Chapter Thirty-One

The following morning, I planted myself at the front desk and began sorting the mound of bills, case notes, and receipts that lay before me. Jackaby had conveniently disappeared before we could return to discussing my future duties, so I resolved to just make the best of the task. After several hours of stacking and shuffling, I was finally drawn out from behind the mess by my employer’s return. He hung his scarf and hat on the hook without apparently noticing me.

“Good morning, sir. I didn’t know you had gone out.”

“The postman’s come,” he said, riffling through a handful of mail. He paused on a small brown parcel, pursing his lips.

“What’s that, then? Something you ordered?”

“No.” He tucked it hastily beneath the rest of the mail. “Or yes, actually, but I’m not sure I should . . .” He trailed off. “This one’s addressed to you. Here.” Still without making eye contact, he dropped an envelope into the empty space I had cleared on the desk, and continued on his way down the crooked hallway.

The letter was from Mr. Barker of Gadston, Charlie’s new identity. Gad’s Valley, he wrote, was as lovely as Marlowe had suggested. Commander Bell had offered him a quiet post on the police force there as soon as his injuries healed, and Charlie was strongly inclined to accept. He was feeling better every day, and took frequent opportunities to slip out to enjoy the countryside now that he was walking again. The detective and I, he insisted in his postscript, must come and visit when next we had the chance. Since Charlie’s departure, I had tried to put my feelings for him to rest, but butterflies rose in my stomach at the thought of seeing him again.

Jackaby burst energetically back into the room just as I finished reading the note. “We’ve gotten word from Charlie,” I informed him.

“No time for that now, I’m afraid. I’ve urgent business in town.”

“Is something wrong?”

“I should say so, fantastically wrong!” He brandished a letter of his own, waving the page with enthusiasm. “A woman with a lamentably forgettable name has asked me to look into a matter of her ailing cat. The cat, I believe, is called Mrs. Wiggles.”

“Bit of a step down, isn’t it? From catching a serial killer to a sick pet?”

“Ah, but the details are delightful.” Jackaby tossed his scarf around his neck and pulled on his knit hat. “It seems Mrs. Wiggles has recently shrunk in stature, begun to molt, and started lounging in her water bowl for hours at a stretch. Most perplexingly, she has begun growing scales from tip to tail as well. The veterinarian just made useless jokes about it being ‘rather fishy,’ and then prescribed some skin ointment, the tit. The whole thing is marvelously odd.”

“And you do love odd,” I said. “Let me just get my coat. Where are we going, anyway?”

“You are going nowhere,” Jackaby said flatly. “As for me, I am tracking this post back to its origin. There are distinct traces of the supernatural saturating the paper—no doubt remnants of the lady’s curious pet. The document will have left an aura along its path, one that I can navigate as long as I make haste before it fades.”

“Alternately,” I said, tilting my head to peek at the back of the torn envelope in my employer’s hand, “we could try 1206 Campbell Street.”

Jackaby glanced at the return address and then back to me. “I suppose your approach might complement my own in the field—but no!” He shook his head, the ends of his ridiculous cap flapping as he attempted to steel himself in his resolution. “Just think how it would look to your parents,” he said, “if they found out you left your civilized books and classrooms to go running all over town after supernatural nonsense. Not to mention how you must look to the townsfolk right here in New Fiddleham. They’ll think you’re as bad as I am.”

I considered this for a moment before responding. “I have ceased concerning myself with how things look to others,” I said. “As someone told me recently, others are generally wrong.”

His eyes glinted for just a moment, but he fought against the suggestion. “No, it’s for your own good, Miss Rook. You’re staying here. Marlowe was right. This business is not fit for an impressionable young lady.”

“I hate to break it to you, Mr. Jackaby,” I said, “but the damage is done. The impression is made. I don’t want to wait at the doorstep any longer. I want to go dashing off after giants and pixies and dragons. I want to meet with mysterious strangers at crossroads and turn widdershins in the moonlight. I want to listen to the fish, Jackaby. Come to think of it, I am already keeping correspondence with a dog, with whom, I must admit, I find myself rather smitten. Also, I’m secretly hoping Mrs. Wiggles ends up a full halibut when this is through, because that would save me a trip to the market . . . although if Hatun’s troll keeps company with a tabby, perhaps he wouldn’t much appreciate a meal that used to be a cat.”

Jackaby stared. “I’ve already ruined you, haven’t I?”

“Looks that way.”

“And I suppose there’s nothing to be done about it?”

“Not a thing.”

“Well then, perhaps you should have this, after all.” Jackaby reached into a pocket and produced the brown paper package, turning it over in his hands. He tapped the little parcel against his palm and seemed to consider for a long moment, then extended his arm and handed it to me. “It isn’t anything, really,” he muttered. “Empty symbolism.”

Curious, I unwrapped the package. The paper fell away and I smiled. The notebook’s cover was smooth and black, cut from expensive leather. I flipped it open, top-wise. The pages were pristinely white, and a handy loop toward the top held a small, sharp pencil. It fit comfortably in my palm and would slide easily into a pocket. On the back cover had been inscribed the initials “A.R.” beneath a relief of a blackbird in flight—a rook.

“Standard police books are just flimsy cardstock, but you mentioned something about leather, I believe. I had that little stationery store on Market Street do it up as a custom job. Oh yes, and this.” Jackaby rummaged through his pockets and produced a magnifying glass, about five inches in diameter with a simple wooden handle. “I have others, if that one won’t do. Also, while we’re on the subject, I have given the issue some thought, and I wouldn’t mind if you called yourself a detective.” He handed me the glass.

“Really?” I laughed. “I would be a proper investigator instead of an assistant?”

“Certainly not,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “The nature of your job would remain the same. Titles, like appearances, are of very little interest to me. It seems to make you happy, though, so call yourself what you like. You’ve dropped some paper on the floor. Do see that you attend to it.”

I thought it over for a moment and decided I was still going to enjoy it, meaningless or not. “Thank you, Jackaby.”

“You’re very welcome. It’s good to have you on the team.” The hint of a grin peeked up from beneath his long scarf. “Well, what are we waiting for, then? Get your coat, Miss Rook. There’s adventure to be had!”