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own blade and fumbled with his sleeve, but he knew his own spell would come too late to block the fence’s assault.
    Which may have been why he felt so disoriented when he awoke suddenly to what felt like a mighty wave of conjuring power. It seemed to rise from the earth itself, like the deep rumble of thunder after a flash of lightning. The entire building trembled with it. Or did it? At first Ethan thought he was dreaming, and even after he opened his eyes to the faint morning light seeping into Kannice’s bedroom around the edges of the shuttered window, he couldn’t tell if what he had felt was real or imagined. His heart labored in his chest, and he took several long breaths, trying to calm himself.
    Kannice stirred beside him. “Whassamatter?” she asked in a muffled, sleepy voice.
    Ethan kissed her bare shoulder. “Nothing. Go back to sleep.”
    But he was already wide awake. He lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling, his body tense as he waited for another pulse of power. None came, and as the minutes dragged by he began to doubt that he had actually felt the first one. It would have taken a powerful conjurer to cast such a deep spell, and there weren’t that many in Boston. At least, not among the people he knew.
    His thoughts turned once more to the foreigner he had seen downstairs in the Dowser the night before. His awareness of Ethan’s conjuring marked him as a speller. But Ethan had no reason to think that the bespectacled stranger was powerful or skilled enough to cast a spell as strong as the one he had just felt. Such an accomplished conjurer would have known what kind of casting Ethan had used the night before, and would have left the tavern rather than continue a conversation that, for good reason, he didn’t want others to hear. A speller with such abilities might even have determined exactly who in the tavern had cast the listening spell.
    But if Sephira’s friend hadn’t cast the spell this morning, who had? Tarijanna Windcatcher, a self-described “marriage smith,” was a powerful speller and made no effort to hide the fact that she conjured. Janna, though, did most of her conjuring at night; the one time Ethan had gone by her place before midmorning, he had woken her with his knocking. Janna had been none too pleased.
    Gavin Black, an old conjurer who lived on Hillier’s Lane, gave up spells long ago, or so he claimed. From what he had told Ethan, it seemed he had done most of his conjuring as a younger man while sailing on merchant ships and captaining his own vessel. But he had long since made his fortune, and though Ethan had spoken to him about conjuring, he had never known him to cast a spell.
    The other conjurers he knew of in Boston weren’t skilled enough to work such powerful castings.
    If the spell had been real.
    Ethan closed his eyes again, trying to remember what he felt in the instant before he woke. At first all that came to him was the physical sensation, the feeling that the air around him, the bed beneath him, the walls of the room, were all reverberating with a single tone, as if God himself had struck some enormous bell. But sifting through his memory of those first few sensations, he realized that he had awakened feeling vaguely uneasy, though whether because of his dreams or something inherently dark in the casting, he couldn’t say.
    His pulse had slowed, but still Ethan knew that he wouldn’t get back to sleep. He swung himself out of bed and began to pull on his clothes.
    “Where are you going?” Kannice asked, her voice husky with sleep. She smiled up at him. “It’s early still.”
    “I can’t sleep.”
    “I wasn’t suggesting sleep.”
    He sat on the bed beside her. “I’m not sure I’m in the mood for that, either.”
    Her expression grew serious. “What’s the matter?”
    “I thought I felt something. A spell. That’s what woke me.”
    “Nearby?”
    He shook his head. “No. Maybe. It was so powerful it was hard to tell. Somewhere here