The Dire King (Jackaby #4)(36)

Hatun promptly sat herself down on the bench in the foyer and took out a pair of knitting needles already hung with a mess of wool—or rather she took out one knitting needle and what appeared to be an ice pick with a cracked handle—and began to knit and purl away merrily while an unruly pile of assorted colors spilled out of her floppy satchel like drunken, flamboyant spaghetti.

“It’s lovely to see you again, Hatun,” I said.

“Miss Rook. Hope your boss is happy. I keep clear of waiting rooms, as a rule,” she said. “No hospitals. No dentists. I haven’t sat down to have a proper wait in a proper building with a proper roof and everything for nigh on two decades now. Hope he appreciates the lengths I go to. You can tell him I’m here.”

“I’m afraid Mr. Jackaby is away just at the moment,” I said. “He should be back shortly—but I should tell you, he’s rather busy making arrangements for some very urgent matters—”

“Of course he’s busy.” Hatun cut me off, finally looking up from her knitting. “That’s why I’m here. You look very pretty in that frock, by the way, dear. Orange really is your best color.”

“Oh, erm, thank you. It’s . . . it’s green. Why did you say you were here?”

“That young fellow and the great big hairy one who smells like dried meat came around earlier, and they told me all about the meeting.”

“Oh, of course. Misters Barker and Hudson. Yes, I’m afraid the big meeting they’re organizing is set for tomorrow evening. Tonight there will only be a handful of us getting ready.”

“Handful suits me, dear. Never been a fan of big crowds, anyway.”

“Oh, erm, I don’t know if Mr. Jackaby really intended for—”

“Jackaby doesn’t ask for help,” she said. “Not like this. I’ve known him a lot of years. He accepts it from time to time, usually when everything else has slipped through his fingers or blown up in his face, but he has never reached out for it like this before. Never.”

I opened my mouth and then closed it again, not sure how to respond to this.

“He’s scared out of his damn mind,” Hatun cussed. “And he should be. He’s the only person in this whole city people can turn to when they’re facing something bigger than they know how to wrap their brains around. I’m not stupid. If he’s grasping for straws, then whatever this is, it’s bigger than him.”

“It’s not good,” I admitted. “But I am still hopeful.”

“No you aren’t,” said Hatun, waving the needle as though she were swatting the words away like fruit flies. “Hoping is a thing that other people do while people like you are rolling up your shirtsleeves and getting to work. I know. I’m like you, Miss Rook, and I am rolling up my sleeves, too. I’ll be joining you folks tonight, thank you very much, and I will not be waiting around for the pretty version that you’ve trimmed up with a nice bow for the crowd tomorrow.” She turned back to her wool, and the clicking resumed.

Jenny drifted up behind me. She would never have shown herself to a visitor under normal circumstances. “Let her stay,” Jenny said. Hovering gracefully beside the bench, she turned to Hatun. “I’m sure Mr. Jackaby would be honored to have you with us. Thank you.”

“Hey. I know you.” Hatun squinted her eyes. “You used to go walking by the park with that handsome Carson boy, didn’t you? Used to see you out and about almost every day. What was it, five years back?”

“More like ten,” said Jenny, softly.

“You look different.” Hatun peered at the translucent figure hovering in front of her. “Were you less dead back then?”

Jenny’s eyebrows rose. “Erm, yes. Much less.”

“That’s what it is, then. Yep, I knew I remembered you.” The needle and ice pick resumed their clicking. “So. You been well?”

“Have I been well, since before I died?” asked Jenny. “Well. I’ve had a few ups and . . . downs.”

Hatun nodded amiably. “I expect so.”

“Make yourself comfortable, Hatun,” I cut in. “Mr. Jackaby should not be much longer. I’ll just go and put the kettle on.”

“Don’t fuss over me, dearie,” Hatun said, leaning back as she clicked away. She gave a glance to the corner as Nudd and his horde cackled and the gnomes shook their stubby little fists and grumbled. “Go mingle with your friends. I think that handsome fellow over there is making eyes at you.”

I glanced where she was looking. “I don’t think so,” I said. “Also, I believe that one might be a lady. Although it is hard to tell with goblins. I think the males have less hair. Or more hair? Anyway, I’m spoken for. I’ve been going with Charlie Barker, remember.”

“Which one’s Charlie again?” Hatun asked. “Is he the one who killed all those people, or the one who can turn into a hedgehog?”

“Into a hound. And he hasn’t killed anybody.”

“Oh, well, he sounds nice, then.” Hatun’s knitting dropped into her lap. “Just mind the . . . the . . . the blade.”

“The blade?” I said.

Hatun didn’t answer at first. Her eyes were out of focus and she looked as though she were trying to look through a heavy mist. A tingle rippled up the back of my neck. I had seen that look before. “The blade,” Hatun said, hollowly. “The black blade, the spear. Not the spear—the Seer. Under the blade, the Seer—oh!” She winced as though struck. “The Seer falls. The Seer is lost.” Her head sagged.