“That’s quite an arrangement,” I said. My bread crumb offerings had slowed, and the duck waddled closer, giving me significant looks.
She shook the fondness from her face with a roll of her eyes. “That was before he tore up the kitchen for his silly laboratory. It was such a pretty kitchen, with tiles and lace curtains—and you’ve seen it now. Nearly beat yourself senseless at the sight of those garish bones he’s got strung from the ceiling, not that I blame you.”
I massaged the back of my head at the memory. “You saw that, did you?”
Her eye twinkled in amusement, but she moved on, thankfully. “At least this floor turned out for the better. Wide-open and beautiful, it’s the opposite of that mess of a laboratory. But that’s Jackaby in a nutshell. Science and magic, beauty and bedlam, things that ought to be at odds—they just don’t follow the same rules when Jackaby’s involved. For all his faults, he really is a remarkable man.” She looked out over the rippling pond while she spoke, and her silvery expression betrayed a hint of longing. “I don’t exactly get to go out and about much,” she continued, “so this place has really been a lovely escape. Of course, most of the junk he had stored up here migrated to the rest of the house. I’ve stopped trying to tidy up after the man . . . and the guest room—!” She stopped suddenly with a gasp.
“What, what is it?”
“You need somewhere to stay! You can finally get him to drag his rubbish heaps up to the attic! Do you keep a clean room, Miss Rook?”
“I—er—I’m not sure I’d feel comfortable asking for room and board. I’ve only just been hired on as it is.”
“Douglas takes room and board! Jackaby can’t turn you down. It’s perfect!”
“I don’t know,” I hedged. “And who is Douglas?”
“You’re the new Douglas. He used to be Jackaby’s assistant, just as you are now. These days Douglas just tends the archives.” She gestured at the cabinets against the wall, the tops of which were carpeted with moss and wildflowers.
“Where does Douglas sleep?”
Jenny giggled at a joke I didn’t get. The duck ceased waiting for me to toss another handful and flapped his wings in a brief flurry to land gracelessly on my knee. The bird was not small, at least a foot and a half from beak to tail, and his perch put us more or less face-to-face. He stared at me, and not the bread in my hand, and his tiny eyes bore into mine.
“Douglas?” I wagered.
A reddish orange bill bobbed once. One wing craned out, and the bird wobbled unsteadily to keep balance. Talons on the ends of his webbed feet poked into my leg uncomfortably.
“Well?” Jenny giggled again. “Go on, then. Don’t be rude. Abigail, meet Douglas.”
I took the duck’s extended feathers with my right hand and shook them carefully. Douglas returned to a more dignified stance, briefly preened, and then snatched the remaining half of a baguette and took off. He swooped in a lazy arc to land on the plum-colored armchair in the center of the bushy island and peck at the bulky morsel.
“Jackaby felt really guilty about Douglas,” Jenny told me when he had flapped away. “He used to be a person, of course. Jackaby sent him in alone to check out a lead that might have been nothing, but Douglas stumbled right into the thick of it. By the time Jackaby realized his mistake and hurried to help, it was too late. All he could do was shout out a warning before Douglas was hit with a powerful wave of untempered magic.”
“Don’t tell me,” I said. “He warned him to . . .”
“Duck.” It was Jackaby’s voice that finished the sentence, and Jenny and I both turned to see him step off the path and onto the grassy hill. “That’s right, and the irony that my attempt to help Douglas became the final mark of his curse was not lost on me. I vowed never to let anything distract me until I had found a way to reverse his metamorphosis.” The detective came to stand just behind the bench, scowling at the memory.
“My goodness,” I said. “But, then . . . are these recent murders somehow connected to the case that transformed Douglas?”
“What? No. The incidents have nothing at all in common.”
“Then, what made you abandon your vow?”
“I didn’t abandon it! I fulfilled it,” he answered. “The solution presented itself after an exhaustive evening’s research and one short trip into the country for supplies.”
“Then, why is Douglas still a duck?”
“You can bloody well ask him!”
“But . . . he’s a duck.”
“He’s stubborn is what he is.”
“It didn’t work,” Jenny chimed in.
“Well, of course it didn’t work,” snapped Jackaby. “He has to want to change back! It has to be his own will.”
“But . . . why should he want to stay a duck?” I asked.
“Because,” Jenny answered, “no one wants to let go of himself. Douglas may have all of the memories of a man, but he is a duck.”
“It’s not as though he came by it naturally,” Jackaby grumbled.
“It wasn’t his choice to lose the life he had—it was taken,” said Jenny. “But it is his choice whether or not to lose the life he has now—to lose himself.”
“He would still be himself! He would be Douglas. He just has to decide to be human, again.”
“No.” Jenny’s voice was patient. “He would be a different Douglas. The Douglas who has to make that decision would be gone.”
“Utter foolishness. It’s birdbrained stubbornness.”
“Don’t be so hasty to impugn a stubborn spirit, Detective,” she said meaningfully. “You’re speaking to one.”
Jackaby rolled his eyes and sighed. “Fair enough, fair enough,” he conceded, “but don’t think being dead makes you the authority in every argument.”
“No, but being right tends to. No one wants to let go of themselves, whatever form they may take—and I do know a little something about that.” Jenny rose from the bench and began to descend, slowly, through the grassy ground. “And now, I think I’ll leave you two to your business. Don’t forget to ask about the room, Abigail!” In another moment her silvery hair melted out of sight beneath the floor.
“What was that about a room?” Jackaby asked.
I stood. “Nothing. Find something in your research?”
“Too much.” He brandished a small crumpled envelope and handed it to me. “And we’ve gotten our telegrams.”
“Ah, excellent. Did your hunch lead to something after all?”
“Oh yes.” answered Jackaby. “Yes, indeed, Miss Rook. It seems the plot is much larger and more wicked than we’d feared.”
Chapter Sixteen