Douglas bobbed his head from side to side in a noncommittal sort of way.
“Has that happened before?” I asked. “I mean—does she get like that often?”
Douglas ruffled his feathers and looked up at me. His eyes glistened like beads of ebony. He was a marvelous listener, but still frustratingly avian.
I sighed. “Well, I don’t like it.” As the raw terror of the experience ebbed, my insides were left with the subtler ache of seeing my friend in such torment. Jenny was always effortlessly confident and self-possessed, not at all like that frenzied ghoul. “We should talk to her,” I said.
Douglas cocked his head to one side.
“You know what I mean. I should talk to her. She looks as though she might need a friend just now. Come with me?”
The prim little mallard shook out his wings and flapped into a rapid launch, gliding away across the pond to the little island in the center, settling onto a plum-colored armchair in the middle of the shrubbery.
“A simple no would have sufficed.” I pushed myself up. I couldn’t blame the cowardly duck. A vision of the phantom’s eyes, ice-cold and mad with primal intensity, swelled in my mind. I swallowed hard and willed the image away. Jenny was not that feral creature. She was my friend, and—girl or ghoul—she needed me to be hers.
Chapter Eight
Before descending the spiral staircase, I glanced back over the field of wildflowers. “The smallest gestures can have the biggest impact,” Mother always used to say. I retrieved a porcelain vase from a cabinet on the far wall and looked for the right flowers to fill it, trying to remember which ones were Jenny’s favorites. There were so many varieties, from common daisies to rare exotic blooms. Jenny could name every bulb and blossom. On quieter days, she had walked me up and down the slope, telling me what each plant was good for and its special meaning. All I could seem to remember was that a remarkable number of pretty little herbs had names that ended in wort.
I paused at an elegant plant. Its long stem stretched past a cluster of drooping leaves to burst at the top into a broad cone of bright white blossoms. It reminded me of Jenny, pale and pretty, but also fragile. I picked a few, arranging them in the vase. The collection looked lonely, so I added a cluster of purple, star-shaped flowers that hung in a shady corner from creeping vines.
I carried the vase down the stairs and onto the second-floor landing. My own room stood open to the left, still cluttered with the excess bric-a-brac from the days when it served as Jackaby’s storage closet. Across the hall lay Jenny’s bedroom. I hastened to her closed door and knocked lightly.
“Jenny?” I called. “Jenny, it’s me, Abigail. Are you in there?” There came no response. Timidly I tried the handle, and the door opened a crack. “Jenny? I brought you some flowers—I just wanted to . . .”
The door swung suddenly inward, and I had to catch myself from dropping the vase. Jenny stood in the doorway, her hair sweeping along her soft cheekbones in elegant silvery curls. Her dress was pristine, and her expression bright and sweet, without a trace of distress. “Abigail, are those for me? You’re an absolute sweetheart!”
“I . . . I just . . .” I blinked and started again. “Are you . . . all right?”
“Of course, dear. I’m always all right.”
I stood in the hallway feeling thoroughly discombobulated and increasingly awkward. “I just . . . I thought you might like . . . these,” I said, “for your bedside table.”