His eyes glinted for just a moment, but he fought against the suggestion. “No, it’s for your own good, Miss Rook. You’re staying here. Marlowe was right. This business is not fit for an impressionable young lady.”
“I hate to break it to you, Mr. Jackaby,” I said, “but the damage is done. The impression is made. I don’t want to wait at the doorstep any longer. I want to go dashing off after giants and pixies and dragons. I want to meet with mysterious strangers at crossroads and turn widdershins in the moonlight. I want to listen to the fish, Jackaby. Come to think of it, I am already keeping correspondence with a dog, with whom, I must admit, I find myself rather smitten. Also, I’m secretly hoping Mrs. Wiggles ends up a full halibut when this is through, because that would save me a trip to the market . . . although if Hatun’s troll keeps company with a tabby, perhaps he wouldn’t much appreciate a meal that used to be a cat.”
Jackaby stared. “I’ve already ruined you, haven’t I?”
“Looks that way.”
“And I suppose there’s nothing to be done about it?”
“Not a thing.”
“Well then, perhaps you should have this, after all.” Jackaby reached into a pocket and produced the brown paper package, turning it over in his hands. He tapped the little parcel against his palm and seemed to consider for a long moment, then extended his arm and handed it to me. “It isn’t anything, really,” he muttered. “Empty symbolism.”
Curious, I unwrapped the package. The paper fell away and I smiled. The notebook’s cover was smooth and black, cut from expensive leather. I flipped it open, top-wise. The pages were pristinely white, and a handy loop toward the top held a small, sharp pencil. It fit comfortably in my palm and would slide easily into a pocket. On the back cover had been inscribed the initials “A.R.” beneath a relief of a blackbird in flight—a rook.
“Standard police books are just flimsy cardstock, but you mentioned something about leather, I believe. I had that little stationery store on Market Street do it up as a custom job. Oh yes, and this.” Jackaby rummaged through his pockets and produced a magnifying glass, about five inches in diameter with a simple wooden handle. “I have others, if that one won’t do. Also, while we’re on the subject, I have given the issue some thought, and I wouldn’t mind if you called yourself a detective.” He handed me the glass.
“Really?” I laughed. “I would be a proper investigator instead of an assistant?”
“Certainly not,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “The nature of your job would remain the same. Titles, like appearances, are of very little interest to me. It seems to make you happy, though, so call yourself what you like. You’ve dropped some paper on the floor. Do see that you attend to it.”
I thought it over for a moment and decided I was still going to enjoy it, meaningless or not. “Thank you, Jackaby.”
“You’re very welcome. It’s good to have you on the team.” The hint of a grin peeked up from beneath his long scarf. “Well, what are we waiting for, then? Get your coat, Miss Rook. There’s adventure to be had!”
SUPPLEMENTAL MATERIAL: THE HISTORY OF THE THREE FORKS
During the events of the Case of the Silent Scream, an item belonging to my employer was confiscated by the police as evidence. Following the whole ordeal, Jackaby was quite vocal with his indignation at their failure to return it promptly. A “miscarriage of justice,” he called it. “Unprofessional. Downright disreputable. I fear I may be forced to declare ‘shenanigans’!”
After some time, I was able to convince him that it was most likely a normal bureaucratic delay, and that a polite letter requesting the item’s return would likely do the trick. What follows is the letter Jackaby dictated, with just a little of my own editorial revision:
To the attention of the New Fiddleham Police Department: You’ve got my middle-C, and I would like it back. To convey the importance of its swift return, I will share with you its unique history.
There was once an old church. It sat in the center of town, as was often the case in those days, and it was in every way the heart of the little community. Neighbors came to meet for celebrations, babies were baptized, lovers were married, and funeral processions commenced at that humble church. The heartbeat of the little town rang with the sound of church bells.
In the bell tower hung not one, but three masterfully crafted bells. On very special occasions, the vicar would ring all three together, and their notes would complement one another in a rich chord, but more often they rang alone, each bell serving a distinct purpose.
In 1861, a civil war shook the country. Men and boys who had grown up to the tolling of the church bells were called away, and those left behind did all they could to support the war effort. The vicar at that time felt it was his duty to contribute as well, and so he offered up the beautiful bells to be melted down and reduced to cannons or blades.
The very day the bells were removed, the vicar developed a terrible fever and a sharp ringing in his ears. Relics of the church had been reduced to weapons, fated to help brothers slaughter brothers. It was an unholy day, indeed. When his temperature finally broke, the vicar found he had lost his hearing entirely.
Meanwhile, the soldier responsible for their transport was overcome with an urge to preserve at least some memento of the magnificent bells. Against orders, and against his own better judgment, he saw that small scraps of each were set aside. These he brought back to his own hometown and presented to a master craftsman he knew capable of reforging the metal. A bell, once rung, wants to ring, and he asked the man if he could return to them their voices in some way.
The smith melted and cast the shards into three wholly unique tuning forks. There was never any question in his mind as to which tone each fork should possess, for the metal sang to him from the first pump of the bellows. When he had finished, they each hummed the very same notes they had rung in the bell tower.
There was something stranger still about the forks. Each had become a pure and concentrated version of its former self, and carried with it the emotional power of its past incarnation.
The lowest, its toll accustomed to sounding the slow announcement of funerals, was imbued with a tone of somber tragedy. Those who heard it could not help but shed a tear. Not so powerful as a banshee’s keen, the note was like a single moment stolen from her complex melody of sorrow. Still, the sensation would wash instantly over any who now heard it chime.