“No, Kelf!” Ethan called. “I think I can get it!”
“Ethan!” the barkeep said. “Wha’d ya do t’ this blasted thing?”
“I’m not sure, give me a minute.” He hated to use even a single leaf of the mullein for this, but he didn’t want to have to explain to Kelf why he had his sleeve up and his knife out. Extegimen ex verbasco evocatum. End warding, conjured from mullein. Feeling the hum of power, seeing Reg, he looked self-consciously at Kannice, though of course she hadn’t noticed anything.
For Kelf’s benefit, he tinkered with the door handle and key for a few moments, before opening the door.
“The tumbler must have gotten stuck,” he said, as Kelf stalked into the tavern, scowling at him, at the lock, at Kannice.
The barman shook his head, eyeing the door. “Never happens when I lock up.” He shook his head again and stomped off into the kitchen.
A grin flashed across Kannice’s face and was gone. She walked over to Ethan and kissed him, her brow knitting. “You didn’t sleep well.”
“No, but I slept. That’s something.”
“Eat something before you go.”
He followed her to the bar, where a platter of fried bread, eggs, and bacon waited for him. He ate quickly and fished in his pocket for a shilling.
“Don’t you dare,” Kannice said.
Ethan smiled. “Thank you.”
“Where are you going now?” she asked, her expression deadly serious.
“Are you going to follow me around, and make sure I’m safe?”
“If I have to.”
He leaned forward to kiss her. But she put a hand on his chest, stopping him.
“Tell me, Ethan.”
“What good do you think it’ll do? Do you really think you can save me from the-”
Kelf emerged from the kitchen, a barrel of ale on his great shoulder. He put it down with a thud, looked from one of them to the other, and returned to the kitchen, muttering to himself.
“I know I can’t save you from anyone,” Kannice said earnestly. “But maybe I can get word to someone who can.”
“I’m not sure there is anyone, not against this conjurer. But for what it’s worth, I’ll be speaking with Cyrus Derne this morning. And then Ebenezer Mackintosh. After that I’m not sure.”
“All right. Is there any point in telling you to be careful?”
He stood, kissed her, and picked up his coat off the bar. “Probably not,” he said, making his way to the door.
The rain had stopped, but dark clouds still scudded low over the city and puddles of befouled water filled the lanes. The air had cooled again, and a sharp wind rattled the door and windows of the tavern. Turning up his collar, he walked north into the teeth of the gale, crossing into the North End and continuing toward Bennet’s Street.
He wasn’t sure what to expect when he reached the Derne mansion. It was early still, and he felt reasonably sure that both Cyrus and his father wouldn’t have left yet for their wharf.
As Ethan approached the house, though, he was surprised to see Sephira Pryce and her men standing out front. Nigel grinned when he spotted Ethan, and he said something to Sephira, alerting her to Ethan’s arrival. She waved, a rapacious smile on her face. Ethan faltered a step, but then continued on toward the house, hoping that Sephira wouldn’t be so bold as to murder him here in the wealthiest part of the North End, in the light of day. As he had told Kannice, there was no point in telling him to be careful.
As Ethan approached the Derne house, Nigel and two of his friends stepped in front of him, blocking his way. Ethan halted, and the toughs remained where they were. But the grin on Yellow-hair’s face told Ethan that he would have been grateful for any opportunity to pick up right where things had left off the previous evening, before Pell and the sheriff interrupted them.
“You’re not welcome here, Ethan,” Sephira said, stepping out from behind her men and walking to him.
She was dressed in her street clothes again-a long coat over the usual breeches, shirt, and waistcoat-but her lilac perfume smelled stronger than usual. Maybe Ethan wasn’t used to seeing her so early in the day, or maybe she put on extra scent when visiting men as wealthy as the Dernes. Either way, it was too much; no one as hateful as this woman ought to have worn anything that smelled so sweet.
“Are you and your boys the Dernes’ personal guards now, Sephira?” Ethan asked. “Have things gotten that difficult for you since I started taking away your wealthy clientele?”
She laughed. “You really are an idiot, aren’t you? Do you think you’re safe now because it’s daytime and we’re surrounded by nice houses?”
“Actually, yes, I do,” he said, keeping his voice low. “Because of that, and because I have sources for conjuring that don’t require me to spill blood. Just as I did last night when I used a little bit of grass to hold off a dozen of your men. I could kill you where you stand without drawing a blade or making a sound. It would just look like I scared you to death.”
Her face fell a bit and Ethan was certain that he saw fear in her eyes. She would recover quickly; she always did. But he enjoyed the moment.
“What do you want?” she asked.
“I came to speak with Cyrus Derne. But I wouldn’t mind knowing what you’re doing here.”
Sephira smoothed her waistcoat. “Well, I have no intention of telling you anything, and Derne asked us to keep you away from him.”
“You really are his guards,” Ethan said. “Why is Derne so afraid of me?” He knew the answer, of course, but he wanted to know what the merchant had told Sephira. Not that he really expected her to say.
“He’s not afraid of you. No one’s afraid of you, Ethan. He just doesn’t want to see you. Apparently you disturbed him in the middle of a negotiation yesterday at his place of business.” She shook her head. “That was foolish of you. But then again, you have a habit of making enemies of the wrong people.”
“I find it hard to believe that you would come to the North End just to keep away a conjurer who might or might not show up at Cyrus Derne’s door. What are you doing here, Sephira? What business do you have with him?”
“Ethan,” she purred. She came closer to him and leaned forward so that her face was only inches from his. “You sound jealous.”
“I imagine he and his father have connections with merchants throughout the British Empire,” he said, piecing it together as he spoke. “I’m sure that they pay very well, and would find value in an ally with your knowledge of the city and its shadier side. They might even look to someone like you to help them in a dispute with a man as influential as Abner Berson. Did Cyrus Derne really love Jennifer Berson, or was that a ruse, a way of getting close to her father?”
She regarded him with an odd mixture of amusement and alarm. Finally, she laughed and shook her head. “Go home, Ethan, before you get yourself hurt. You’re meddling in matters you can’t possibly understand.” She turned to her men. “We’re done here.” Glancing back at Ethan, she laughed again, and then led Nigel and the rest of her men back down Middle Street, toward the South End.
Ethan watched them go before making his way up the path to the Dernes’ door. Two chaises waited outside the house, their horses standing with their heads bowed. Derne was home. Ethan knocked once, and the door opened immediately. The same hulking servant Ethan remembered from his first visit to the house stood in the doorway, staring down at him, his expression no more welcoming than Nigel’s had been.
“Ethan Kaille to see Cyrus Derne,” Ethan said.
“Mister Derne doesn’t wish to speak with you, Ethan.”
Ethan frowned. The servant hadn’t opened his mouth. He glared at Ethan a moment longer and then stepped aside, revealing the last person Ethan had expected to see here: Geoffrey Brower-Bett’s husband, his brother-in- law.
As always, Geoffrey was impeccably dressed and perfectly groomed. He wore a suit of pale green silk, and his hair was pulled back and powdered. Geoffrey had a high forehead, a hook nose, and dark eyes, and he was as thin as a blade and uncommonly tall. He towered over Ethan, who had once remarked to Bett that her husband
