“You ain’t gonna kill ’em, are you?”
“No, as it happens, I am not—but if you find the thought of killing an adorable kitten distasteful, then keep in mind that is precisely what these creatures are currently disguised to do.”
Hank carefully deposited the litter back into the box. “Well, I can’t say I ain’t a little disappointed, but I do appreciate you lettin’ me have a look at ’em. We’re gonna need us a much bigger box.”
“The vivarium will not be housing them in their current form for long—that’s the point of the endeavor. I would like them to fit comfortably, but they will be far less dangerous if I can force them into a smaller form as soon as possible and introduce a more plentiful food source. The Gerridae are just maturing, and in our little pond, alone, we’re likely to see more than our fish can consume.”
“Gerridae? That some kinda bug?”
“Indeed. More commonly, I believe they are called water striders or pond skaters.”
“Skeeters? Yer gonna turn these sweet little kittens into skeeters?”
“They are not kittens, and yes. Providing them a small, manageable form will allow me to keep them more easily contained, and it will allow them to live out their lives without continuing to ravage the actual feline population.”
Hank looked a little sad, but nodded. “Yer probably right. Durn shame, though. I woulda called the little one Peanut.” He gave the kitten a last scratch between its ears and returned to assembling the big glass terrarium. I caught Jackaby’s arm before he could start up the burner and get back to soldering.
“I do hope you’ll reconsider Gad’s Valley, sir,” I said. “You know I would be an excellent paleontologist.”
“Of course you would. Don’t be thick. By the same token, you would make a fine dishwasher or a street sweeper—that doesn’t change the fact that you have more important work to do here. You matter, Miss Rook. What we do matters. You may be eager to see this case tucked away, but like it or not, you’ve stumbled upon a pertinent point. Population data in the field of transmutational cryptozoology is hazy at best, but chameleomorphs are rare. Very rare. That Mrs. Wiggles ended up in our proverbial backyard is staggeringly suspicious, statistically speaking. We will speak to Mrs. Beaumont in the morning,” Jackaby declared. “And that’s the end of it.”
We would see Mrs. Beaumont in the morning—Jackaby was right about that much—but it was far from the end of it. Neither of us knew it at the time, but we were only at the start of something much, much bigger.
Chapter Five
The following morning I dressed early and descended the spiral staircase to find Jackaby puttering in his laboratory. The daylight streamed through myriad glass tubes and bottles arranged along the windowsill, casting the room in a medley of warm, vibrant tones. The kittens were tumbling about in the finished enclosure in the corner, unperturbed by their captivity. Over his usual attire, my employer had draped a leather apron that might have looked more at home on a blacksmith. He was examining the uneven surface of a thick disc of amber glass, just a little wider across than a dinner plate. From behind it, his face bulged and rippled in golden waves.
“Good morning, sir,” I said. “Sleep well?”
“Not generally. Help yourself to a bit of fruit. It’s oranges this week.” He dropped the heavy glass on the table with a clunk, and waved a hand in the general direction of the cauldron. The cauldron was perpetually brimming with food, powered by some impossible enchantment. Admittedly it only ever produced fruit, and rarely of exceptional quality, but it was miraculous nonetheless.
I selected an orange off the top and sat down, looking more closely at the lumpy glass on the table. The slightly raised nub to one end looked like a slender handle. “I would offer you juice, but I underestimated the efficacy of my catalyzing agent this morning,” said Jackaby.