I dug further. There were newspaper articles detailing other grim cases Jackaby had worked on, a blurry photograph of the house in which we sat, and a tattered wanted poster featuring Jackaby’s smiling face. One of the images was of a pleasant if somewhat stuffy-looking man in a prim waistcoat standing proudly beside Jackaby. Something about him was vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t place the face. An unnerving sensation that I was not alone tickled across my brain.
I closed the file and glanced guiltily behind me. Douglas had waddled into the doorway. He acknowledged me with a bob of his feathered head and then flapped up into the armchair across the room, where he settled to rest with his bill under one wing.
Taking a deep breath, I picked up the next file. This one contained comparatively little—a slim notebook and a few creased papers. I held them up to read the writing at the top. They were formal documents. PSYCHIATRIC EVALUATION was printed in large face across the top, but the patient’s name was not Jackaby’s. “ ‘Eleanor Clark,’ ” I read aloud. As if in answer to my whisper, a little brown envelope slid out from behind the documents and off the desk. I made a futile grab for it, but it swooped through my fingers and came to land on the carpet.
“Miss Rook?”
Jackaby dropped his satchel in the doorway with a thump. I froze. He looked at the dossier on the desk. He looked at me. His face grew cold. Without another word, he knelt and retrieved the envelope, holding it as gingerly as if it were made of fine glass. He placed it back into the file very deliberately.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Jackaby. I didn’t mean to—”
“Then put it back.”
I nodded and closed the dossier.
“I have given you free rein to my home and offices with very few exceptions, Miss Rook.”
“Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir. I—”
“I could, perhaps, have been more explicit, but I felt that several inches of solid metal and a rotary combination lock implied my intentions clearly enough.”
“Of course, sir. It won’t happen again, sir.”
“How did you open it?” he demanded.
“I didn’t mean to. It was unlocked. I just—”
“It is never unlocked! I have taken great pains to ensure—” His eyes sunk into dark shadows beneath a sober brow. “You are not lying,” he said at last. “I don’t know if I find that more troubling or less so.” He stepped forward and took the bundle out of my hands. “How much did you see?”
“I only just picked it up when you came in, really.”
He walked slowly around his desk. I held my breath. He placed the dossier back onto the desktop and settled into his chair to lean heavily on his elbows. “You should have left it alone.”
“What is this, sir? Is it a case? I recognized the photograph from Gad’s Valley. I didn’t know any of those survived the fire. If they’re connected . . .”
“It’s not a case,” he breathed, and I could see that he was deciding how much more to explain. He placed a hand gently on the leather. “I am a steward to something much older than myself, Miss Rook, and that role comes with responsibilities.”
“You mean your sight?”
“I do.” He brushed the dossier with his fingertips. “This collection is a perpetual record of the Seer.”
“A record of—of you? Why would you need a massive file about yourself?”
“My own addition is very small, Miss Rook. I’ve told you before that there is only ever a single Seer alive in the world at any given time. That’s me right now, but I am not the first and I will not be the last. The power is like a living thing. It transfers to a new vessel every time the Seer passes away. There are certain organizations—exceedingly ancient groups—who take an interest in my unique lineage. One of these organizations came to me many years ago. I was just a boy, confused and alone and beset by questions. They had very few answers to give me”—he tapped the pile—“but what they did have to offer was this.”
He opened the folder again and flipped through the top file. “This is me. All of me that the future need know. I have included a few of my fondest memories and defining moments. It is my humble addition to an immeasurable legacy.”
He closed the first file, then opened the next, the one with the psychiatric papers, and tenderly ran his hand along the cover of the slim notebook. With an unsteady hand, he once more retrieved the envelope I had dropped. He passed it to me. As I reached for it, he pulled back—just an involuntary flinch, as if caught by instinct, and then he shook his head and released it to my grasp. “Do be careful, Miss Rook.”
I nodded, more curious than ever, and opened the envelope. Inside was a tintype. A man and woman in shades of gray occupied the foreground of the picture, well dressed and smiling. Beneath them stood a girl and boy, neither more than ten years old, and behind them were tents and banners. The girl looked very much like her mother, fair-haired with a heart-shaped face, but even in the grainy tintype her eyes were wrong—wide and wild, and much too old for a girl in grammar school. The boy looked out of place, as well. His hair was messy and much darker than the adults’. He wore scuffed knee-length knickers, and one sock had slid down to his ankle. Although the child was youthful, his cheekbones were already hard, and he looked thin and wiry.
“Wait a moment. Is this . . .” I looked between my employer and the picture. “Is this you?”
Jackaby nodded.
“You’re so young! Oh my goodness, you’re adorable. You’ve never told me anything about your life before New Fiddleham. Are those your parents?”
“No.” Jackaby leaned in and reached a finger very delicately toward the girl. It quavered slightly. “They are hers, but they were kind enough to bring me with them to the fair that day.” His voice cracked as he spoke. “She didn’t have many friends.”
“Please, sir,” I said. “Tell me about her.”
“It is not a happy story.”
“Who is she?”
My employer closed his eyes and breathed in deeply. “Eleanor.”
Chapter Eleven
The picture quivered in Jackaby’s hands. He said nothing else for several seconds. Finally his eyes opened, but they were worlds away.
“Eleanor was my only friend,” he said, “and I was hers. I read a lot of books. I scored well in the sciences, but even then I was more enthralled by myths and legends. I had no idea how much I did not know. The sight had not yet come to me. Other children were more interested in . . . well, in whatever it is that schoolchildren are interested in. Teasing bookish boys like me was high on the list, apparently. I kept my interests hidden, kept quiet, and kept to myself.
“Until Eleanor. She came in halfway through the year. Eleanor never said a word in class, and she preferred to play alone. The other children gossiped that she was mad. They said she made up stories and got angry when people didn’t believe her. They said she had been expelled from her last school for attacking another student. They said a lot of things. Eleanor, as a rule, said nothing.