“You said you studied Welsh folklore. Ever heard of Rhiannon? You see, she had a sack—”
“Gentlemen,” I interrupted. “I believe we’re getting a bit off topic, don’t you? You have very nice toys, both of you, but we are at the gates to the great abyss right now.” I turned toward Charon. “Or knobby wooden hole to the great abyss. You were saying something about rules?”
“No second chances,” he said. “That is the first rule. You may ask for time, you may ask for favors, you may ask for mercy—but you are given what you are given. Make the most of it. It is all you will get.”
“Understood,” said Jackaby.
“Nobody enters the gate. This is the second rule.”
“You might have opened with that one,” Jackaby said. “Why have a gate at all, then?”
“Doesn’t everybody enter?” I asked. “Like you said, eventually?”
“No. Everyone enters. Every soul, but no body. If you enter, you must leave your flesh behind you.”
“Well then,” said Jenny. “For once I think I’ve got a leg up on the rest of you.”
“You may enter if you wish, Jennifer Cavanaugh,” Charon’s voice rumbled. “But if you do, you may never return to the land of the living. You belong below. You are a soul without a shell. Heed the first rule. This is your chance, your reprieve. You will not be given another.”
“It’s fine,” said Jackaby. “You stay topside. I’ll bring the answers back to you.”
“Only mortals may pass. This is the third rule.”
“Yes, that’s all right. I am mortal,” said Jackaby.
“You are, but a part of you isn’t. Within you dwells a force unending. You may pass. You might return. Your gift will not. You cannot take it with you.”
“I wouldn’t be the Seer anymore,” Jackaby said. “I would be technically dead. The sight would move on to its next host.” It was hard to read my employer’s expression, but some part of him seemed to be legitimately considering the notion. “I would be free.”
Charon pointed a long finger at the inventor, who flinched. “For you it would be less pleasant. You too possess a spark of immortality, Owen Finstern, but it is woven through your core. The fair folk cannot enter. Should you attempt to cross over, your soul would be torn in two. I do not know if any shred of you would survive.”
“I wasn’t volunteering,” Finstern replied.
“It’s me, then,” I said. My stomach fluttered. I had occasionally felt inadequate in the company of my extraordinary friends—like a rough stone among gems. I had always felt boring. Normal. Now it seemed my normalcy was what we needed. “I’ll go.”
“Abigail,” Jenny said.
“No,” said Jackaby. “It’s too dangerous. I won’t allow it.”
“You don’t have much choice, though, do you?” I said. “It’s me or it’s nothing. They’ve killed so many people already—more than we know, Pavel said—and a lot more might be coming. We need to know who’s behind all of it. I can find out.”
Jenny floated close to me. She reached her hand to my face, and I felt the faintest cool breeze on my cheek. “You’ve already done so much, Abigail. We can’t ask you to do this, too.”
“It’s good that you don’t have to, then. I’ve been digging my way into the ground my whole life, looking for that profound discovery that no one else has ever seen. Doesn’t get much deeper than this. It’s my choice. It’s my adventure. I can find us the answers we need. I’m going.”
“No,” said Jackaby.
“No,” said Charon.
I turned back to the ferryman. “Wait. No?” I said.
“You may not enter until you have severed your ties. This is the fourth rule. You may carry over no tethers connecting you to the world of the living, neither physical nor metaphysical.”
“That’s ludicrous,” I said. “Of course I have ties to the world of the living. Everyone I know lives in the world of the living.”
“You are permitted your emotions, Abigail Rook. You are not permitted a channel.”
“A channel?”
“Your pocket.”
I drew the silver dagger from my dress. “This isn’t a channel. It’s just a knife.”
“Your other pocket.”
“I haven’t got anything in my other—” My fingers closed around a cool, round stone etched with simple, concentric circles. I drew it out. “Oh! How curious. I don’t even remember bringing this.”
Jackaby stepped toward me. “Where did you get that?” he asked.
“Pavel gave it to me when he gave me the sketch of Mr. Finstern. I must have already shown it to you—didn’t I?”
“You most certainly did not.” He produced a little red pouch out of the inner pocket of his coat and opened it. The lining on the inside glistened like silver, but it was empty. He held it toward me at arm’s length. I plopped the stone inside, and he pulled the strings taut quickly, as though he were capturing a live squirrel and not a lifeless rock.
“Why? What is it?” I said.
Jackaby scowled hard.
“It has to have come from the council!” I said. “Charon says it’s a channel. A channel to what, exactly? To whom?”
“I don’t know,” said Jackaby. “But I would very much like to.”
I swallowed. “All the more reason to get those answers. Don’t worry. I’ll find Lawrence Hoole. He was at the heart of the council’s project. He’ll know more about those villains and what they’re building than anyone.”
Jackaby tucked the stone—the channel—away into his coat. “Wait.”
“Sir, I appreciate your concern, but you can’t fight every battle for me.”
“No, I can’t. But I can give you this.” He took my hand and pressed into my palm a little leather purse. It was a dull gray-brown.
“What’s this?”
“Four obols. They’re ancient Greek currency. A number of cultures have traditions about paying the ferryman. Also, I packed the most appropriate relic I could find on short notice. You’ll find a small length of petrified string inside. Sheep’s gut, really. It has been passed down for a great many generations under the assumption that it was once a piece of the last lyre Orpheus ever played. I can’t verify that, of course, but it does have an aura of divine contact, so it’s entirely possible.”
“Thank you, Mr. Jackaby.”
“One more thing,” he said. “The dead don’t generally keep things in their pockets. It’s traditional to . . .” He gestured to my face.
“To what?”
“You’ll need to hold it in your mouth when you cross over.”
“Lovely,” I said, eyeing the faded leather.
“Do be safe,” Jenny said.
“Don’t worry. I’ll be careful.”
I tucked the pouch into my mouth as I stepped forward. It tasted like a salty strap of used boot leather. I tried very hard not to think too hard about the shriveled strip of gut inside it.
“Are you prepared?” Charon asked.
I nodded.
“Then come with me.”
I stepped across the little trickle of water, moving out of the warm sunlight and into the cold shadows. Nothing happened for a moment, and then my legs buckled beneath me.
It was suddenly dark. I was falling.
And I was dead.
Chapter Twenty-Seven