“Similar colors, of course, but believing was all it took. State of mind, Miss Cavanaugh. It’s all in your head.” He slid the file across the desk toward Jenny, who looked up from the broken shards. “It’s your case. All you have to do is open it.”
Jenny stared at the file. I watched breathlessly as she reached a hand toward the desk. Her fingers paused on the folder, and for an instant I was certain the papers beneath bent to her touch—but then her hand sank to the wrist through the file, past the blotter, and into the desk itself. She recoiled as though bitten and held her hand to her chest, her expression addled and uncertain.
“Try again.” Jackaby’s voice was surprisingly gentle.
Jenny looked up at the detective, and then at me, and then back to the file. She shook her head and backed away uneasily, melting into the bookcase as she withdrew.
“Jenny, wait!” I said, but she had gone again.
“I think that went rather well, don’t you?” Jackaby stuffed the empty basket on a cluttered bookshelf. “I wasn’t entirely certain that my theory would hold ground in practice, but I would say the experiment was a resounding success.”
“Mr. Jackaby, really! Jenny isn’t some scientific oddity—she’s your friend!”
Jackaby raised an eyebrow. “In point of fact, Miss Rook, she’s both, and that’s nothing to be ashamed of. All exceptional people are, by definition, exceptions to the norm. If we insist on being ordinary, we can never be truly extraordinary.”
“That is a very well-rehearsed and eloquent excuse for being an absolute brute to a sad, sweet woman.”
“She’s fine. I assure you, you’ll know when she’s been pushed too far. It’s not a pretty sight. When I was having her old kitchen renovated into the laboratory, she even began to echo.”
“Echo?”
“Many spirits can do nothing else. Many spirits are nothing else. When a spirit echoes, she is nothing but the shadow of her last living moments—a clumsy, overlapping mess of emotion and pain—caught, like an echo in a canyon, reliving her final thoughts.”
“You mean things like, ‘You shouldn’t be here’?” I asked.
Jackaby’s confident expression faltered.
“And something about working with her fiancé?” I added.
“Did the temperature drop noticeably?”
“There was ice. And a sort of a whirlwind.”
He blanched.
“Do you think I should try talking to her again?” I said.
Jackaby swallowed and glanced up at the ceiling. Jenny’s bedroom sat directly above his office. “No—no, our little expedition may have come at just the right time. I think it’s best we give our dear Miss Cavanaugh a wide berth—for a few days, anyway. You know—to allow her some peace and quiet and all that.” The temperature in the room began to drop, and my arms prickled with goose bumps.
I nodded. “I think you might be right, sir.”
Chapter Twelve
By half past five, Jackaby had finished making various arrangements and tending to the terrarium of chameleomorphs. He explained their care and keeping to Douglas while I watched the little kittens through the glass. One of them batted playfully at a water strider with its big fluffy paw, and then pounced and polished the thing off. It might have been my imagination in the dimness of the gaslights, but already they looked a little smaller and skinnier. I would be happy to miss watching their transformation from felines into insects. Fins on fur had been disturbing enough—I did not like to imagine the process they had ahead of them. It was still hard to fathom that the mackerel circling lazily in the pool toward the back was the same species as the wide-eyed little fur balls tumbling around in front.
Jackaby pulled on his coat, which clinked and tinkled as the contents of its myriad pockets rattled into place. He slung his satchel over one shoulder. “Well, Miss Rook, shall we?”
I nodded and followed my employer, casting a glance up the stairs as we stepped into the hallway.