Ghostly Echoes (Jackaby #3)(23)
“A record of—of you? Why would you need a massive file about yourself?”
“My own addition is very small, Miss Rook. I’ve told you before that there is only ever a single Seer alive in the world at any given time. That’s me right now, but I am not the first and I will not be the last. The power is like a living thing. It transfers to a new vessel every time the Seer passes away. There are certain organizations—exceedingly ancient groups—who take an interest in my unique lineage. One of these organizations came to me many years ago. I was just a boy, confused and alone and beset by questions. They had very few answers to give me”—he tapped the pile—“but what they did have to offer was this.”
He opened the folder again and flipped through the top file. “This is me. All of me that the future need know. I have included a few of my fondest memories and defining moments. It is my humble addition to an immeasurable legacy.”
He closed the first file, then opened the next, the one with the psychiatric papers, and tenderly ran his hand along the cover of the slim notebook. With an unsteady hand, he once more retrieved the envelope I had dropped. He passed it to me. As I reached for it, he pulled back—just an involuntary flinch, as if caught by instinct, and then he shook his head and released it to my grasp. “Do be careful, Miss Rook.”
I nodded, more curious than ever, and opened the envelope. Inside was a tintype. A man and woman in shades of gray occupied the foreground of the picture, well dressed and smiling. Beneath them stood a girl and boy, neither more than ten years old, and behind them were tents and banners. The girl looked very much like her mother, fair-haired with a heart-shaped face, but even in the grainy tintype her eyes were wrong—wide and wild, and much too old for a girl in grammar school. The boy looked out of place, as well. His hair was messy and much darker than the adults’. He wore scuffed knee-length knickers, and one sock had slid down to his ankle. Although the child was youthful, his cheekbones were already hard, and he looked thin and wiry.
“Wait a moment. Is this . . .” I looked between my employer and the picture. “Is this you?”
Jackaby nodded.
“You’re so young! Oh my goodness, you’re adorable. You’ve never told me anything about your life before New Fiddleham. Are those your parents?”
“No.” Jackaby leaned in and reached a finger very delicately toward the girl. It quavered slightly. “They are hers, but they were kind enough to bring me with them to the fair that day.” His voice cracked as he spoke. “She didn’t have many friends.”
“Please, sir,” I said. “Tell me about her.”
“It is not a happy story.”
“Who is she?”
My employer closed his eyes and breathed in deeply. “Eleanor.”
Chapter Eleven
The picture quivered in Jackaby’s hands. He said nothing else for several seconds. Finally his eyes opened, but they were worlds away.
“Eleanor was my only friend,” he said, “and I was hers. I read a lot of books. I scored well in the sciences, but even then I was more enthralled by myths and legends. I had no idea how much I did not know. The sight had not yet come to me. Other children were more interested in . . . well, in whatever it is that schoolchildren are interested in. Teasing bookish boys like me was high on the list, apparently. I kept my interests hidden, kept quiet, and kept to myself.
“Until Eleanor. She came in halfway through the year. Eleanor never said a word in class, and she preferred to play alone. The other children gossiped that she was mad. They said she made up stories and got angry when people didn’t believe her. They said she had been expelled from her last school for attacking another student. They said a lot of things. Eleanor, as a rule, said nothing.
“One day I was in the library and I saw her sketching a little fairy in her notebook. I asked her what sort it was, and she scowled and said what did it matter to me? I told her I was only wondering if it was a brownie or a pixie or what, because it looked a lot like the pixies in one of my favorite books, Mendel’s Magical Menagerie.
“I shared my book with her, and she shared her secret with me, and we shared the day together—growing fonder of each other by the hour. For many months after, we were each other’s sole companions. We collected special charms and wards and hid our artifacts in matching cigar boxes tied shut with twine beneath our beds. They were nothing more than chicken bones and salt and children’s scribbles, but they were our most precious secrets. Eleanor would tell me about the impossible things she could see, and I made a game of finding examples of them in lore to remind her that other people had seen them, too—that she couldn’t be mad—or perhaps just that she didn’t have to be mad alone.
“It was wonderful at first, but her parents grew concerned. Their little girl was hallucinating—and worse, she was hallucinating unrepentantly and without shame. They had Eleanor committed to an institution.”
Jackaby’s tone as he said the word institution could have soured milk.
“After several months she was released, looking very thin and hollow. She told them the visions had stopped—that she was cured. There were no creatures in the leaves or sprites in the sunbeams. The long, dark hallway was just a long, dark hallway. There was no man at the end of it with eyes like glowing embers, always waiting—always watching.