Chapter Fourteen

Back in his home on Augur Lane, we passed through the quiet lobby—my eyes still willfully avoiding the frog—and down the crooked, green hallway. Instead of continuing to his office, Jackaby pushed open the door to the library. Soft light played in through the alcove windows at the far end, and the detective didn’t bother with the lamps. He began plucking books from the shelves. Some were massive, impressive-looking, leather-bound volumes, and others seemed little more than pamphlets.

“May I help?” I asked.

He set down an armload on the table next to me and glanced up. “What? Oh. Yes, of course, of course, that’s why I hired you. Let’s see, there should be a few useful titles down that aisle. Look for the Almanac Arcanum, and anything by Mendel.”

He bustled off around the corner, and I perused the spines nearest me. Neither the authors’ names nor the titles of the books seemed to have been taken into consideration in Jackaby’s shelving method. “Is there a system to these? How do you find anything?” I called.

The detective’s voice came from the next row over. “I have a simple and utilitarian method of arrangement. They’re sorted by supernatural potency and color of aura. You’re in beige, just now.”

“You know, I could get these all catalogued and sorted properly for you if you like. I used to spend a lot of time in libraries, back in school. I bet it wouldn’t take more than a week or two.”

His head appeared suddenly at the end of my row. “Good heavens, no! No no no, I have them precisely where I want them. Just—just see to it you don’t move things around much. And don’t lose any of my bookmarks. Oh, and don’t go into the Dangerous Documents section.” He gestured toward an area blocked from sight by a corridor of bookshelves, from which the shadows seemed to fall a little darker than was absolutely natural. “And don’t—”

“Perhaps I should just carry these to your office,” I offered, patting the stack of books Jackaby had already selected, “where you can conduct your research more comfortably?”

“That sounds like a marvelous idea. Thank you, Miss Rook.”

In all, we brought a stack of eleven or twelve volumes and three large charts into the office before Jackaby seemed satisfied that he could suitably bury himself in his work. He ducked into the jumbled laboratory across the hall and brewed a pot of exceptionally strong black tea before diving in. The tea service he returned with did not suit the detective. It was a delicate set, painted in soft pastels with understated floral patterns and curling, feminine accents.

“I hope you don’t take milk. I appear to be out,” he said, pushing a few papers aside to make space for the tray on the corner of his desk.

“I’m sure I’ll manage. Thank you, sir.”

“Also, there was an incident with the sugar last month. You’ll find a few lumps in the dish, but they have been thoroughly caramelized. I’m afraid the thermochemical decomposition is irreversible, but they’re still technically sugar.” Several squiggly, molasses brown tendrils stuck out of the sugar bowl, frozen stiff at odd angles as though a minute octopus had been beaten into stillness by the dainty silver spoon.

“Quite all right,” I said. “Is there anything I ought to be doing to help?”

Jackaby had already planted himself in his thick leather chair and begun scanning through the first book on the stack. Making no indication he had heard me, he nibbled absently on a curl of browned sugar, and was otherwise entirely immersed in his research. I sat a bit awkwardly on the chair opposite and sipped at my cup, finding comfort in the familiar habit, as he riffled through pages, tucking scraps of paper here and there as makeshift bookmarks.

My idle eyes scanned the books and decorations around the room. For all the interesting artifacts and volumes they held, I realized there was one thing missing. Not a single photograph, nor portrait painting—not even a simple silhouette—adorned the walls. Even Arthur Bragg’s lonely bachelor apartment had held a photograph of a woman. The woman he loved. The woman who loved him. The woman who sobbed in the street when he was gone. The memory caught in my throat. I wondered which was sadder, leaving someone to cry after you when you were gone, or not having anyone who would miss you in the first place.

My gaze landed again on the bail jar, stuffed with bank notes, which pulled me away from feeling sorry for others and reminded me to feel sorry for myself, as well. Meeting with Hatun had bluntly reminded me of my current state of homelessness, and I tried to consider the best way to broach the topic of cash before we completely lost daylight and parted ways for the night. Whether from the potent tea or the helpless idleness, I began to feel a bit jittery, waiting for Jackaby to come up for air from his reading.

I poured a second bitter cup from the beautiful teapot and slid back into my seat. A glimmer of light on the wall caught my eye, and I looked around to see what might be reflecting it. When I glanced back, the glimmer had grown, expanding beyond the surface. I stared. My brain ground into action and made sense of what I was looking at: a face. It was a woman’s face, silvery and pale, and then a smooth, slender neck, and then a body, clad in a simple gown, every inch of her incandescent and immaterial. She slipped from the wall like a swimmer rising from a pool, only it was her form and not the surface behind her that rippled delicately in the wake of the motion. Gently, fluidly, a ghost entered the study.

I froze, and the cup dropped from my fingers. My mouth gaped, but I found I had forgotten how to make a sound. Fortunately, the scalding sting of hot tea across my thigh pushed its way through my stunned stupor, reminding me. The sound that I made was “Aaayeeaarrgh!”

This caught Jackaby’s attention.

