Jackaby (Jackaby #1)(28)
“We did not get on well, for your information,” Jenny said. “Nor poorly. We didn’t get on at all, because a lady doesn’t fraternize with strangers who come unannounced into her bedroom. She’s lucky I didn’t take her for a thief.” Then, with that special tone usually reserved for old, accustomed arguments, she added, “Although I wouldn’t have minded if she were a common thief. Maybe then she would have stayed across the hall and made off with some of the rubbish you’ve allowed to take over the guest room before she came traipsing into mine.”
“It’s not rubbish. I have things exactly where I like them, thank you.”
My eyes, apparently the only ones actually looking at anybody, bounced back and forth between them as they bantered as casually as neighbors over a hedge.
“Right. Because there’s no better place for my grandmother’s settee than under a dirty tarpaulin covered with crumbling rocks.”
“Runestones,” corrected Jackaby, still without bothering to look up. “I’ve told you, they’re a rare and significant record of the ancient Scandinavian gods.”
“Really? Because the last one you bothered to translate was a dirty joke about a group of rowdy drunkards.”
“Yes, those are the ones. The Norse really knew how to pick their deities. Those crumbling rocks, I should point out, are making more use of that sofa than either you or your late grandmother, just at the moment.”
There followed an awkward pause, punctuated only by the occasional flip of a page or shifting of books on Jackaby’s desk. After a short while, it seemed the detective had forgotten he had been conversing at all. His lips formed words occasionally, silently mouthing private thoughts meant to remain between him and his dusty papers.
The ghost, Jenny, stayed perched on the windowsill, watching the world beyond growing dim. Behind her silvery complexion lay a very human woman. By her features, she could not have been much older than I was. For all her bluster, she looked tired and quietly sad.
“I’m sorry about the room,” I said. “I didn’t know.”
She turned her head just a fraction in my direction. “It’s fine.”
“And about the tea. You just—I wasn’t expecting . . . you.”
“I know. That’s why I did it.” She dropped to the ground, or just above it, and began to drift toward Jackaby’s door. “You wouldn’t have seen me at all, if I didn’t want you to, dear. I didn’t let the last one see me for a week.”
“Well, I’m glad you did. That is—I’m very pleased to meet you, Miss Cavanaugh.”
She paused at the threshold and looked back over her shoulder. Her gaze flickered to Jackaby, who remained engrossed in his work, and then turned to me. “Are you, really?”
Now that the initial shock had subsided, I found her growing less frightening and more intriguing. Once one got past her shimmering translucence and weightlessness, it was difficult to find anything really disturbing about the striking, opalescent lady. I wondered, perhaps a little jealously, if she had looked as beautiful in life. Her flowing gown made me acutely aware of my own plain dress, with its muddy green hem and fresh tea stain. For the first time since England, I wished I had chosen to wear something less practical—something with a corset and ribbons. If I had a figure like Jenny’s, I might actually enjoy dressing up and would certainly never need to worry about being treated like a child.
I realized I was staring and held out a hand. “I am charmed.”
She did not return the gesture, but turned away instead and slid through the door. Because it stood ajar, she only truly slid through a small part of it. From the hallway, she gestured for me to follow.
I glanced at Jackaby, whose dark hair peeked over the top of a particularly massive leather tome with Celtic knotwork on the cover.
“Oh, he’ll be at it for hours,” she said wistfully. “Come on.”
I stepped into the hallway, and she continued toward the spiral staircase. “Have you met Douglas?” she asked as she swept up the steps.
“Who?”
She paused halfway around the turn, and a smile danced across her eyes. “You should meet Douglas.”
Chapter Fifteen
Jenny led me straight to the third floor. I stopped abruptly as I reached the landing, marveling at the space before me. Where the stairs on the previous two floors had opened into thin, dimly lit hallways, this level was wide-open. Interior walls had been knocked out on either side, leaving only the occasional column to support a high ceiling. Broad windows on every wall allowed light to pour in, and the scene they illuminated was astonishing.
I stood on a hardwood landing that extended ten or fifteen feet, but which seemed then to warp slightly, melting abruptly into grass and mud. The rest of the floor was a rolling, living landscape. Where the hallway should have been, there remained a solid path of wood, laid with a few narrow oriental runners. A slender margin on either side of the carpeting showed floorboards, but then quickly gave way to damp earth on the left and right. Some of the columns, I realized, were sprouting thin branches, and I wondered momentarily if they bore leaves in the spring.
The dominant feature of the space was the massive pond occupying the majority of the floor. It lay just left of the pathway, an oblong pool of greens and blues, bent slightly like a kidney bean, with a little island in the middle. The island was covered in shrubbery and held what appeared to be a tall armchair with dark plum upholstery. The pond must have been twenty feet across at its widest, and from the look of it, several feet deeper than was physically possible, given the dimensions of the building and the height of the ceiling on the floor below. A few golden orange fish darted about beneath the surface.