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?”
“You’re working for the Bersons,” the girl said. “Is that right?”
Ethan scanned the street again, taking care to check the nearest windows. “Someone sent you, is that it?”
“Are you working for the Bersons?”
He stared at the girl briefly. Perhaps by answering her questions he might learn something of whoever had sent her. “Yes, the Bersons hired me.”
“You seek a piece of jewelry,” Anna said. “A brooch. Rubies and diamonds.”
“That’s right. You know a great deal about me.”
“I know enough,” she said calmly, looking up at him.
“And yet I know nothing about you except your name.” Ethan smiled. “That’s not fair, is it?”
“My name’s Anna. I live here. What more do you want to know?”
“Here?” Ethan repeated. “You mean in the South End?”
“Here, in the streets.”
That wiped the smile from his face. “You have no home?”
She gazed back at him, saying nothing.
“Who takes care of you?”
“I don’t need anyone taking care of me.”
“But where do you sleep? Where do you get your food?”
“I get what I need,” she said, still with that maddening air of calm. “I get along fine without anyone helping me.”
“But you must have some family.”
“I want to talk about the brooch,” she said.
Ethan shook his head. “No. What’s your last name?”
Anna started to walk away. “Fine,” she said, tossing the word over her shoulder. “Then you’ll never find it.”
She didn’t walk quickly, and in turning her back on him she showed no fear. But neither did she give any indication that she was doing this for effect. If he let her go, she would leave.
“Wait!” Ethan called in surrender, as she reached the next illuminated window. “Come back. Please.”
She had halted beneath the window at his first word. Now she started back toward him. There was something odd about her, though Ethan couldn’t quite figure out what it was.
“No more questions about my family,” she said, as she drew nigh again. “Or I’ll leave.”
“All right,” Ethan agreed reluctantly. “Can you at least tell me who sent you?” He glanced around again, his unease growing by the moment. He still sensed someone conjuring, closer now. But where?
She frowned, then shook her head. “I don’t think so.”
Ethan took a step toward her, and then another. She didn’t flinch, but he didn’t want to risk scaring her off. He squatted down so that he was looking her in the eye. “Listen to me, Anna. Whoever sent you could be dangerous. That brooch-it was taken from a girl-”
“Jennifer Berson.”
“That’s right,” Ethan said. “She’s…” He hesitated. He didn’t want to frighten the girl, but she needed to understand her peril. “She’s dead now.”
“I know,” the girl said solemnly.
“Whoever sent you-whoever has that brooch-might well have been the person who killed her.”
“You’re a thieftaker,” she said. “Isn’t that right?”
He nodded, frowning. “Yes, but-”
“Then all that matters to you is the brooch. If you find that and give it back to her family, you’ll be paid.”
“How is it you know so much about thieftaking?”
“Am I right?” she asked.
Ethan stared at her. He wasn’t just talking to the girl, he knew. This was a negotiation with the person who had sent her, who might well be close enough to hear everything they said. In the end, he decided to treat it that way. “It’s not that easy,” he told her. “Jennifer Berson is dead, and her family is entitled to know why, and who’s responsible.”
The girl shook her head. “You’re a thieftaker. The brooch is all that matters. And I can get it for you. I know where it is.”
“Can you take me there now?” Ethan asked.
“I can get it for you.”
Ethan shook his head. “No. The person who has it now-”
“Is none of your concern,” the girl said sternly. “Meet me tomorrow at this time, right here. I’ll take you to it. You can give it to Berson and get your money.”
“There’s more to this than the brooch,” Ethan said. “Even if you don’t understand that, the person who sent you does.”
He was still squatting, and his knees were starting to ache. Ten years ago, he could have stayed thus for longer. But not anymore. He straightened his legs slowly, stiffly. His stomach and sides ached from the