The detective quickly pressed a chalky rag into my hands and righted the armchair. I did not recall standing but had apparently done so with great haste, the toppled furniture lying in evidence. I dabbed at my sore, damp leg, staring at the spectral figure as she drifted halfway through the desk to scoop up the teacup that had bounced beneath.

“If you’re going to have guests,” the ghost said with a sigh, “would it be so hard to give me a little advance warning?” Her eyes were dark with heavy lids. She had soft cheekbones and gentle features, framed neatly by twin locks of hair, which swept her cheeks on either side. The rest was tucked behind her ears and spilled down her back and shoulders in silvery waves, like a mercurial waterfall. She had a slim, spritely figure, and her movements were as smooth as smoke in a soft breeze. She placed the cup on the tray with a gentle clink, and drifted to a seat on the windowsill. Through her opaque figure, I could see the swaying branches of a weeping willow in the yard.

“How rude of me. Jenny, this is my new assistant, Abigail Rook. Miss Rook, this is Jenny Cavanaugh. I do apologize for not formally introducing you sooner, but Miss Rook and I are currently engaged in matters of life or death, you understand.”

“I do,” she said wistfully. “More so than you, I imagine. We actually met, while you were out. Well—sort of met. I take it you didn’t tell her about me, either? Not ashamed of me, are you, Jackaby?”

“Oh bother. Of course not—other things on my mind. Did you get on well?” Jackaby’s attention had returned to the volumes on his desk, and he began absently rolling out one of the charts. Jenny’s shadowy eyes remained fixed on the window.

“We did not get on well, for your information,” Jenny said. “Nor poorly. We didn’t get on at all, because a lady doesn’t fraternize with strangers who come unannounced into her bedroom. She’s lucky I didn’t take her for a thief.” Then, with that special tone usually reserved for old, accustomed arguments, she added, “Although I wouldn’t have minded if she were a common thief. Maybe then she would have stayed across the hall and made off with some of the rubbish you’ve allowed to take over the guest room before she came traipsing into mine.”

“It’s not rubbish. I have things exactly where I like them, thank you.”

My eyes, apparently the only ones actually looking at anybody, bounced back and forth between them as they bantered as casually as neighbors over a hedge.

“Right. Because there’s no better place for my grandmother’s settee than under a dirty tarpaulin covered with crumbling rocks.”

“Runestones,” corrected Jackaby, still without bothering to look up. “I’ve told you, they’re a rare and significant record of the ancient Scandinavian gods.”

“Really? Because the last one you bothered to translate was a dirty joke about a group of rowdy drunkards.”

“Yes, those are the ones. The Norse really knew how to pick their deities. Those crumbling rocks, I should point out, are making more use of that sofa than either you or your late grandmother, just at the moment.”

There followed an awkward pause, punctuated only by the occasional flip of a page or shifting of books on Jackaby’s desk. After a short while, it seemed the detective had forgotten he had been conversing at all. His lips formed words occasionally, silently mouthing private thoughts meant to remain between him and his dusty papers.

The ghost, Jenny, stayed perched on the windowsill, watching the world beyond growing dim. Behind her silvery complexion lay a very human woman. By her features, she could not have been much older than I was. For all her bluster, she looked tired and quietly sad.

“I’m sorry about the room,” I said. “I didn’t know.”

She turned her head just a fraction in my direction. “It’s fine.”

“And about the tea. You just—I wasn’t expecting . . . you.”

“I know. That’s why I did it.” She dropped to the ground, or just above it, and began to drift toward Jackaby’s door. “You wouldn’t have seen me at all, if I didn’t want you to, dear. I didn’t let the last one see me for a week.”

“Well, I’m glad you did. That is—I’m very pleased to meet you, Miss Cavanaugh.”

She paused at the threshold and looked back over her shoulder. Her gaze flickered to Jackaby, who remained engrossed in his work, and then turned to me. “Are you, really?”

Now that the initial shock had subsided, I found her growing less frightening and more intriguing. Once one got past her shimmering translucence and weightlessness, it was difficult to find anything really disturbing about the striking, opalescent lady. I wondered, perhaps a little jealously, if she had looked as beautiful in life. Her flowing gown made me acutely aware of my own plain dress, with its muddy green hem and fresh tea stain. For the first time since England, I wished I had chosen to wear something less practical—something with a corset and ribbons. If I had a figure like Jenny’s, I might actually enjoy dressing up and would certainly never need to worry about being treated like a child.

I realized I was staring and held out a hand. “I am charmed.”

She did not return the gesture, but turned away instead and slid through the door. Because it stood ajar, she only truly slid through a small part of it. From the hallway, she gestured for me to follow.

I glanced at Jackaby, whose dark hair peeked over the top of a particularly massive leather tome with Celtic knotwork on the cover.

“Oh, he’ll be at it for hours,” she said wistfully. “Come on.”

I stepped into the hallway, and she continued toward the spiral staircase. “Have you met Douglas?” she asked as she swept up the steps.

“Who?”

She paused halfway around the turn, and a smile danced across her eyes. “You should meet Douglas.”