelf asked, the words running together as always.

“I’m sure. But thank you anyway.”

“Come back as soon as you can,” Kannice said, giving his hand a squeeze.

Ethan turned and pulled the door open, taking one last look back at Diver. Kelf had bent over and taken the young man in his arms. He straightened, lifting Diver with such ease, one might have thought the young man weighed nothing at all. Ethan knew all too well that he didn’t. Confident that his friend would be cared for, he stepped once more into the night air and started back the way he had just come. His first choice would have been to go to Thomas Hutchinson’s chambers, but this late in the evening the lieutenant governor would already be back at his estate in Milton. Greenleaf’s house was some distance to the south, and he wasn’t certain that he wanted to show up at the man’s door after dark, lest it give the sheriff just the excuse he needed to shoot him.

This had all started with Geoffrey Brower coming to his room. It seemed to Ethan that it should end with him going back to Brower’s door. He followed Middle Street into the heart of the North End, passing many of the same groups of regulars he had seen not long before. Most showed no sign of recognizing him, but one soldier shouted to him as he hurried past, “Where’s your drunk friend?”

“Sleeping it off!” Ethan called back, not breaking stride.

The soldier and his companions laughed. Ethan was surprised to realize that he had come to hate them.

He reached the Brower house a short time later, his legs sore and weak. This time it was an African servant who answered the door at Geoffrey and Bett’s house. He had Ethan wait at the door until Bett came to greet him.

She said nothing at first except to send the servant for Geoffrey, but she flinched as she took in his various wounds, the state of his clothes, perhaps even the weariness in his eyes.

“You should see a doctor,” she said.

“I will,” he said. “But these matters can’t wait.”

“Do you enjoy it?”

Ethan surprised himself by managing to smile. “Enjoy what? Being beaten, burned, shot at?”

“Your work? I was asking if you enjoy it enough to deal with…” She indicated his clothes and face with a vague wave of her hand. “With all of this.”

He wanted to tell her that he did; saying anything other than “yes” felt like a surrender in their years-long feud. But he was too sore, too weary, and her question cut too close to the bone. “Ask me tomorrow, Bett,” he said at last. “I’ll be able to answer you then.”

“Ethan!”

Geoffrey strode into view, dressed impeccably as always. His face fell when he saw Ethan’s state.

“Good God! What happened?”

“I’ll tell you everything I can,” Ethan said. “But you need to get messages to Sheriff Greenleaf, Lieutenant Colonel Dalrymple, and, if possible, the lieutenant governor. I know who’s responsible for the deaths of all those soldiers as well as for the murder of Simon Gant. I also know where they live.”

“They?” Geoffrey repeated. “There’s more than one of them?”

“They’re the daughters of Caleb Osborne, who was one of the men we thought had died aboard the Graystone. ”

Geoffrey frowned. “ Thought had…” He shook his head. “I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

“I know. As I said, I’ll explain everything. But I don’t know how much time we have. They may try to leave the city, and believe me when I tell you that my life depends on them not getting away.”

“Of course,” Brower said. “I’ll send word immediately to the sheriff and Colonel Dalrymple. The lieutenant governor will be a more difficult matter, but we’ll inform him as soon as possible.” He started back into the house. “I’ll pen messages right away.”

“Thank you, Geoffrey.”

Brower raised a hand as he walked off. Ethan looked at Bett again and took a long breath. Their interaction had always been strained, and tonight he was too exhausted to make any effort at civility. “I can wait out here,” he said, leaning back against one of the marble columns.

“No,” she said. “Come inside. Sit. When was the last time you ate something?”

Ethan’s laugh surprised even him. “I couldn’t tell you. It feels like days.”

Bett took his hand, something she hadn’t done since they were children, and led him into the dining room. She spoke in a low voice to another of their servants, a young woman with brown curls that framed a plain, pale face. As the girl hurried off, Bett poured Ethan a glass of Madeira.

She placed it in front of him and sat at the end of the table, watching him as he took a sip. “Should I call a doctor for you? You really do look terrible.”

“I’ll be all right. Thank you, though.”

He took another sip, feeling self-conscious under his sister’s gaze. Neither said anything more. Eventually the servant returned with a platter of bread, cheese, and apples. Ethan took some bread and cheese, but ate slowly. He wasn’t as hungry as he should have been given how much time had passed since his last meal.

From the back of the house he heard the opening and closing of a door, and a minute later Geoffrey joined them in the dining room.

“The messages are off,” he said. “There’s nothing to do now but wait.” He sat, looking hard at Ethan. “I need you to explain all of this to me. I know I don’t understand much about-” He paused, his gaze flicking toward Bett. “About conjuring,” he said at last, stumbling over the word. “But I want to understand what I saw on the ship.”

“Of course.” But Ethan hesitated, his eyes fixed on the food in front of him. Speaking of spellmaking in front of Bett was never easy, and he wondered how she would react to hearing of the conjurings worked by the Osborne sisters.

She seemed to read his thoughts. She stood and stepped away from the table. “I’m going to check on George. I think I would prefer that he didn’t walk in on the middle of this conversation.” She paused at the door. “Take care of yourself, Ethan.”

“Thank you, Bett.”

Once she had left, Ethan began to tell Geoffrey all that he had learned in the past few days. He had mentioned the pearls the last time they spoke, but at that time he hadn’t known that Osborne still lived. So he explained all of it again, describing as best he could all the spells that had been cast, answering questions whenever Geoffrey interrupted him, and telling him all that he remembered of those frenzied moments in the shack on Hull Street.

For some time after he finished his tale, Geoffrey sat unmoving, watching Ethan.