Rook, page 7
“Which is why it’s convenient that you’re not here,” grunted Marlowe. “It’s why this conversation never took place. It is most decidedly why I am not writing an address on this piece of paper, along with a very specific window of time during which one could expect all of the supervising officers at the crime scene to be otherwise occupied.” He scribbled a few words on a piece of paper and folded them into a crisp square.
“Wait.” I blinked. “You . . . you want me to insert myself into an ongoing investigation and trespass onto an active crime scene without official clearance?”
Marlowe sighed. “For the record, I obviously want no such thing.” He slid the paper across the desk. “Off the record, I’m sure Mr. Jackaby can give you a few pointers about trespassing onto a crime scene. There’s a window on the first floor, rear,” he added. “I definitely would not know anything about the latch being left unlocked.”
My hand was shaky as I picked up the paper.
“Time is a luxury we don’t have, and you are an asset we can’t waste.” Marlowe’s eyes fixed on mine. “You don’t need to tell me that it’s too much to ask,” he acknowledged. “But I’m asking it anyway, because you’re the only you we’ve got. Are you up to it?”
I met his gaze. I could say no. I should say no. My throat felt dry.
“Of course,” I managed. “I’m up to it.”
chapter seven
The walk back across the city is a blur in my memory. I felt dizzy. Peace in New Fiddleham was apparently balanced on a knife’s edge—and I was somehow supposed to tip the scales? And what about Charlie? I was finding it difficult to draw full breaths. The auras all around me felt like they were darkening, churning around and around into a foreboding tunnel. This was bad.
“This is wonderful!” Jackaby slapped his hands together, jarring me back to the present and to the cluttered office on Augur Lane. “I’ll pack the usual charms and wards, of course.” He was already beginning to bustle around, opening drawers and pulling out little bundles and beads as he spoke. “Do you think you’d use the new scrying stones if I brought them? Oh, I’ll bring them just in case. Did Marlowe happen to mention if there was any dismemberment involved? Bodily mutilation? No details? That’s fine—the surprise is part of the fun.”
“Fun? Mr. Jackaby—the woman is dead !”
“Obviously.” He lifted his head up from the bottom drawer of a cabinet. “I was, however, under the impression she was also awful. Awful first and then dead?”
“Yes. Sure, fine,” I said. “But awful or not, her death makes things complicated. Did you know those Humans First people have been targeting Charlie? By name? My Charlie?”
“First I’m hearing of it,” Jackaby mumbled. His aura flushed a muddy pink.
“Jackaby!” I gaped. “You do know that I can see you’re lying.”
“Yes, but I was hoping that in the heat of the moment you wouldn’t notice,” he said. “You caught it straightaway, though. Very keen! Good job. An excellent sign that you’re ready to tackle this case. I’m packing ankhs and rosaries.” I had not seen the insufferable man so excited in months.
The window of time written on Marlowe’s clandestine note was not for several hours, which gave me at least a brief period in which I could try to settle my nerves.
I took a deep breath as I stepped off the spiral staircase onto the third-story landing. There were several upsides to remaining a tenant at 926 Augur Lane—the protective wards around the perimeter, the enviable library—but none of these compared to the oasis that was the third floor. If one looked hard enough, one could pick out the telltale signs of the stately study and sensible office space that had once occupied the floor—a filing cabinet stood against that wall, a weathered davenport under that window—but these had all been given freely to the vines and wildflowers. The work had been completed by supernatural contractors in exchange for assistance Jackaby had provided years ago, and the result was well and truly magical. The wood of the floor extended only a few feet from the landing before melting into soft peat. Where once there had been carpets, lush meadows of moss and clover now covered the floor. A butterfly flitted by as I made my way down the worn path toward the pond.
I eased myself onto the bench at the water’s edge just as a stately mallard paddled up to the shore to meet me.
“Good morning, Douglas,” I said.
Douglas quacked a polite greeting in response.
I tore off several chunks of soft bread and tossed them into the grass in front of him. He bobbed his head in my direction before tucking in. Douglas had not always been a mallard. Before I had ever stepped off the boat in New Fiddleham, Douglas had been Jackaby’s assistant. Jackaby insisted that the spell was reversible, but that by the time he had acquired the necessary resources, Douglas had settled in. He could change back at any time—at least my mentor believed that he could—but he had to want to. His human features were almost visible in the halo of his aura, but they were like an impression left in the sand, an imprint of humanity in a body that was now entirely waterfowl.
I watched as Douglas rooted for bread crumbs, his tail feathers wiggling contentedly.
“Do you still remember it?” I asked. “Being a person?”
He lifted his head to look me in the eyes for several seconds. He did not respond, but his aura betrayed comprehension. He understood perfectly well.
“Do you ever miss it?” I asked.
With a noncommittal shrug of his wings, he returned his attention to the grass.
I leaned back against the bench and looked out across the rippling water. “Between the two of us, confidentially, I’m beginning to think you got the better curse.”
Douglas waddled closer, flapped his wings, and hopped up onto the bench beside me. His eyes shimmered with the reflection of the morning light catching the water.
