“Only, I wonder if I could ask for a little more.”
Possession. She wanted to attempt possession, and in my foolish eagerness I agreed. I managed to convince myself that I was braced to handle Jenny Cavanaugh’s spirit entering my mind and sharing my body—but nothing could have been further from the truth; there could be no bracing against the sensations to come. She was tentative and gentle, but the experience proved to be like inviting a swirling maelstrom of pain and cold directly into my skull. My vision went white and I felt as though my eyes had been replaced with lumps of ice. If I cried out, I could not hear my own voice. I could not hear anything at all. There was only pain.
Our first attempt was over as soon as it had begun. I was reeling, my head throbbing and my vision blurry. The files I had sorted were strewn across the floor—all of them but Jenny’s. Her photograph, the photograph from her police record, lay atop the pile on Jackaby’s desk. Jenny was in front of me before I could gather my wits about me. She looked mortified and concerned.
“It’s fine. I’m fine,” I lied, doing my best to make it true as I leaned on the desk and tried not to pitch forward and retch on the carpet. “I’m ready this time. Please. Try it again.”
I was not ready. Neither was she.
Jenny hesitated for a moment and then drifted closer, smooth and graceful as always. Her hair trailed behind her like smoke in the wind. She reached a delicate hand toward my face, and—if only for an instant—I could have sworn I felt her fingers brush my cheek. It was a sweet caress, like my mother’s when she used to tuck me into bed at night. And then the biting cold returned. My nerves screamed. This is a bad idea. This is a terrible idea. This is—
The office faded into a blinding haze of whiteness, and together we tumbled into a world of mist and ice and pain . . .
. . . and out the other side.
Chapter Two
It seemed like only yesterday I had been back home in England, packing for my first term at university. Had someone told me then that I would throw it all away and run off to America to commune with ghosts and answer to ducks and help mad detectives solve impossible murders, I would have said they were either lying or insane. I would have sorted them on the same shelf in my mental library as those who believe in Ouija boards or sea serpents or honest politicians. That sort of foolishness was not for me. I adhered to facts and science; the impossible was for other people.
A lot can change in a few short months.
The pain had ebbed to numbness and the blinding light had faded away. I did not remember moving into the foyer, but it was suddenly all around me. I blinked. How long had I been out? I stood in the front room of Jackaby’s offices at 926 Augur Lane—of that there was no doubt—but the room was barely recognizable. In place of the battered wooden bench sat a soft divan. The paintings of mythical figures had been replaced by tasteful landscapes, and the cluttered shelves full of bizarre masks and occult artifacts stood completely barren—even Ogden’s terrarium was missing. When I had been gassed out of the house by the flatulent little frog on my first day, I would not have expected to be so bothered by his absence, but now I found it most disquieting. The desk stood in its usual place, but it was uncharacteristically clean and empty. Behind it stood a pile of boxes and paper bundles bound in twine. Had Jackaby packed? Were we moving?
The front door swung suddenly open and there stood R. F. Jackaby in his typical motley attire. His coat bulged from its myriad pockets, and his ludicrously long scarf dragged across the threshold as he stepped inside. Atop his head sat his favorite knit mess, a floppy hat of conflicting colors and uneven stitches. I had been secretly pleased to see that particular piece of his wardrobe completely incinerated by an ungodly blaze during our previous caper. I shook my head. It had been destroyed, hadn’t it?
“Mr. Jackaby?”
“Yes. This will serve my purposes nicely,” said Jackaby, walking toward me.
I opened my mouth, but before I could speak, my employer stepped right through me as though I weren’t there. I looked down to find, most distressingly, that I wasn’t.
“I’ll need to make a few modifications, of course.”
I spun and saw that he was talking to Jenny. She hovered by the window, regarding Jackaby with cautious interest. Her translucent hair drifted weightlessly behind her. Her dress was moon-white, its hem rippling gently along the ground beneath her. Her skin was nearly as pale, pearlescent and as immaterial as a sunbeam. “Nothing too drastic, I hope? I understand, of course. You must make the place your own. I had the kitchen remodeled the year I moved in—but it’s so darling as it is.”
“I’m sure you’ll barely notice the changes.” He opened the door to the crooked little hallway and paused. “I will be making this place my own, Miss Cavanaugh,” he said, turning back. “But don’t think that makes it any less yours. You will still have your space. You have my word.”
Jenny smiled, looking bemused and grateful. “You are a singular man, Mr. Jackaby. What have I done to deserve you?”
“I’ve been considering that. There is something you could do.”
She raised an eyebrow. The room was beginning to fill with mist, but neither of them seemed to notice. “What?” she asked.
“Promise me,” said Jackaby, his voice growing faint, “that you will never . . .”
And then, in a rush, the mist was gone and I was in the office again. I was lying on my back and Douglas was standing on my chest craning his head this way and that to regard me with his glossy black eyes. I shooed him off and sat up. My whole body felt tired and numb, with a prickling heat creeping into my extremities. I was back in the present, but I felt like I had spent all day in the snow and then climbed into a warm bath.
Jenny appeared above me. “That was sensational! It worked! Oh, Abigail, are you all right?”
I wiggled my fingers and toes experimentally and felt my face. Aside from the fading numbness, everything seemed to be in working order. “I’m fine. What just happened?”
“Legs! I haven’t had honest to goodness legs to stand on in years! And you’re so warm, Abigail—I had forgotten how blood feels. It’s like being wrapped up in a cozy blanket from the inside.” She spun and sighed happily, drifting up toward the ceiling. I had not seen her so content in weeks.
“It worked?” I pushed myself up, leaning on the desk to steady my swimming head. “You mean I was possessed? You were walking me around and everything?”
“Well, not walking, exactly. I kept us from falling down for the better part of a minute, though. You couldn’t see it?”
“I saw . . . something else,” I said. “I saw you and Jackaby. It must have been the day he moved in. He promised you that you would always have your space in the house.”