Ghostly Echoes (Jackaby #3)(43)

Finstern nodded thoughtfully and fell silent. The hungry look had crept back into his eyes, and he watched Jackaby like a dog might watch the edge of his master’s plate.

Soon we came to a familiar wooden sign—an outstretched hand with a simple eye in the center.

Jackaby pinched the bridge of his nose and shifted the heavy satchel on his shoulder. “Miss Lee, thank you ever so much for your assistance, but we have already met Madame Voile. I’m afraid she is not quite the clairvoyant her advertisement indicates. I appreciate your help all the same. Please, now—do get some rest. Repay your debt to us by spending just a little time on the mend.”

“You don’t want to meet Madame,” Miss Lee said. “I told you. You want to meet Little Miss.”

Jackaby cocked his head to one side, and Miss Lee gave him a wry smile.

“Tell her Mama Tilly’s girls say hi. We all look out for Little Miss. It was a pleasure to see you again, Mr. Jackaby.” She gave a little wave and Jackaby tipped his head courteously before stepping back into the shop with a little chime. Finstern followed close on his heels.

I hesitated. “Miss Lee,” I said. “Do be careful.”

Miss Lee gave me a smile. “Careful, Miss Abigail?”

“Yes, of course. Those men might have . . . you could have . . . just be careful.”

“Don’t go down the wrong streets, you mean?”

“Yes, exactly.”

“You’re a sweet girl,” she said in a kind tone that made me feel less sweet and more woefully naive. “But open up those pretty eyes. For me, they’re all the wrong streets.” Her voice broke just a little and she swallowed and straightened, pushing past the moment by force of will. “I don’t want to be careful, Miss Abigail. I want to be Lydia Lee.”

And then she was off again, marching down the sidewalk with her chin up and her shoulders back. Charlie nudged my hand with his head, and I realized I had been staring after her. “I’m coming,” I said. “Let’s go meet Little Miss, shall we?”





Chapter Twenty-Three


We slipped back into Madame Voile’s cramped little lobby just as the curtain swept aside and the clairvoyant reappeared. “Greetings, weary travelers,” she said. “I see you have been drawn once more toward my door by the inexorable pull of fate.”

“Something like that,” said Jackaby. “Anyway, fate sounds more impressive than a lack of other options. Either way, here we are.”

Madame Voile hesitated.

“Pardon me, ma’am,” I said. “We were wondering if we might talk to Little Miss?”

Madame Voile scanned our faces suspiciously. “No one here called Little Miss,” she said. Her accent, I couldn’t help but notice, had suddenly lost its theatrical cadence.

“You’re quite sure?” I asked.

Jackaby was staring at her intently.

“Am I sure? Of course I’m sure. Now, if you are not here for a reading—”

“You are lying,” Jackaby said, happily. “Marvelous. Who is Little Miss, then? A niece? A sister? A daughter?”

Madame Voile glared at my employer.

“A daughter, then. I understand she has taken to the family trade rather exceptionally. I’m sure you’re very proud. We will be happy to offer remuneration for her services, of course. Just a few minutes of her time.”

The curtain behind Madame Voile wiggled, and a wide pair of dark brown eyes peeped out.

“Remuneration?” The woman crossed her arms at Jackaby.

Jackaby answered by plucking a handful of crumpled banknotes out of his satchel. “For her trouble, and for yours,” he said.

Madame Voile’s eyes widened as the money tumbled onto the counter in front of her.

“Well,” she said, “I don’t know. She’s only five, my Little Miss. She’s a sweet, precious little thing. What kind of mother would I be if I let strangers harass her for a mere . . . how much was that?”

“Half,” answered Jackaby. “That is half. The rest after we’ve had our consultation.”

The woman stared at the money hungrily. “Irina!” she called over her shoulder. The girl emerged, her bright eyes barely able to see over the top of the counter. She wore a head scarf, but she was dressed without any of her mother’s rich fabrics or ostentatious bangles. “These people want to talk to you, Irina.”

“I’m seven,” she whispered. “I’m not five.”

“Oh, hush up, now. Take them around back, there’s a good girl.”

The girl looked up, and then she stared at the window behind us for several seconds. I glanced out to see what she was looking at, but the street was empty. “They won’t all fit in the booth,” the girl murmured.

Madame Voile grunted. “Hm. That’s true. Well, they’re not paying me for the show, anyway. The kitchen table will have to do. Show them the way.”

We filed past the curtain and through a slim, dark room, which held a round table draped in black cloth with a crystal ball in the center. On the other side of the room sat a jarringly ordinary kitchen. There were pots and pans hung on the wall and dirty dishes soaking in the sink. A wide wooden table occupied the center of the room, and we shuffled in and sat around it. Charlie padded in last and lay down against the wall behind my chair.