“It’s not that being the Seer isn’t a great privilege,” I amended. “It is, I know, and I suppose I should be more appreciative. I’ve been given a power some people would kill for. Have killed for.” I took a deep breath. Douglas watched me intently. “I just keep feeling unequal to it. What if it’s wasted on me? Maybe I find a clue at that house that nobody else could find, but I don’t know what to do with it, and so a killer goes free. Or maybe I do uncover a killer, but that truth sets off a war, and countless more are killed.” I sighed. “And maybe I just mope about, staring at the water and feeling sorry for myself while the world burns.”
Douglas bobbed back and forth, straightening up. He was every bit a duck, but the humanity in his aura pressed right to the surface. The feathers that hung around his chest looked like a prim vest, and the ring around his neck was like a starched shirt collar. It was not difficult to imagine him tallying expenses and updating ledgers. After a pregnant pause, he opened his bill as if to speak, then hesitated.
“Yes?” I prompted.
Decisively, Douglas snatched the other half of the baguette from my lap and flew off over the pond. His feet skimmed the water as he made his landing.
“You used to be a better listener,” I called after him.
He replied with a hearty and unapologetic quack from the comfort of the mossy armchair that occupied his island in the center of the lake.
I pushed myself up to standing and shook my head. Well, if Douglas could seize the opportunities that felt right to him, then I supposed I could, too—I just had to sort out for myself what they were.
As I headed back down the stairwell, a dull thunk made me pause on the second floor. I peeked out at the landing and saw Charlie, rubbing his head and righting himself in the hallway.
The mirror portal, convenient though it was, had a habit of tilting midway through. This made crossing feel a bit like stepping from a moving train onto a platform—if the platform was also on a hill and obeyed a different gravity than the train’s.
Charlie dusted himself off. He spotted me watching as he was brushing a curl of hair behind his ears, and he flashed me a warm smile. There it was again, that ripple of joy as he looked at me. All of my stresses did not exactly vanish in that instant—but for just a moment, they ebbed.
Sheepishly, he nodded at the mirror. “Overcorrected. Every time.”
“Oh, poor dear,” I said. “If only I’d been here faster, I would have caught you.”
Charlie’s aura pulsed. “I certainly would have preferred if my landing had been in your arms.”
My ears felt hot. I opened my mouth to say something clever and flirtatious in return, but found speaking more than impossible.
“I really appreciate this,” Charlie said.
“Mm?” I tried to find my way back to solid ground.
“It’s good to have someone to talk to before the briefing,” he said. “I’m probably overthinking it, but I’ve been nervous about it all week.”
I blinked. “Right,” I managed, at last. “Your big meeting. Tomorrow.” The warm, pleasant haze began to slip away, letting the cold breeze of reality creep back in.
“It’s just that there are going to be a lot of people there.”
“Wait,” I said. And all at once an icy lump formed in my gut as all the stresses that had been patiently holding back began jockeying for position in the front of my brain again. “Are there going to be reporters there? Like from the newspapers?”
“Well, it is a press briefing,” he said. “But it’s also for the public—an open forum. The mayor felt the community should be kept informed about evolving policy matters and given a chance to voice their feelings on the—”
“It’s a terrible idea,” I interjected. “Couldn’t you just write it all down and send them a report?”
“That’s not how it works, I’m afraid.” He shrugged. “I’ve got to be there in person.”
“But anyone could attend! Aren’t you the least bit concerned that people will blame you for all the things they don’t like? That they might take their frustration out on you? That they might become an unruly mob?”
“Of course I have my concerns,” Charlie answered. He swallowed and fidgeted with the cuff on his jacket. “But showing up is the job. And letting people be angry at me if they feel they must—well, that is also the job.”
“Then it’s a terrible job,” I said.
Charlie let out a sigh and nodded, his brows crinkling. I could see lightning flashes of anxiety piercing the storm cloud around him now. I had not made things better.
“Have you considered,” I asked, “running away with me and avoiding all of our responsibilities forever and ever as a mature and reasonable alternative?”
He smiled weakly and stepped closer. “Daily,” he said.
My head slipped under his chin as his arms wrapped around me. He smelled of sandalwood and mint, and for another fleeting moment the chaotic world melted away into the background.
And then the moment was pierced by a crash and the clatter of porcelain downstairs. Charlie straightened, and I reluctantly pulled away.
“Charlie, I don’t mean to make you more anxious than you already are. I’m sorry. It’s just . . .” I hesitated. What was I planning to say, exactly? It’s just that you have every reason to be afraid? It’s just that loads of total strangers have, indeed, decided to hate you personally and quite possibly accuse you of a murder you don’t know anything about? Maybe I would have something more reassuring to say after solving the case and clearing Charlie’s name. “It’s just that there’s this small errand I need to run before I can really give you my full attention.”
Charlie raised an eyebrow. “Something to do with the robbery case?” he asked. “I could come with you.”
“No! No, I—” I searched for a way to tell him about D’Aulaire. Did he already know about all the libelous articles she’d penned? Of her final scathing indictment? The poor man was buzzing with nerves already—it made my heart ache to make it worse.
