Ghostly Echoes (Jackaby #3)(42)

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CHARLIE CANE


“Hrm,” said Jackaby. “I’m almost impressed one of those simpletons bothered to look up the term lycanthropy, although they’ve got it wrong on all three accounts, of course.” He tore down the paper and stuffed it in the bin a half a block down the road. “Different Charlie,” he added over his shoulder for good measure, and then continued on his way without further explanation.

Jackaby knew of just one more medium operating out of New Fiddleham, and I held out hope that our last stop might make the whole trip worthwhile. A row of brick buildings with tattered awnings stretched before us, and at the end of the block I could see a banner with suns and moons circling a crystal ball. As we neared my hope dried up. The Glorious Galvani had long since closed up shop. His door was boarded up, and mischievous scoundrels had broken several windowpanes. I peered inside and sighed. It was very empty.

“You looking to see the future?” a voice called out weakly from across the street.

“We’re actually more interested in the past,” Jackaby replied. “Specifically we’re interested in those passed. Hello, Miss Lee—shouldn’t you be resting?”

Lydia Lee, the same Lydia Lee Jackaby had rescued in the alleyway, stood in the darkened doorway of a building across the street. I had gotten a bit mixed up with all of the twists and turns, but we couldn’t have been more than a few blocks from the neighborhood where we had dropped her off. Her tight black curls were tied up with a red ribbon, and she wore a sleeveless white chemise with lace fringe and a corset of black and red. She had a black mantle draped over her broad shoulders, but it provided little in the way of concealment.

“It wasn’t as bad as it looked,” she said. Her auburn lips were still marred with a dark cut, around which a ring of purple had blossomed.

“It was exactly as bad as it looked,” Jackaby said. “You have a cracked rib, Miss Lee, and if you’re not careful with that corset you’ll make it worse.”

“The corset makes it feel better.”

“The corset restricts air flow. You’re going to give yourself pneumonia. I went to the trouble of saving your life; the least you could do is keep it saved.”

“Mr. Jackaby.” Miss Lee spoke softly but firmly. “I appreciate your help, and that O’Connor lady you sent to check up on me was sweet—but don’t confuse saving a life with owning it. No one owns my life but me. I’m not staying cooped up forever.”

Jackaby shook his head but relented.

“I am in your debt, though,” Miss Lee said. “And I hate that. You’re looking for a real psychic? I tell you what, how about I take you to Little Miss?”

“Little Miss?”

“All Mama Tilly’s girls know Little Miss. She’s a special one.”

We wound our way back up through the streets slowly. Miss Lee moved stiffly and took shallow breaths. Every time Jackaby cautioned that she not push herself or suggested she take a rest, she only pressed on harder, as if to spite him. Eventually he stopped trying to help.

Finstern turned to me as Miss Lee led the way. “Why are we following a man in a dress?”

“She’s not . . .” I began, feeling defensive, but out of my depth to explain. “She’s just different from other girls. She’s really quite lovely.”

Charlie slid over to stand between the inventor and me, eyeing the man from under a furry brow as we plodded forward.

“She has an Adam’s apple.”

“You’re awfully judgmental for someone who’s been keeping company with dead rodents,” I said. “Look, I don’t know that I fully understand her, either, but that doesn’t matter. I don’t need to understand someone to respect them. I think she’s very brave.”

“How is she brave?”

“How?” I considered. “There are lots of people out there who are terribly hateful. She could avoid a whole lot of trouble and dress and act as they want her to, but she chooses to be herself. That’s brave. Also—the last time we met she stopped Jackaby from hurting the men who hurt her. They might have killed her. Kindness is an act of bravery, I think, just as hatred is an act of fear. I’m sure you can appreciate that not all strength is muscle, Mr. Finstern. She has a strong spirit, and I believe she is very brave about the way she chooses to use it.”

Finstern seemed to accept my explanation without further argument, or else he had simply stopped paying attention. It was hard to tell with a man whose eyes never sat for two seconds on the same thing. “Your employer,” he said. “Why is he so certain of which mediums have powers and which do not?”

“Don’t you know?” I said. “Jackaby is a Seer. He calls it looking past the veil. He sees the truth of things.”

Finstern’s cheek twitched. “What sort of things?”

“Anything, really. He sees magical creatures when they’re trying to hide. He can see traces of people after they have gone like he’s looking at footprints in the air, especially if there is something supernatural about them. He sees auras, which I think are sort of like people’s characters—their past, present, and potential—manifested as colors all around them. It’s not always clear how it works, but he says he sees the true nature of things.”