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fifteen years before, its graceful wooden sanctuary enclosed within a new granite exterior. The stone façade was proof against fires, and Boston had seen many in the years since the new exterior was constructed, including the devastating blaze of 1760, which swept through the Cornhill section of the city, destroying hundreds of structures. But the chapel now had a ponderous look that set it apart from the soaring spires and elegant lines of Boston’s other churches. Worse, it remained incomplete, with no spire of its own to lessen the severity of its appearance.
    Ethan entered the churchyard through a gate near the corner of Treamount and School streets, followed a short path to a set of low stone steps, and walked into the chapel through a pair of thick oaken doors, removing his hat as he did. Inside, in marked contrast to the austere stone exterior, the church was as welcoming and handsome as any in the city. Columns, painted in shades of brown and tan, their crowns intricately carved, supported a high vaulted ceiling. Sunlight streamed into the sanctuary through banks of windows two stories high, reflecting off the polished wood of the boxed pews and the wooden floorboards of the central aisle.
    Three men stood in the rounded chancel beyond the church’s altar. One of them was tall and narrow-shouldered, with a sallow complexion and an expression to match. The second was shorter and rounder, with a far more pleasant aspect. Both of these men, Henry Caner, the stouter of the two, who was rector of the chapel, and John Troutbeck, the curate, wore black robes and the stiff white cravats that marked them as ministers. The third man, whom Ethan did not know, was taller than Troutbeck and more rotund than Caner. He wore red breeches and a matching waistcoat, and had bone-white hair that he wore in a long plait.
    Neither of the ministers harbored much affection for Ethan. Both viewed him as a servant of Satan, a witch whose use of magick was offensive to God and themselves. Ethan thought they would have been pleased to see him burned at the stake for his sins. Given the opportunity, they might even have thrust the first torches into his pyre. He expected that their large friend would feel much the same way.
    Ethan’s sister, Bett, and her husband, Geoffrey Brower, an agent of the Customs Board, were members of the King’s Chapel congregation. They were no more fond of Ethan than were Caner and Troutbeck. Though the same conjuring blood that flowed through Ethan’s veins also flowed through Bett’s, long ago she had eschewed spellmaking in favor of piety. She made every effort to conceal her family history, and to deny that she had a brother here in Boston.
    The one friend Ethan had in King’s Chapel, Trevor Pell, the young minister whose missive had summoned him here, was nowhere to be seen. Ethan wondered if he had been foolish to come, and he thought about leaving the chapel before Caner or Troutbeck noticed him.
    “Is that Mister Kaille?”
    Would that he had thought to leave a minute earlier.
    Mister Caner, who had spoken, was already striding up the aisle in Ethan’s direction. Ethan had no choice but to fix a smile on his lips and walk forward to meet the rector.
    “Well met, reverend sir,” he said.
    “And you, Mister Kaille.” Caner’s mien remained somber, but he had not yet ordered Ethan out of his chapel, which Ethan took as a small victory. He looked back at the altar. “Mister Troutbeck, would you please find Trevor and tell him that Mister Kaille has arrived?”
    Troutbeck scowled, but said, “Yes, reverend sir,” and descended the marble stairway that led to the chapel’s crypts, where Ethan had spent entirely too much time over the past few years. At the same time, the third man walked toward Ethan and the rector with a rolling, lumbering gait.
    “Mister Pell will join us in a moment,” the rector said, facing Ethan once more. “It was his idea to invite you here, so I prefer to wait for him