From the floor below came another muffled crash.
“We should probably go see if Jackaby hasn’t managed to set fire to water or something,” I demurred.
Charlie followed me down the stairs. I had to tell him. He was putting on a brave face, but the clouds hanging over him were still heavy and thick. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I want to help. I do. It’s just . . .”
“You have a lot on your plate right now,” he offered. “I’ll be fine.” His assurances only made me feel more wretched as I watched the anxiety circle his head. My throat felt tight. I was making everything worse.
We reached the ground floor, where we were met by the sound of raised voices in the kitchen.
“She is not a child!” Jackaby was saying.
“But she is a human being,” Jenny’s voice countered, hotly. “You would do well to remember that adults experience emotions, too, and have need of empathy from time to time.”
“She says she’s fine,” Jackaby was saying as I opened the door. Both of them turned. Jenny looked embarrassed. Jackaby did not. “She can speak for herself,” said Jackaby. “Are you fine, Miss Rook?”
“Of course I’m not fine,” I sighed.
“See?” Jackaby spun back to Jenny. “A highly self-aware and reflective response, indicative of a healthy state of emotional awareness. She’s fine.”
Jenny threw up her hands in exasperation. “Charlie, tell me you’ve at least tried to talk some sense into her?”
Charlie looked confused.
“Charlie clearly appreciates the magnitude of the situation,” Jackaby said, jabbing a finger in Charlie’s direction. “Tell her.”
“I’m not sure that I—” Charlie began.
“Actually, I had not yet gotten around to fully explaining the situation to Charlie.” I shot him an apologetic glance. “I was . . . getting to it.”
“The situation,” Jenny announced, “is that Abigail has been through a monumental trauma and transformation. She should be taking the time to discover herself, not discover some horrid murderer.”
“Murderer?” Charlie asked.
The emotions in the room were beginning to collect like smoke pouring off a grease fire. I could feel the muscle just under my right eye beginning to twitch. In the back of my head I could hear a sort of tapping.
“She has spent the past six months cooped up in this house,” Jackaby yelled. “If she was going to discover herself here, she would have found herself already! Maybe she’s looking in the wrong place. Who’s to say she won’t turn up on the trail? Somewhere around the corpse of that awful woman?”
“Come again?” Charlie said. “What woman?”
“The dead woman!” Jackaby snapped. “Keep up, man!”
“Don’t look at me,” said Jenny. “Different dead woman.”
“Stop!” I finally burst. “Would everyone cease shouting on my behalf, please? Yes, I am feeling rather overwhelmed at present—but I am tired of telling you all that I can handle it. The truth is that I have no idea whether or not I can handle it, but I have made the decision to handle it anyway, so you can all kindly stop arguing about it!”
In the silence that followed, the tapping was clearer. It was coming from the front door.
Charlie cleared his throat. “I can answer that,” he said, “if you all would like a moment?”
“I am perfectly capable of answering a door,” I said, a bit more sternly than I had intended.
I took several steadying breaths as I made my way to the front room.
I could see two auras on the other side of the door. The first was prim and stiff, a halo of rich amber marbled with proud violets. The second, taller and softer, was a coppery brown with sunny wisps of curiosity. They were familiar, but I could not quite place them. I threw the door open and froze.
“Well?” said my mother. “You’ve forced your father and me to come all this way—are you going to force us to stand outside in the cold, as well?”
chapter eight
In classic tales, there are several means by which a person might retain youthfulness. The ancient Greeks believed in a restorative ambrosia, the ancient Norse consumed golden apples, and the ancient Chinese had peaches of immortality. The poet Oscar Wilde published a novel in which the feat was achieved by means of an enchanted painting and the sale of one’s soul—although that story did not end well for the titular Dorian Gray. There is, of course, a much less miraculous method of becoming a child again. Should one feel the budding onset of adulthood and wish to stave off any pesky sense of maturity or autonomy, one need only spend the day with one’s overbearing parents.
“Well of course we came to rescue you,” my mother said, straightening the collar on my blouse. “You didn’t think your mother and father would leave you helpless and alone, stranded on this brutish continent all by yourself, did you?”
My eye twitched. “I am not alone, Mother,” I said. “And I am not in need of rescuing.”
“Of course you’re not,” said my father, setting a pair of traveling bags down just inside the door. He exchanged a knowing look with my mother. “And bully for you! Really. Good show, making it this far.”
My mother rolled her eyes. “Don’t encourage her, Daniel. It’s all right, dear. You’ve had your great big, grown-up adventure. There’s no need to stay in this dreadful place any longer just to prove some silly point.” Her eyes scanned the room disapprovingly, drifting from one eclectic keepsake to the next, ultimately landing on Ogden’s terrarium.
“I am not proving a silly point,” I said, wishing that my voice did not sound exactly as it had when I tried to stay up for two days straight when I was fourteen just to show them that I could. I had awoken in my father’s arms as he was carrying me to bed. “And don’t stare at the frog,” I added.
