Jackaby (Jackaby #1)(30)
Jenny sighed and tossed her head back. She said something very softly, which might have been, “And that’s what makes him so dangerous.”
The duck polished off the bread crumbs and sauntered up for more. He was a stately fellow, with a deeply black head and back, accented in greens and purples. His wings were brown and hung like a prim vest over his white underbelly. His chest was a dappled, reddish color, and it puffed out slightly, like a cravat, tapering away into the white beneath. He came within a few feet and waited, expectantly. I tossed him another handful of crumbs.
“There was a woman,” I recalled. “After Jackaby and I left, there was a woman crying. The victim had a picture of her in his room. The whole thing wasn’t sad—I mean, it was grisly and tragic—but it wasn’t really sad until there was that woman crying. That part didn’t feel like the adventures you read about in books. Jackaby says it isn’t over, either. We met a man today who Jackaby believes will be dead by morning.”
Jenny nodded solemnly, and we watched the duck peck at the bread crumbs for a bit. “You aren’t the first assistant he’s worked with, you know.”
I nodded. “He told me. A handful of them quit on him . . . and wasn’t there someone who stayed on?” I remembered the cryptic journal page I had stumbled upon downstairs, and a grim thought occurred to me. “Is that you, then? You didn’t—you know—during one of his cases, did you?”
She raised an eyebrow. “Die? No, that happened long before I met Mr. Jackaby. And I never worked for the man, if that’s what you thought. This place was my family’s. A number of occupants attempted to move in before he did, but apparently having a resident ghost isn’t good for property values, and word spreads. The lot fell to the city, and that Mayor Spade fellow called on Jackaby in the hopes he could do some sort of exorcism. That was how we met.” She smiled at the memory.
“I take it he didn’t exorcise you?”
She laughed softly. “No, he didn’t exorcise me. He spoke to me. Like a person. He made a pot of tea—even asked my permission to use the kitchen first, and just made a pot of tea. We sat at the table and chatted. It was the first proper chat I’d had in a decade. He poured me a cup and just let it get cold in front of me while we talked about this and that. He was very straightforward. He had no qualms about Spade trying to sell the place, told me the man had every right to. ‘If every dead person decided to keep their property, we’d have nowhere for the living to live,’ he said, which was fair. But he told Spade that I had every right to stay as well. ‘No malevolent spirits, no call for eviction,’ I think he said. And that was that. A week later, Spade gave the place to him.”
“That’s quite an arrangement,” I said. My bread crumb offerings had slowed, and the duck waddled closer, giving me significant looks.
She shook the fondness from her face with a roll of her eyes. “That was before he tore up the kitchen for his silly laboratory. It was such a pretty kitchen, with tiles and lace curtains—and you’ve seen it now. Nearly beat yourself senseless at the sight of those garish bones he’s got strung from the ceiling, not that I blame you.”
I massaged the back of my head at the memory. “You saw that, did you?”
Her eye twinkled in amusement, but she moved on, thankfully. “At least this floor turned out for the better. Wide-open and beautiful, it’s the opposite of that mess of a laboratory. But that’s Jackaby in a nutshell. Science and magic, beauty and bedlam, things that ought to be at odds—they just don’t follow the same rules when Jackaby’s involved. For all his faults, he really is a remarkable man.” She looked out over the rippling pond while she spoke, and her silvery expression betrayed a hint of longing. “I don’t exactly get to go out and about much,” she continued, “so this place has really been a lovely escape. Of course, most of the junk he had stored up here migrated to the rest of the house. I’ve stopped trying to tidy up after the man . . . and the guest room—!” She stopped suddenly with a gasp.
“What, what is it?”
“You need somewhere to stay! You can finally get him to drag his rubbish heaps up to the attic! Do you keep a clean room, Miss Rook?”
“I—er—I’m not sure I’d feel comfortable asking for room and board. I’ve only just been hired on as it is.”
“Douglas takes room and board! Jackaby can’t turn you down. It’s perfect!”
“I don’t know,” I hedged. “And who is Douglas?”
“You’re the new Douglas. He used to be Jackaby’s assistant, just as you are now. These days Douglas just tends the archives.” She gestured at the cabinets against the wall, the tops of which were carpeted with moss and wildflowers.
“Where does Douglas sleep?”
Jenny giggled at a joke I didn’t get. The duck ceased waiting for me to toss another handful and flapped his wings in a brief flurry to land gracelessly on my knee. The bird was not small, at least a foot and a half from beak to tail, and his perch put us more or less face-to-face. He stared at me, and not the bread in my hand, and his tiny eyes bore into mine.
“Douglas?” I wagered.
A reddish orange bill bobbed once. One wing craned out, and the bird wobbled unsteadily to keep balance. Talons on the ends of his webbed feet poked into my leg uncomfortably.