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than Ethan did. For now, at least.
    Work will come, he told himself. It always does. The king’s army had not driven away every thief in Boston, and Ethan was not willing to concede every client to Sephira. He needed only to remain patient.
    On this thought, he swung himself out of bed, taking care to make no noise. He dressed, let himself out of Kannice’s room, and descended the stairs to the tavern’s great room.
    There, he walked back into the kitchen and took some bread and butter from Kannice’s larder. He dropped a few pence in the bar till, and took a seat at the nearest table. He was just finishing his piece of bread when Kannice descended the stairs, dressed, her face still puffy with sleep.
    “I’m sorry,” Ethan said. “I tried to be quiet.”
    “You were. I just can tell when you’re gone. Are you all right?”
    “I’m fine. Restless.”
    She nodded. “I can make you something. There’s bacon, or a bit of last night’s chowder.”
    He shook his head. “My thanks, but no.”
    Kannice narrowed her eyes. “You paid for that, didn’t you?”
    “Of course.”
    “Ethan—”
    Before she could say more—no doubt about how she didn’t like to take his money—there came a knock on the tavern door.
    They shared a look.
    “Kelf?” Ethan asked.
    “It’s too early for Kelf.”
    He thought back on his encounter with Sephira Pryce the night before. It wasn’t like her to knock, but again, she was never one to limit herself to doing what was expected. He drew his knife and pushed up his shirt sleeve.
    He nodded once to Kannice, and followed as she walked to the door.
    “Who’s there?” she called.
    “Um, Robert, ma’am,” came the reply. The voice was that of a boy.
    The tension drained from Kannice’s face. Ethan kept his knife poised over his forearm, but when she reached for the key, a question in her eyes, he nodded again.
    She unlocked the door and pulled it open, revealing a boy in torn breeches and a white linen shirt that was far too small for him. He was alone, and he clutched a piece of folded parchment in one hand.
    “I gots a message for Ethan Kaille,” the boy said.
    Ethan sheathed his blade and pushed down his sleeve before advancing into the daylight.
    “I’m Kaille.”
    “In that case, this is for you, I guess.”
    Ethan glanced at Kannice and took the parchment. Unfolding it, he saw written in a neat hand,
    Please come to King’s Chapel at your earliest convenience.
    —T. Pell
    “It’s from Mister Pell,” he told Kannice.
    “Aye,” the boy said, eager. “That’s who gave it to me. The minister at the chapel; the young one. He said you’d give me a bit of coin for my trouble.”
    Kannice looked away, her eyes dancing.
    “Did he?” Ethan asked. “Was this before or after he paid you?”
    “Oh, aft—” The boy clamped his mouth shut, his face coloring.
    “It’s all right, lad,” Ethan said, laughing now. He fished in his pocket for tuppence. “Here you are.”
    “My thanks,” the boy said, beaming as he pocketed the coin. He started to turn away.
    “Wait, boy. Did Mister Pell say anything more?”
    “No, sir.”
    “All right. On your way then.”
    The boy hurried away.
    Ethan pulled the door closed once more.
    “I should go without delay. Pell wouldn’t send for me if he hadn’t need.”
    “Of course,” Kannice said. “Come back later?”
    “Gladly.” He kissed her cheek and left the tavern.
    King’s Chapel stood a short distance south of the Dowser, on School Street, just off of Treamount. In order to reach it, Ethan had to walk back past the Orange Tree tavern and the Tyler house with its bright red flag. Daily was out front again, standing watch and looking glum, but unmarked by the distemper. Perhaps Deborah would be reassured.
    Though King’s Chapel was home to one of the oldest and most influential congregations in Boston, it might well have been the city’s least attractive church, at least from without. It had been rebuilt some