“Ready?” Jackaby called.
We received the occasional stare as we took to the streets of New Fiddleham. Charlie was a big dog. He had a wide muzzle, and his back came up nearly to my waist. Even padding peacefully down the lane in his role as the harmless house pet, he inspired more than a few passersby to favor the opposite sidewalk.
Finstern had agreed to come along. Jackaby did not feel comfortable letting him out of our sight for too long, and the inventor seemed to be interested in seeing what our investigation might uncover anyway. He also regarded the hound with a level of interest I did not like.
“Powerful beast,” he said. “Charlie? Wasn’t that also the name of the young man—?”
“The one is named for the other,” Jackaby answered curtly.
“Which is named for which?”
“That,” Jackaby replied, “is an excellent question. Oh, look—here’s the first place, just ahead.”
The medium had a sign hung from her window, an outstretched hand with an eye in the center. The sign read:
MME VOILE—CLAIRVOYANT
PALMS. LEAVES. SÉANCES.
Jackaby strode inside first, and the rest of us followed. A bell chimed, and from somewhere inside the building a chair squeaked against the floor. The cramped lobby was thick with the aromas of rosewater and sage. A curtain behind the counter whipped aside and a woman emerged dressed in flowing purple robes, a silk head scarf, and a lace shawl. She wore heavy makeup, her eyelids smoky blue and her eyes framed by thick black lashes. As she surveyed us, she adjusted a bronze tiara just above her hairline. It was strung with delicate, dangling chains that swayed hypnotically across her forehead.
“Greetings, weary travelers,” she said. “I sense that you—”
“Nope,” Jackaby said and pushed past us back out of the shop.
Back on the street Finstern caught up with him.
“What was that?”
“A charlatan,” Jackaby replied frankly. “To be expected. We’ll hope for better luck at our next stop.”
“How will you know?”
“I will know,” said Jackaby. “This way. There’s a whole shop dedicated to the occult about two blocks down on Prospect Lane. Mostly artificial relics and harmless trinkets, but several Lwa of the Vodou pantheon used to manifest there on Saturdays.”
Finstern narrowed his eyes at Jackaby. There was skepticism in his gaze, but also something else—something far more unsettling—like a deep and insatiable hunger.
“Come along,” called Jackaby. “It’s just ahead and to the right.”
Charlie made a small growling noise.
“Hm? Oh—to the left, I mean. Ahead and to the left.”
We wound our way around the city for an hour or two, stopping in at various esoteric little parlors. Some were little more than kitchen nooks hung with spare bedsheets, and others were richly decorated rooms with warm lighting and cloying incense.
Most of these Jackaby passed over with little more than a casual glance, although a few had apparently incorporated some legitimately supernatural set dressing or authentically arcane accoutrements. One of the frauds, Jackaby was amused to report, was not remotely gifted in extramortal communication, but was a budding telekinetic. The trembling table and rattling windows bespoke a genuine and admirable talent, although not one that would help us find the answers we sought.
Finstern caught sight of a posting on a public board as we moved on up the street. “Does that look like your Charlie boy to you?” he asked. I looked.
Sure enough, he had spotted one of the wanted posters featuring Charlie’s human likeness. Charlie’s ears flattened. “No,” I said. “No, not so much. I mean, similar features, to be sure—but they have very different, erm, noses. And the eyebrows are all wrong.”
Jackaby glanced back to see why we had stalled. He followed our gaze and grunted in annoyance. He had already given Marlowe an earful when the posters first appeared, but the commissioner could not seem to stop his district chiefs from papering the town with the confounded things. Beneath Charlie’s face it read:
WANTED
FOR MURDER, DEVILRY, LYCANTHROPY
$1,000 REWARD
CHARLIE CANE
“Hrm,” said Jackaby. “I’m almost impressed one of those simpletons bothered to look up the term lycanthropy, although they’ve got it wrong on all three accounts, of course.” He tore down the paper and stuffed it in the bin a half a block down the road. “Different Charlie,” he added over his shoulder for good measure, and then continued on his way without further explanation.
Jackaby knew of just one more medium operating out of New Fiddleham, and I held out hope that our last stop might make the whole trip worthwhile. A row of brick buildings with tattered awnings stretched before us, and at the end of the block I could see a banner with suns and moons circling a crystal ball. As we neared my hope dried up. The Glorious Galvani had long since closed up shop. His door was boarded up, and mischievous scoundrels had broken several windowpanes. I peered inside and sighed. It was very empty.
“You looking to see the future?” a voice called out weakly from across the street.
