I had slept in my underthings again, having laid out the sad, green walking dress to air. With the dawn light peeking in through the curtains, I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and reached for it. My dress was gone. My suitcase was still at the foot of my bed, where I had left it. I hefted it onto the mattress and clicked it open with a sigh.
Several underskirts and one very rigid corset later, I stepped out into the hallway in a red evening gown, a gift from my mother for my sixteenth birthday. The bodice was constricting, the buttons were snug, and the neck was high and tight around my throat. The hem swept the floor, and I felt like a porcelain doll with the layers of lace around my collar—not to mention the ridiculous, full sleeves that puffed out so much at the shoulder that they actually restricted my peripheral vision. Even through all the layers, I could feel the oversized bow bobbing up and down on my backside with every step. I considered returning to the room and emerging instead in the filthy work pants—but no, I had spent enough time in those ruddy trousers to know I would be no more comfortable in them.
I navigated the stairwell carefully and found the door to the laboratory ajar. Jackaby was inside, humming tunelessly and shuffling an iron skillet over a small burner. He snatched a pepper mill from amid the jars and bottles around him, and gave it a few twists into the skillet. The counter was littered with eggshells and bits of vegetables, and dusted here and there with powders of various hues. I pressed into the room, and Jackaby turned as the squeaky door announced my entrance.
“Ah, good morning, Miss Rook. Omelet?”
“Er—perhaps in a bit. Thank you, Mr. Jackaby.” I pulled out a chair to sit, awkwardly navigating the inconvenient bustle and bow into the seat, and tucking the skirts beneath me. “I don’t suppose you’ve seen my other dress, have you?”
“No, although Jenny mentioned something about laundry this morning. She’s quite good with the wash . . . all the more impressive given that she can only physically interact with relics of her own belonging. I believe she wears an old pair of gloves for the exercise. It would be nice if she would remember her little impairment and wait for assistance when rearranging my things, but she is impossible to reason with. You can have a look out back and see if it isn’t on the line.”
I shuffled to the window and peeked out. My simple dress, indeed, hung on a clothesline outside, along with my stockings and handkerchief. The petticoat looked crisp and white, and the green skirt had lost its cloudy hem of dust along with the dark oval tea stain from last night, but they were still visibly damp, and dripping lightly into the grass. In this cold, I would be lucky if they were dry by sundown.
“Drat,” I said. “That is to say, very kind of her. I should be thankful.” I turned back, and my sweeping hem caught the leg of the mannequin’s base, suddenly spinning the fabric figure toward a rack of glassware beside my employer. I reached to catch it, far too slowly—but Jackaby’s reflexes were fortunately much sharper. He stalled the figure a few inches from the expensive beakers and pipettes with one hand, then righted the mannequin and glanced down at my bulky red gown for the first time.
“What in heaven’s name are you wearing?” he said. “I do hope you do not intend to dress in such a manner while we’re working.”
I swallowed. My cheeks felt hot and the satin collar was growing tighter about my neck. “That’s just it,” I said. “This sort of thing is all I have. Well, and a few boys’ things—some trousers and the like—but I obviously can’t walk around town in those.”
“It seems you can barely manage to walk around in that,” Jackaby said, turning back to his cooking. He picked up two identical red containers and sniffed at each of them. “If you need some ladies’ things to wear, you might ask Douglas to help you.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Douglas used to wear ladies’ things?”
“Not that I’m aware of, no—although I would much prefer to see him in a frock than in feathers these days. He keeps a record of my previous cases, including ledgers. I received a chest of clothes some time ago as payment from a client with no money to speak of. They belonged to the fellow’s late wife, I believe, or possibly his mother. Just ask Douglas—I’m sure he’ll remember. Does this smell like paprika or gunpowder to you?” He stuck one of the red containers under my nose, and I sniffed experimentally at the holes in the top.
“Paprika?” I guessed, never having had occasion to handle either.
Jackaby nodded and tipped a generous helping into the skillet. Then, for good measure, he tapped in a few from the other container, too. He flinched and covered his face as the powder cracked and popped violently in the greasy pan. When it did not explode, he straightened up, wafting the pleasant aroma under his nose with a smile.
I excused myself to go see a duck about a dress.
Douglas was agreeable, as birds go, and upon my uncertain inquiry he guided me to a mossy chest toward the back of the pond. I thanked him kindly, and he flapped off, back to his perch on the little island. I pulled open the chest and exhumed a dusty, black dress. It looked like something a puritan grandmother might have considered a bit old-fashioned. I held it up to my shoulders anyway. The client’s late wife—or possibly mother—had apparently been as tiny as she was dowdy. A soft giggling bubbled up behind me.
The ghost was resting comfortably on a grassy log, her shimmering head propped up casually on one hand. “Oh! I didn’t . . . Good morning, Miss Cavanaugh,” I said.
“ ‘Jenny’ is fine.” She smiled. “You really shouldn’t wear those, you know.”
“I did ask.”
“I’m sure you did, dear. You shouldn’t wear them because they’re dreadful.”
“Oh,” I said. “I suppose you’re right. Although, if I were about a foot shorter and twenty pounds lighter, I might have made a fetching Pilgrim. A tiny, fetching Pilgrim.”
“I think you look positively darling in that pretty red outfit—but it is really more of an evening gown than a day dress, isn’t it?”
“I haven’t much choice. Everything I have with me is either pretty or practical, except maybe the one you washed. Thank you, by the way.”
“If you don’t like them, why did you pack them?”
I sighed. “They were the first things I saw in my closet. Before I ran off on my own, my mother used to love to dress me like a paper doll in showy gowns from her favorite dressmaker. I never had to think about what to wear, because it never much mattered what I thought, anyway. I might have had more to choose from if she had packed for me, but I also would have needed a separate carriage just for hatboxes. It was one of her deepest fears that some passing gentry might see her daughter dressed in rags. That was what she called any outfit that did not have a wire frame, lace fringe, and five layers of fabric. I had a few school uniforms, at least—and I rather liked those—but they were worn out even before I left, and built for sitting in desks, not for clambering over rocks. They tore easily, and the hems got all tattered to ribbons. By the end of the first month, they really were rags. I spent the rest of my days at the dig site in boys’ trousers.”