The Dire King (Jackaby #4)(15)

We said our good-byes. The Duke neighed in annoyance as Lydia Lee coaxed him into motion, but soon she was on her way.

Jackaby was still engrossed in his examination when I came back inside. “Books. Books. Just books,” he was muttering. Jenny was hovering by the window. I joined her.

“How did you manage it, by the way?” I asked. “All those Bibles, all across town? It is a remarkable feat.”

“It looks more impressive than it is,” she said, still not meeting my eyes. “I borrowed Jackaby’s special satchel, the one that holds anything. The whole pile took just one trip. The real trick was keeping myself solid all the way home. That’s the bit I’m really proud of—” She turned to face me. “Oh, Abigail, it was amazing. People saw me!”

“People saw you?”

“I was in disguise, of course. I wore my long coat and gloves, and I had that floppy white hat on, so they didn’t see much, but still—people saw me and they didn’t gasp or make a scene. Someone even mumbled Good day to me as I was crossing the footbridge! It was exhilarating! I have never been so excited to have somebody see me—actually see me—and not care at all!” She glanced at Jackaby. “Although you would think I would be used to it by now.”

“Jenny, that is absolutely amazing!” I said.

“It is, isn’t it?” she said wistfully. “Just a little bit, at least? Oh, Abigail, I’m exhausted, I’m not ashamed to tell you. I had planned on setting my spoils out in nice triumphant rows when I got back, but it was all I could do to hold myself intact by then. Solidity is sort of like flexing a muscle, except the muscle is in your mind, and your mind is really just an abstract concept. I was basically flexing my entire body into existence the whole way home. But did it merit so much as a Good job, Jenny from that infuriating man?”

Jackaby surfaced from his perusal and looked up at last. His cloud gray eyes found focus on Jenny. From his expression, I couldn’t tell if he had been following our conversation or not. “Completely unexceptional,” he said. “Nothing at all in this batch. We will need to scrutinize them more closely, of course, just to be sure. Oh, and Miss Cavanaugh . . .”

She raised an eyebrow skeptically.

“You performed . . . quite adequately,” he said, “despite expectations.”

Jenny opened her mouth to reply, but then closed it again. Her face fluttered through a series of potential reactions. Finally she just threw up her hands and vanished from sight with a muffled whuph of air closing into the space where she suddenly wasn’t.

“What in heaven’s name was all that?” said Jackaby.

“Exquisite frustration, I believe, sir.”

“Ah. Right.” He slumped into the desk chair and began to fidget absently with the spine of one of the Bibles. “Miss Cavanaugh is a singular and exceptional spirit, you know.”

“Only a suggestion, sir, but that is precisely the sort of thing you might consider saying when she is still present and corporeal.”

“I worry about her.”

“Sir?”

“I have studied ghosts, Miss Rook. I’ve studied ghasts and geists, spirits and spooks, and until recently I believed that I had begun to fathom the science of specters. I thought I understood how ghosts work.”

“I think there may be a few things about this one you’re still missing.”

“More than a few,” he admitted.

“So, ghosting is a science?”

“Everything is a science. Science is just paying attention and sorting out the rules already in place. There are rules governing the undead, to be certain. What worries me is that Miss Cavanaugh is no longer following them.”

“She’s just”—I searched for the right word—“growing.”

“She is, and that’s just it. Growth isn’t how ghosts work. Dead things tend to do the opposite.”

“That’s good, though, isn’t it?”

“It is good beyond anything I have ever dared wish for Miss Cavanaugh. Against all odds, she has a life, of a sort. A strange, impossible, beautiful, heartbreaking, terrifying life.”

“What’s so terrifying about it?”

“It is a life that should not be possible,” he said. “It is a fragile ornament hanging from a tenuous thread. She subsists on borrowed moments, and they might run out at any moment.”

“Of course they will, in the end. For all of us. That’s what life is.”

Jackaby eyed me. “I see my cheery disposition is rubbing off on you.”

“Try to be happy for her, sir,” I said. “And, if I may be so bold, stop keeping her at arm’s length while you’re at it. She’s not a bauble you can wrap in silk and leave on the top shelf. She’s chosen life. You can choose it with her.”

“I’m not keeping her at arm’s length!” Jackaby huffed.

“You performed quite adequately, despite expectations,” I recited.

“She did. That was a compliment.” Jackaby frowned. “It is possible that I do not know how to talk to Jenny.”

“Possible?”

“Probable.”

“We’ll work on it, sir.”

There came a firm rap at the door, and I glanced up to see the frosted window form the words: