Ghostly Echoes (Jackaby #3)(19)

“Erm, Mr. Seeley, I presume?”

Jackaby shook his head. “Not for a Mr. Seeley, nor for any man. The Seelies are kindly fae. They arrived with the city’s founders, long ago, and I do believe they like it here. They and the native manitous might be more kindred spirits than the humans who tell their tales. This park is a haven for benevolent beings of all kinds.”

He looked out across the open space, and I followed his gaze. I could almost convince myself that I could see what he was seeing. Flickers of light seemed to dance through the greenery—although it might have been nothing more than the bright streetlamps reflecting on the leaves. “People often feel more alone than ever when they first arrive in a new place,” Jackaby continued, “but we are never alone. We bring with us the spirits of our ancestors. We are haunted by their demons and protected by their deities.”

He took a deep breath and turned to me. “I prefer to walk, Miss Rook, because I appreciate this city—and all the more when it’s being threatened. I like to see the lights all around me and feel the ground beneath my feet. This city is alive. It has a soul, and that soul is a glorious mess of beliefs and cultures all swirling together into something precious and strange and new.”

“Like Monet,” I said.

“Nothing like Monet,” said Jackaby. “What’s a Monet?”

“A painter. He’s French. My mother met him once at a gala in Paris. They had a few of his works in the museum back home. He uses a hundred little daubs of color, and then from a distance they all melt into one big lovely picture. When you’re right up close, though, it’s just beautiful madness.”

“Oh. Yes.” Jackaby smiled. “Just like Monet. Exactly like that. I prefer to walk because I like to be right up close to the beautiful madness.”

The museum back home also had cushioned chairs you could take a rest in whenever your feet were sore, I remembered, but I kept that thought to myself. A figure was marching across the park now, making a beeline right for us. “I do believe one of your more colorful daubs is coming to see you, sir.”

“Hm?” Jackaby locked on to her and smiled. “Oh, Hatun! Auspicious timing.”

Hatun could have been the queen of her own kingdom in some far-off land, had the streets of New Fiddleham not needed her more. She was an elderly woman, poor, but with a naturally regal air about her and a domineering presence. As much as she stood out, she seemed equally able to do the opposite, melting instantly into the scenery in that subtle way that made it hard to remember if she had ever been there at all. She wore several layers of faded petticoats, and her pale gray hair was tied up in a handkerchief.

“Good evening, Hatun,” I said.

“Hammett’s cat,” she replied.

“Come again?” I said. “Hammett the troll?”

She nodded. “Yes, yes, of course the troll. He has an orange tabby, only it’s gone missing, and now Hammett’s in a terrible state.”

“Not to put too fine a point on the matter,” Jackaby said, “but isn’t being in a terrible state Hammett’s natural state? He may be diminutive, but he’s still a bridge troll. How many times has he threatened to eat your toes?”

“Pardon me, Detective Knows-So-Much, but which one of us spent all season looking after him? I know my troll, Mr. Jackaby, and he’s off.”

“Fair enough. Still, he can’t have expected the thing to stick around forever,” Jackaby said. “You’ve seen the way he abuses the poor creature. Cats were not bred for riding.”

Hatun squinted her eyes at my employer. “Those two were nigh inseparable, thank you very much. Should’ve seen them hunting voles together at night. Two halves of a whole. It was like watching music by moonlight. Music played on a miniature saddle made from gopher leather.”

“I’m sure we can help find Hammett’s friend,” I said. “Only right now we’re already on a rather pressing case, Hatun. People have gone missing and lives are once more at stake in New Fiddleham.”

Hatun looked at me for several long seconds, until I began to feel a little uncomfortable under her gaze. Her eyes swam out of focus, and I could tell that she was leaving lucidity and falling into something else. Hatun, like my employer, saw visions the rest of us could not perceive. Unlike my employer, whose sight was constant, invading even his dreams, Hatun’s visions were unreliable. She oscillated from normalcy to profound insight to absolute gibberish. Her inscrutable predictions included the coming insurrection of the city’s united weathercocks, a strong chance of a mild rain on Thursday, and the approach of my imminent and inescapable death—a fate which thus far I had escaped. Twice. “What is it, Hatun?”

“This is the one,” she whispered. She was squinting at me as though gazing into the sun. “Oh my. Oh dear. You’re already so far down the path, aren’t you? I told you not to follow him. I told you.”

“Yes, you did, Hatun. Thank you for the warnings, truly. I do promise to be watchful.”

“I see a hound,” Hatun continued. She had screwed her eyes shut while she spoke. “And a man with red eyes at the end of a long, dark hallway . . .”

Jackaby went ashen. “What did you say?”

“Death. Death is waiting for you on the other side of Rosemary’s Green. This is the one, Miss Rook. This is the path.”