“We’re actually more interested in the past,” Jackaby replied. “Specifically we’re interested in those passed. Hello, Miss Lee—shouldn’t you be resting?”
Lydia Lee, the same Lydia Lee Jackaby had rescued in the alleyway, stood in the darkened doorway of a building across the street. I had gotten a bit mixed up with all of the twists and turns, but we couldn’t have been more than a few blocks from the neighborhood where we had dropped her off. Her tight black curls were tied up with a red ribbon, and she wore a sleeveless white chemise with lace fringe and a corset of black and red. She had a black mantle draped over her broad shoulders, but it provided little in the way of concealment.
“It wasn’t as bad as it looked,” she said. Her auburn lips were still marred with a dark cut, around which a ring of purple had blossomed.
“It was exactly as bad as it looked,” Jackaby said. “You have a cracked rib, Miss Lee, and if you’re not careful with that corset you’ll make it worse.”
“The corset makes it feel better.”
“The corset restricts air flow. You’re going to give yourself pneumonia. I went to the trouble of saving your life; the least you could do is keep it saved.”
“Mr. Jackaby.” Miss Lee spoke softly but firmly. “I appreciate your help, and that O’Connor lady you sent to check up on me was sweet—but don’t confuse saving a life with owning it. No one owns my life but me. I’m not staying cooped up forever.”
Jackaby shook his head but relented.
“I am in your debt, though,” Miss Lee said. “And I hate that. You’re looking for a real psychic? I tell you what, how about I take you to Little Miss?”
“Little Miss?”
“All Mama Tilly’s girls know Little Miss. She’s a special one.”
We wound our way back up through the streets slowly. Miss Lee moved stiffly and took shallow breaths. Every time Jackaby cautioned that she not push herself or suggested she take a rest, she only pressed on harder, as if to spite him. Eventually he stopped trying to help.
Finstern turned to me as Miss Lee led the way. “Why are we following a man in a dress?”
“She’s not . . .” I began, feeling defensive, but out of my depth to explain. “She’s just different from other girls. She’s really quite lovely.”
Charlie slid over to stand between the inventor and me, eyeing the man from under a furry brow as we plodded forward.
“She has an Adam’s apple.”
“You’re awfully judgmental for someone who’s been keeping company with dead rodents,” I said. “Look, I don’t know that I fully understand her, either, but that doesn’t matter. I don’t need to understand someone to respect them. I think she’s very brave.”
“How is she brave?”
“How?” I considered. “There are lots of people out there who are terribly hateful.
She could avoid a whole lot of trouble and dress and act as they want her to, but she chooses to be herself. That’s brave. Also—the last time we met she stopped Jackaby from hurting the men who hurt her. They might have killed her. Kindness is an act of bravery, I think, just as hatred is an act of fear. I’m sure you can appreciate that not all strength is muscle, Mr. Finstern. She has a strong spirit, and I believe she is very brave about the way she chooses to use it.”
Finstern seemed to accept my explanation without further argument, or else he had simply stopped paying attention. It was hard to tell with a man whose eyes never sat for two seconds on the same thing. “Your employer,” he said. “Why is he so certain of which mediums have powers and which do not?”
“Don’t you know?” I said. “Jackaby is a Seer. He calls it looking past the veil. He sees the truth of things.”
Finstern’s cheek twitched. “What sort of things?”
“Anything, really. He sees magical creatures when they’re trying to hide. He can see traces of people after they have gone like he’s looking at footprints in the air, especially if there is something supernatural about them. He sees auras, which I think are sort of like people’s characters—their past, present, and potential—manifested as colors all around them. It’s not always clear how it works, but he says he sees the true nature of things.”
Finstern nodded thoughtfully and fell silent. The hungry look had crept back into his eyes, and he watched Jackaby like a dog might watch the edge of his master’s plate.
Soon we came to a familiar wooden sign—an outstretched hand with a simple eye in the center.
Jackaby pinched the bridge of his nose and shifted the heavy satchel on his shoulder. “Miss Lee, thank you ever so much for your assistance, but we have already met Madame Voile. I’m afraid she is not quite the clairvoyant her advertisement indicates. I appreciate your help all the same. Please, now—do get some rest. Repay your debt to us by spending just a little time on the mend.”
“You don’t want to meet Madame,” Miss Lee said. “I told you. You want to meet Little Miss.”
Jackaby cocked his head to one side, and Miss Lee gave him a wry smile.
“Tell her Mama Tilly’s girls say hi. We all look out for Little Miss. It was a pleasure to see you again, Mr. Jackaby.” She gave a little wave and Jackaby tipped his head courteously before stepping back into the shop with a little chime. Finstern followed close on his heels.
