“Well thank goodness. Hate to see you go, but it’s for the best. I am fond of the fellow, but remember what I told you about following Mr. Jackaby. I’ve seen it.” She leaned in and whispered loudly, “Death.”
Hatun did not look like much, but she was exceptional in her own right. While Jackaby had a unique vision of the world, Hatun saw the world through a sort of kaleidoscope of angles, some of which were more helpful than others. Her premonitions were generally on the less-reliable side, ranging from talking teakettles to an apocalypse of eggplants, but they were on the right track often enough to generally merit a listen. She had once told me that I would follow Jackaby to my demise, a prophecy that turned out—very fortunately—to be exaggerated. I had only nearly died, although I had the scar above my heart to remember it by.
“Oh—right, that. No, I’m not leaving leaving. I am still working for Jackaby. That business you were worried about, though—I came out of it only a little worse for wear. That’s all over.”
“Is it, now?” The way Hatun looked straight at me—as though she were looking much, much farther than my eyes—made me more uncomfortable than I care to admit.
“Rook!” Jackaby called from the doorway. The train had begun to rattle loudly into the station, and he had to yell over the sound of the hissing steam. “Rook! What on earth are you up to?”
I waved him over. “Just saying hello to an old friend.”
He marched along the platform toward us, a pair of tickets clutched in his hand. Along the way he seemed to catch sight of something in the air. He slowed and reached one hand out to gently feel ahead of him, as one might reach over the side of a boat to brush the waves. A puff of steam engulfed him. He waved it away and continued on to the end of the platform.
“Jackaby. You’re looking well,” Hatun said.
“Good day, Hatun. I don’t suppose either of you noticed something peculiar hanging about in the air around here? Sort of a purplish, ashen color? Vaguely funereal? No?”
“Yes!” I said. “Well, no. I saw a man. He was terribly creepy, and I’ve seen him before, Mr. Jackaby. He was outside the house this morning.”
“Hmm.” Jackaby’s expression darkened. “I’ve seen that aura before as well.”
I swallowed. “Campbell Street?”
He nodded solemnly.
“Fire,” said Hatun, barely above a whisper.
“Come again?” Jackaby asked.
The little old woman stepped toward Jackaby. Her eyes were closed to slits and she breathed in deeply through her nose. “So much fire.”
Jackaby and I exchanged concerned glances.
“Or possibly fireflies,” Hatun amended, blinking. “Or flint. Feathers? Something with an F. What were we talking about?”
“We were just leaving. Always a pleasure, though, Hatun.” Jackaby handed me my ticket.
Hatun bid good-bye to Jackaby but then shot me a concerned glance.
“Don’t worry—in a way, he’s technically following me on this one,” I assured her. “No death this time, I promise.”
She nodded and gave me an unconvinced smile as we parted. Looking back, I can’t blame her—it was a promise I was in no position to keep. In retrospect, there would be quite a lot of death.
Chapter Thirteen
By request of my employer, the contents of chapter thirteen have not only been omitted; they have been pulled directly from my typewriter, shredded, and used as terrarium liner for a particularly pungent frog.
—ABIGAIL ROOK
Chapter Fourteen
Through the window in our train car I watched the streetlamps and brick buildings give way to trees and hilly horizons. “How far is it to Gadston?” I asked.