Miss Lee gave me a smile. “Careful, Miss Abigail?”
“Yes, of course. Those men might have . . . you could have . . . just be careful.”
“Don’t go down the wrong streets, you mean?”
“Yes, exactly.”
“You’re a sweet girl,” she said in a kind tone that made me feel less sweet and more woefully naive. “But open up those pretty eyes. For me, they’re all the wrong streets.” Her voice broke just a little and she swallowed and straightened, pushing past the moment by force of will. “I don’t want to be careful, Miss Abigail. I want to be Lydia Lee.”
And then she was off again, marching down the sidewalk with her chin up and her shoulders back. Charlie nudged my hand with his head, and I realized I had been staring after her. “I’m coming,” I said. “Let’s go meet Little Miss, shall we?”
Chapter Twenty-Three
We slipped back into Madame Voile’s cramped little lobby just as the curtain swept aside and the clairvoyant reappeared. “Greetings, weary travelers,” she said. “I see you have been drawn once more toward my door by the inexorable pull of fate.”
“Something like that,” said Jackaby. “Anyway, fate sounds more impressive than a lack of other options. Either way, here we are.”
Madame Voile hesitated.
“Pardon me, ma’am,” I said. “We were wondering if we might talk to Little Miss?”
Madame Voile scanned our faces suspiciously. “No one here called Little Miss,” she said. Her accent, I couldn’t help but notice, had suddenly lost its theatrical cadence.
“You’re quite sure?” I asked.
Jackaby was staring at her intently.
“Am I sure? Of course I’m sure. Now, if you are not here for a reading—”
“You are lying,” Jackaby said, happily. “Marvelous. Who is Little Miss, then? A niece? A sister? A daughter?”
Madame Voile glared at my employer.
“A daughter, then. I understand she has taken to the family trade rather exceptionally. I’m sure you’re very proud. We will be happy to offer remuneration for her services, of course. Just a few minutes of her time.”
The curtain behind Madame Voile wiggled, and a wide pair of dark brown eyes peeped out.
“Remuneration?” The woman crossed her arms at Jackaby.
Jackaby answered by plucking a handful of crumpled banknotes out of his satchel. “For her trouble, and for yours,” he said.
Madame Voile’s eyes widened as the money tumbled onto the counter in front of her.
“Well,” she said, “I don’t know. She’s only five, my Little Miss. She’s a sweet, precious little thing. What kind of mother would I be if I let strangers harass her for a mere . . . how much was that?”
“Half,” answered Jackaby. “That is half. The rest after we’ve had our consultation.”
The woman stared at the money hungrily. “Irina!” she called over her shoulder. The girl emerged, her bright eyes barely able to see over the top of the counter. She wore a head scarf, but she was dressed without any of her mother’s rich fabrics or ostentatious bangles. “These people want to talk to you, Irina.”
“I’m seven,” she whispered. “I’m not five.”
“Oh, hush up, now. Take them around back, there’s a good girl.”
The girl looked up, and then she stared at the window behind us for several seconds. I glanced out to see what she was looking at, but the street was empty. “They won’t all fit in the booth,” the girl murmured.
Madame Voile grunted. “Hm. That’s true. Well, they’re not paying me for the show, anyway. The kitchen table will have to do. Show them the way.”
We filed past the curtain and through a slim, dark room, which held a round table draped in black cloth with a crystal ball in the center. On the other side of the room sat a jarringly ordinary kitchen. There were pots and pans hung on the wall and dirty dishes soaking in the sink. A wide wooden table occupied the center of the room, and we shuffled in and sat around it. Charlie padded in last and lay down against the wall behind my chair.
The door chimes sounded and Madame Voile glanced at the clock. “Oh, that’ll be Mrs. Howell. I’ll be back to check on you all shortly. Be a good girl, Irina.” She plucked a deck of cards from the mantle and bustled off back through the curtains. We could hear her voice pronouncing a muffled, “Greetings, Mrs. Howell. Oh! I sense fate has much in store for you!”
The girl sat down at the head of the table. She was very small, and she hunched nervously as she looked at us. She seemed to look past Jackaby as though she were staring at the wallpaper behind him rather than at the detective directly.
Jackaby deposited his satchel on the floor with a thud. He smiled reassuringly. “Good afternoon, Irina,” he said.
She nodded, still not quite meeting his gaze. She looked as though she might recede completely into her head scarf at any moment.
“A friend of mine told me you were very clever,” he said. “One of Mama Tilly’s girls? She told me that you’re a bit like me, actually.”
Irina looked up at him for a moment.
“I also see things that other people can’t see,” said Jackaby. “And I know about things that are sometimes hard to explain.”
Irina nodded.
“We’re not exactly the same,” he continued. “I can see there’s something extra special about you.”
“Can you see her?” the girl asked.
Finstern swiveled in his chair to look around the room, and I felt the hairs on my neck prickle up. Her?
Jackaby smiled. “Yes. I can see her. Don’t worry, she’s very nice.” He reached into his heavy satchel and pulled out a familiar cracked brick. He set it on the table. “She’s my friend, and she came along just to meet you.”
The air just over his shoulder shimmered, although Jenny did not materialize completely. She had been there all along, I realized, right where the girl had been watching. I shook my head, astonished and proud of Jenny’s progress. How long had we been walking around town? This was a far cry from taking a few steps onto the sidewalk.
“Hello, sweetie,” Jenny said softly. “You don’t need to be nervous.” Her voice was gentle and kind. “It’s an honor to meet you. You have a marvelous gift. Not many people can see me unless I really want them to. Do you see many other people who are . . . like me?” Jenny asked.
The girl was quiet.
“It’s just that we were hoping to find someone,” Jenny’s voice continued. “Someone who was dead.”
“I see them.” Irina’s voice was barely a whisper. We all leaned in to listen.
“That’s fantastic,” Jenny said. “Have you seen anyone recently? Can you describe them?”
The girl took a deep breath. “I see all of them.”
Jackaby cleared his throat gently. “All of them?” he asked.
“Everyone that’s dead,” she said. “Your friend is pretty.”
Jackaby nodded. “She is that. You see everyone that’s dead? Do you mean everyone, or just the ghostly ones, like her, who have stayed around?”