The detective’s voice came from the next row over. “I have a simple and utilitarian method of arrangement. They’re sorted by supernatural potency and color of aura. You’re in beige, just now.”
“You know, I could get these all catalogued and sorted properly for you if you like. I used to spend a lot of time in libraries, back in school. I bet it wouldn’t take more than a week or two.”
His head appeared suddenly at the end of my row. “Good heavens, no! No no no, I have them precisely where I want them. Just—just see to it you don’t move things around much. And don’t lose any of my bookmarks. Oh, and don’t go into the Dangerous Documents section.” He gestured toward an area blocked from sight by a corridor of bookshelves, from which the shadows seemed to fall a little darker than was absolutely natural. “And don’t—”
“Perhaps I should just carry these to your office,” I offered, patting the stack of books Jackaby had already selected, “where you can conduct your research more comfortably?”
“That sounds like a marvelous idea. Thank you, Miss Rook.”
In all, we brought a stack of eleven or twelve volumes and three large charts into the office before Jackaby seemed satisfied that he could suitably bury himself in his work. He ducked into the jumbled laboratory across the hall and brewed a pot of exceptionally strong black tea before diving in. The tea service he returned with did not suit the detective. It was a delicate set, painted in soft pastels with understated floral patterns and curling, feminine accents.
“I hope you don’t take milk. I appear to be out,” he said, pushing a few papers aside to make space for the tray on the corner of his desk.
“I’m sure I’ll manage. Thank you, sir.”
“Also, there was an incident with the sugar last month. You’ll find a few lumps in the dish, but they have been thoroughly caramelized. I’m afraid the thermochemical decomposition is irreversible, but they’re still technically sugar.” Several squiggly, molasses brown tendrils stuck out of the sugar bowl, frozen stiff at odd angles as though a minute octopus had been beaten into stillness by the dainty silver spoon.
“Quite all right,” I said. “Is there anything I ought to be doing to help?”
Jackaby had already planted himself in his thick leather chair and begun scanning through the first book on the stack. Making no indication he had heard me, he nibbled absently on a curl of browned sugar, and was otherwise entirely immersed in his research. I sat a bit awkwardly on the chair opposite and sipped at my cup, finding comfort in the familiar habit, as he riffled through pages, tucking scraps of paper here and there as makeshift bookmarks.
My idle eyes scanned the books and decorations around the room. For all the interesting artifacts and volumes they held, I realized there was one thing missing. Not a single photograph, nor portrait painting—not even a simple silhouette—adorned the walls. Even Arthur Bragg’s lonely bachelor apartment had held a photograph of a woman. The woman he loved. The woman who loved him. The woman who sobbed in the street when he was gone. The memory caught in my throat. I wondered which was sadder, leaving someone to cry after you when you were gone, or not having anyone who would miss you in the first place.
My gaze landed again on the bail jar, stuffed with bank notes, which pulled me away from feeling sorry for others and reminded me to feel sorry for myself, as well. Meeting with Hatun had bluntly reminded me of my current state of homelessness, and I tried to consider the best way to broach the topic of cash before we completely lost daylight and parted ways for the night. Whether from the potent tea or the helpless idleness, I began to feel a bit jittery, waiting for Jackaby to come up for air from his reading.
I poured a second bitter cup from the beautiful teapot and slid back into my seat. A glimmer of light on the wall caught my eye, and I looked around to see what might be reflecting it. When I glanced back, the glimmer had grown, expanding beyond the surface. I stared. My brain ground into action and made sense of what I was looking at: a face. It was a woman’s face, silvery and pale, and then a smooth, slender neck, and then a body, clad in a simple gown, every inch of her incandescent and immaterial. She slipped from the wall like a swimmer rising from a pool, only it was her form and not the surface behind her that rippled delicately in the wake of the motion. Gently, fluidly, a ghost entered the study.
I froze, and the cup dropped from my fingers. My mouth gaped, but I found I had forgotten how to make a sound. Fortunately, the scalding sting of hot tea across my thigh pushed its way through my stunned stupor, reminding me. The sound that I made was “Aaayeeaarrgh!”
This caught Jackaby’s attention.
The detective quickly pressed a chalky rag into my hands and righted the armchair. I did not recall standing but had apparently done so with great haste, the toppled furniture lying in evidence. I dabbed at my sore, damp leg, staring at the spectral figure as she drifted halfway through the desk to scoop up the teacup that had bounced beneath.
“If you’re going to have guests,” the ghost said with a sigh, “would it be so hard to give me a little advance warning?” Her eyes were dark with heavy lids. She had soft cheekbones and gentle features, framed neatly by twin locks of hair, which swept her cheeks on either side. The rest was tucked behind her ears and spilled down her back and shoulders in silvery waves, like a mercurial waterfall. She had a slim, spritely figure, and her movements were as smooth as smoke in a soft breeze. She placed the cup on the tray with a gentle clink, and drifted to a seat on the windowsill. Through her opaque figure, I could see the swaying branches of a weeping willow in the yard.
“How rude of me. Jenny, this is my new assistant, Abigail Rook. Miss Rook, this is Jenny Cavanaugh. I do apologize for not formally introducing you sooner, but Miss Rook and I are currently engaged in matters of life or death, you understand.”
“I do,” she said wistfully. “More so than you, I imagine. We actually met, while you were out. Well—sort of met. I take it you didn’t tell her about me, either? Not ashamed of me, are you, Jackaby?”
“Oh bother. Of course not—other things on my mind. Did you get on well?” Jackaby’s attention had returned to the volumes on his desk, and he began absently rolling out one of the charts. Jenny’s shadowy eyes remained fixed on the window.
“We did not get on well, for your information,” Jenny said. “Nor poorly. We didn’t get on at all, because a lady doesn’t fraternize with strangers who come unannounced into her bedroom. She’s lucky I didn’t take her for a thief.” Then, with that special tone usually reserved for old, accustomed arguments, she added, “Although I wouldn’t have minded if she were a common thief. Maybe then she would have stayed across the hall and made off with some of the rubbish you’ve allowed to take over the guest room before she came traipsing into mine.”