concentrated the glow at the point where the murderer’s conjuring had struck her, but the light surrounding Jennifer’s body was as even as moonglow on a snow-covered field. And that shade of silver … Every conjurer’s power had a different hue; the variations were subtle but distinctive. Ethan’s was rust-colored, like the brick façade of the Boston Town House in the late-afternoon sun. His other sister, Susannah, was also a conjurer. Her spells left a residue of greenish blue, the color of the ocean on a clear day. But never had he seen power like this before. It was as if all the color had been sucked out of the conjuring, and this silver was all that remained.
Old Reg’s ghost flashed a mocking grin. Then he vanished again.
Ethan had no doubt that Jennifer had been killed by a conjuring, but he couldn’t imagine what kind of spell had been used against her. It was possible that the way the glow had spread over her body offered some clue. An attack aimed at her heart might have produced such an effect by following the flow of her blood, though in Ethan’s experience such an assault, when revealed by the spell he had cast, should have left a gleaming spot over her chest.
There was another spell he could try, one that could tell him what the murderer had used to fuel his spell. Every conjuring had to draw upon its source, be it one of the elements—fire, water, earth, or air—for the simplest spells, or something drawn from a creature or plant for living spells. The revealing spell Ethan had just tried demanded his own blood. Other living spells could be cast using herbs or tree sap or wood.
Just as every conjurer left his or her color on the residue of a spell, so the source left an imprint as well, if one knew the casting required to reveal it. Ethan did. And perhaps knowing how the spell had been cast would help him learn a bit more about the murderer. He had told Pell that he would speak only the one spell. But this would likely be his only chance to examine the girl’s corpse, and it struck Ethan as foolish not to do everything in his power to learn the identity of her killer.
The wounds he made to conjure began to heal themselves almost as soon as he spoke his spells, which meant that he needed to cut himself again for this second casting. He retrieved his knife from the table, bared his arm, and laid the blade against his skin.
Before he could draw blood, however, he heard a light footfall behind him.
“Don’t you dare!” a voice warned, echoing off the ceiling and stone walls. “Not in this place!”
Chapter
F IVE
E than turned slowly, holding up the knife and extending his arm to show that he hadn’t cut himself again.
“Hello, Bett.”
His sister frowned at him and then shifted her gaze to Jennifer’s body. “What have you done to her? Why does she look like that?”
“I tried to learn something of the conjurer who killed her.”
“She was killed by witchery?” Bett said. She walked past him, her satin dress and petticoats rustling. “You’re sure?”
“Look at her,” Ethan said.
“You did that.”
“I merely made the power reveal itself. Her killer did that.”
Bett stared at the dead girl for a long time, chewing her lip; he remembered that from when she was young. She and Ethan had never gotten along, even as children. He and Susannah, on the other hand, had been inseparable, which probably had made matters worse for their middle sister. Bett had always been so serious, so righteous, far more like their father than their mother. She even looked like Ellis. She had his straight brown hair, his dark blue eyes, his square, handsome face. Susannah was Sarah’s daughter in every respect. Not only did she resemble their mother; she also had Sarah’s sharp wit and hearty laugh. Ethan had always felt a kinship to both of them. But except for the scars he now bore, he looked just like Bett and just like their father. Throughout his life he had thought this ironic,
Old Reg’s ghost flashed a mocking grin. Then he vanished again.
Ethan had no doubt that Jennifer had been killed by a conjuring, but he couldn’t imagine what kind of spell had been used against her. It was possible that the way the glow had spread over her body offered some clue. An attack aimed at her heart might have produced such an effect by following the flow of her blood, though in Ethan’s experience such an assault, when revealed by the spell he had cast, should have left a gleaming spot over her chest.
There was another spell he could try, one that could tell him what the murderer had used to fuel his spell. Every conjuring had to draw upon its source, be it one of the elements—fire, water, earth, or air—for the simplest spells, or something drawn from a creature or plant for living spells. The revealing spell Ethan had just tried demanded his own blood. Other living spells could be cast using herbs or tree sap or wood.
Just as every conjurer left his or her color on the residue of a spell, so the source left an imprint as well, if one knew the casting required to reveal it. Ethan did. And perhaps knowing how the spell had been cast would help him learn a bit more about the murderer. He had told Pell that he would speak only the one spell. But this would likely be his only chance to examine the girl’s corpse, and it struck Ethan as foolish not to do everything in his power to learn the identity of her killer.
The wounds he made to conjure began to heal themselves almost as soon as he spoke his spells, which meant that he needed to cut himself again for this second casting. He retrieved his knife from the table, bared his arm, and laid the blade against his skin.
Before he could draw blood, however, he heard a light footfall behind him.
“Don’t you dare!” a voice warned, echoing off the ceiling and stone walls. “Not in this place!”
Chapter
F IVE
E than turned slowly, holding up the knife and extending his arm to show that he hadn’t cut himself again.
“Hello, Bett.”
His sister frowned at him and then shifted her gaze to Jennifer’s body. “What have you done to her? Why does she look like that?”
“I tried to learn something of the conjurer who killed her.”
“She was killed by witchery?” Bett said. She walked past him, her satin dress and petticoats rustling. “You’re sure?”
“Look at her,” Ethan said.
“You did that.”
“I merely made the power reveal itself. Her killer did that.”
Bett stared at the dead girl for a long time, chewing her lip; he remembered that from when she was young. She and Ethan had never gotten along, even as children. He and Susannah, on the other hand, had been inseparable, which probably had made matters worse for their middle sister. Bett had always been so serious, so righteous, far more like their father than their mother. She even looked like Ellis. She had his straight brown hair, his dark blue eyes, his square, handsome face. Susannah was Sarah’s daughter in every respect. Not only did she resemble their mother; she also had Sarah’s sharp wit and hearty laugh. Ethan had always felt a kinship to both of them. But except for the scars he now bore, he looked just like Bett and just like their father. Throughout his life he had thought this ironic,
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