white marble home appear even more stately than usual. Ethan approached the front door. Most days Sephira had at least one of her toughs posted outside on the portico, but not this morning. He rapped once with the brass lion’s-head knocker.
A moment later the door swung open, revealing Gordon, who looked as huge and ugly as usual. The brute frowned at the sight of Ethan, his ears turning red.
“What do you want?”
Ethan considered a gibe—something about the nap Gordon had taken that night in Will Pryor’s room, and how Sephira might have been working him too hard. But he had come to ask a boon of the Empress of the South End. Angering one of her men would not help his cause.
“I need to speak with Sephira,” he said. “And with Mariz as well. Please.”
Apparently, Gordon had expected mockery; Ethan’s courtesy deepened his frown.
“Wait here.”
He shut the door before Ethan could say more. Ethan stepped off the portico back into the sunshine of the path. He stamped his feet to get the snow off his boots and breeches.
The door opened again and Gordon waved him inside.
Ethan entered the house, and waited while Gordon closed the door again.
“Your knife,” the tough said, holding out a meaty hand. “And those plants you like to carry around.”
Ethan smirked. “Do you mean the mullein?”
“Sure, whatever you call it.”
He pulled the blade from the sheath on his belt, flipped it over, and handed it to Gordon hilt-first. Then he dug in his coat pocket for the pouch of mullein and gave that to the man, too.
“That all of it?” Gordon asked. At Ethan’s nod, he said, “In that case, she’s in the dinin’ room.”
“My thanks.”
He had been Sephira’s guest enough times to know his way around the ground floor of the mansion. He walked through the grand common room, to the dining room. Sephira sat at the end of a long table of dark polished wood. She looked as lovely as always, in a black waistcoat and white silk shirt. Her hair was down, and a large purple gem shone at her throat.
Nap, dark and lean, and Mariz, a blade already in hand and his sleeves pushed up, both stood by the entrance to the chamber. Afton stood behind Sephira, his massive arms folded over his chest.
“How nice to see you, Ethan,” Sephira said, hardly sparing him a glance as she perused a newspaper: the Boston Evening-Post, the city’s most prominent Tory publication.
“Good day, Sephira.”
“To what do we owe this pleasure?”
Having failed to come up with any viable falsehoods, Ethan opted for a version of the truth.
“I’ve come seeking your help. And more to the point, help from Mariz.”
The conjurer frowned, his spectacles catching the light from the nearest of the glazed windows.
Sephira looked up from her paper, her expression no warmer than the air outside. “Help with what?” she demanded, biting off each word.
“In the past several days, I’ve sensed spells that I can’t explain, and for which I can find no residue of power, nothing at all that would let me determine who cast them. I don’t believe that Mariz is responsible for these spells, but I do think that he can help me find the person who is.”
Sephira turned her attention back to the newspaper. “Why should I care that another witch is troubling you. It sounds as though I should offer this person a job, or at least a reward.”
“I can understand why you feel that way. But these spells could affect you as well. In fact, one of them already has.”
She put the down paper once more. “What are you talking about?”
“Five nights ago, when Gordon here nearly killed Will Pryor.”
Gordon twisted his mouth to the side like a little boy accused of stealing.
“It’s happened again?” Sephira asked.
“Aye. Not exactly the same thing, of course; the circumstances have been different. But several times over the past few days I’ve felt these conjurings, and each one of them has led directly to violence.”
“And what exactly do you believe Mariz can do?”
“To be perfectly honest, I don’t know. I need to speak with another conjurer, someone who understands spellmaking. This is a puzzle, Sephira, the like of which I’ve rarely encountered. I need help figuring it out.”
“Why must it be Mariz? Why not go to that mad old woman who lives on the Neck? Windcatcher. Why not ask her?”
“I intend to,” Ethan said. “But surely you can see the value in speaking to more than one person.”