like you do now.”
Ethan chuckled. “It wasn’t a cart,” he said, and climbed the steps to the front entrance.
The servant who answered his knock was a white-haired African man, smartly dressed in black linen. He regarded Ethan dubiously, even after the thieftaker told the man his name.
“Mister Berson is expecting me,” Ethan said. “If you don’t believe me, you can find the man with the silver hair and Scottish accent who hired me earlier today.”
This convinced the servant, who waved Ethan into the house even as he continued to cast disapproving looks his way.
“Wait here,” the man said, and walked off, leaving Ethan just inside the door, in a spacious tiled entrance hall with a high ceiling. Brilliantly colored tapestries covered the walls, and a large, round fixture that held no fewer than a dozen candles hung overhead. Ethan could hardly imagine how much work it took to light and extinguish the flames every night. Rather than smelling of spermaceti, though, the house was redolent of sweet scents: bayberry and beeswax.
He could see into the next chamber, which was also huge. The floors in there were made of some dark, fine-grained wood, and the furniture was of better quality than anything he had seen in the Corbett house.
No wonder Sephira didn’t want Ethan competing for her clientele.
Curtains had been drawn across every window Ethan could see, and in the sitting room a cloth was draped over what he assumed was a looking glass. Even in the wealthiest households, mourning superstitions remained the same.
The click of footsteps on tile and a brisk “Mister Kaille” made Ethan turn.
Abner Berson was striding toward him, though he slowed upon seeing Ethan’s face. “God have mercy! What happened to you?”
He forced a broad smile, which hurt, and walked to where Berson had halted, extending a hand. “A disagreement with a colleague. It’s nothing, sir.”
Berson took his hand and shook it absently, but he continued to study Ethan’s face, frowning as if pained by what he saw. “You call this nothing?”
Silently cursing Sephira, he said, “Not really, no. But I can’t do anything about it now, and you and I have more pressing and difficult matters to discuss.”
“Aye,” Berson agreed soberly. “That we do.”
He started toward the large sitting room, gesturing for Ethan to follow. They stepped through that chamber into a small study, the walls of which were lined with shelves holding more bound volumes than Ethan had ever seen in one place.
“I collect them,” Berson said needlessly, watching Ethan as he scanned the shelves. There were volumes here by Rabelais and Cervantes, Butler and Newton, Hobbes and Locke.
“Most come from England,” the merchant went on. “A few are from France, and some of the newer ones were produced here in Boston, by Edes and Gill. Though I must say that I don’t think much of the quality of their volumes. Do you read, Mister Kaille?”
“Yes, sir, I do. There was a time when I read a lot.”
“You don’t anymore?”
“I have less time for leisurely pursuits now than I did in my youth.” And less coin.
Berson nodded, staring at the volumes. He was a portly man with a thick neck and a jowly face. His eyes were heavy-lidded; his nose was round and red. A few strands of coarse black hair stuck out from beneath a powdered wig of white curls. He wore a black silk suit and a white cravat.
“William told you why I require your services?” he asked after some time, still avoiding Ethan’s gaze.
The silver-haired man. “Yes, he did, sir. You, Missus Berson, and your younger daughter have my deepest sympathies.”
“She was…” Berson stopped, then swallowed, his eyes misting. “Thank you,” he said roughly. “At a time like this, a stolen brooch may seem like a trifle, an extravagance. But…” He shook his head, his lips quivering.
“I think I understand,” Ethan said. “I’ll need a description of the brooch.”
“Of
Ethan chuckled. “It wasn’t a cart,” he said, and climbed the steps to the front entrance.
The servant who answered his knock was a white-haired African man, smartly dressed in black linen. He regarded Ethan dubiously, even after the thieftaker told the man his name.
“Mister Berson is expecting me,” Ethan said. “If you don’t believe me, you can find the man with the silver hair and Scottish accent who hired me earlier today.”
This convinced the servant, who waved Ethan into the house even as he continued to cast disapproving looks his way.
“Wait here,” the man said, and walked off, leaving Ethan just inside the door, in a spacious tiled entrance hall with a high ceiling. Brilliantly colored tapestries covered the walls, and a large, round fixture that held no fewer than a dozen candles hung overhead. Ethan could hardly imagine how much work it took to light and extinguish the flames every night. Rather than smelling of spermaceti, though, the house was redolent of sweet scents: bayberry and beeswax.
He could see into the next chamber, which was also huge. The floors in there were made of some dark, fine-grained wood, and the furniture was of better quality than anything he had seen in the Corbett house.
No wonder Sephira didn’t want Ethan competing for her clientele.
Curtains had been drawn across every window Ethan could see, and in the sitting room a cloth was draped over what he assumed was a looking glass. Even in the wealthiest households, mourning superstitions remained the same.
The click of footsteps on tile and a brisk “Mister Kaille” made Ethan turn.
Abner Berson was striding toward him, though he slowed upon seeing Ethan’s face. “God have mercy! What happened to you?”
He forced a broad smile, which hurt, and walked to where Berson had halted, extending a hand. “A disagreement with a colleague. It’s nothing, sir.”
Berson took his hand and shook it absently, but he continued to study Ethan’s face, frowning as if pained by what he saw. “You call this nothing?”
Silently cursing Sephira, he said, “Not really, no. But I can’t do anything about it now, and you and I have more pressing and difficult matters to discuss.”
“Aye,” Berson agreed soberly. “That we do.”
He started toward the large sitting room, gesturing for Ethan to follow. They stepped through that chamber into a small study, the walls of which were lined with shelves holding more bound volumes than Ethan had ever seen in one place.
“I collect them,” Berson said needlessly, watching Ethan as he scanned the shelves. There were volumes here by Rabelais and Cervantes, Butler and Newton, Hobbes and Locke.
“Most come from England,” the merchant went on. “A few are from France, and some of the newer ones were produced here in Boston, by Edes and Gill. Though I must say that I don’t think much of the quality of their volumes. Do you read, Mister Kaille?”
“Yes, sir, I do. There was a time when I read a lot.”
“You don’t anymore?”
“I have less time for leisurely pursuits now than I did in my youth.” And less coin.
Berson nodded, staring at the volumes. He was a portly man with a thick neck and a jowly face. His eyes were heavy-lidded; his nose was round and red. A few strands of coarse black hair stuck out from beneath a powdered wig of white curls. He wore a black silk suit and a white cravat.
“William told you why I require your services?” he asked after some time, still avoiding Ethan’s gaze.
The silver-haired man. “Yes, he did, sir. You, Missus Berson, and your younger daughter have my deepest sympathies.”
“She was…” Berson stopped, then swallowed, his eyes misting. “Thank you,” he said roughly. “At a time like this, a stolen brooch may seem like a trifle, an extravagance. But…” He shook his head, his lips quivering.
“I think I understand,” Ethan said. “I’ll need a description of the brooch.”
“Of
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