I hesitated. “Miss Lee,” I said. “Do be careful.”
Miss Lee gave me a smile. “Careful, Miss Abigail?”
“Yes, of course. Those men might have . . . you could have . . . just be careful.”
“Don’t go down the wrong streets, you mean?”
“Yes, exactly.”
“You’re a sweet girl,” she said in a kind tone that made me feel less sweet and more woefully naive. “But open up those pretty eyes. For me, they’re all the wrong streets.” Her voice broke just a little and she swallowed and straightened, pushing past the moment by force of will. “I don’t want to be careful, Miss Abigail. I want to be Lydia Lee.”
And then she was off again, marching down the sidewalk with her chin up and her shoulders back. Charlie nudged my hand with his head, and I realized I had been staring after her. “I’m coming,” I said. “Let’s go meet Little Miss, shall we?”
Chapter Twenty-Three
We slipped back into Madame Voile’s cramped little lobby just as the curtain swept aside and the clairvoyant reappeared. “Greetings, weary travelers,” she said. “I see you have been drawn once more toward my door by the inexorable pull of fate.”
“Something like that,” said Jackaby. “Anyway, fate sounds more impressive than a lack of other options. Either way, here we are.”
Madame Voile hesitated.
“Pardon me, ma’am,” I said. “We were wondering if we might talk to Little Miss?”
Madame Voile scanned our faces suspiciously. “No one here called Little Miss,” she said. Her accent, I couldn’t help but notice, had suddenly lost its theatrical cadence.
“You’re quite sure?” I asked.
Jackaby was staring at her intently.
“Am I sure? Of course I’m sure. Now, if you are not here for a reading—”
“You are lying,” Jackaby said, happily. “Marvelous. Who is Little Miss, then? A niece? A sister? A daughter?”
Madame Voile glared at my employer.
“A daughter, then. I understand she has taken to the family trade rather exceptionally. I’m sure you’re very proud. We will be happy to offer remuneration for her services, of course. Just a few minutes of her time.”
The curtain behind Madame Voile wiggled, and a wide pair of dark brown eyes peeped out.
“Remuneration?” The woman crossed her arms at Jackaby.
Jackaby answered by plucking a handful of crumpled banknotes out of his satchel. “For her trouble, and for yours,” he said.
Madame Voile’s eyes widened as the money tumbled onto the counter in front of her.
“Well,” she said, “I don’t know. She’s only five, my Little Miss. She’s a sweet, precious little thing. What kind of mother would I be if I let strangers harass her for a mere . . . how much was that?”
“Half,” answered Jackaby. “That is half. The rest after we’ve had our consultation.”
The woman stared at the money hungrily. “Irina!” she called over her shoulder. The girl emerged, her bright eyes barely able to see over the top of the counter. She wore a head scarf, but she was dressed without any of her mother’s rich fabrics or ostentatious bangles. “These people want to talk to you, Irina.”
“I’m seven,” she whispered. “I’m not five.”
“Oh, hush up, now. Take them around back, there’s a good girl.”
The girl looked up, and then she stared at the window behind us for several seconds. I glanced out to see what she was looking at, but the street was empty. “They won’t all fit in the booth,” the girl murmured.
Madame Voile grunted. “Hm. That’s true. Well, they’re not paying me for the show, anyway. The kitchen table will have to do. Show them the way.”
We filed past the curtain and through a slim, dark room, which held a round table draped in black cloth with a crystal ball in the center. On the other side of the room sat a jarringly ordinary kitchen. There were pots and pans hung on the wall and dirty dishes soaking in the sink. A wide wooden table occupied the center of the room, and we shuffled in and sat around it. Charlie padded in last and lay down against the wall behind my chair.
The door chimes sounded and Madame Voile glanced at the clock. “Oh, that’ll be Mrs. Howell. I’ll be back to check on you all shortly. Be a good girl, Irina.” She plucked a deck of cards from the mantle and bustled off back through the curtains. We could hear her voice pronouncing a muffled, “Greetings, Mrs. Howell. Oh! I sense fate has much in store for you!”
The girl sat down at the head of the table. She was very small, and she hunched nervously as she looked at us. She seemed to look past Jackaby as though she were staring at the wallpaper behind him rather than at the detective directly.
Jackaby deposited his satchel on the floor with a thud. He smiled reassuringly. “Good afternoon, Irina,” he said.
She nodded, still not quite meeting his gaze. She looked as though she might recede completely into her head scarf at any moment.
“A friend of mine told me you were very clever,” he said. “One of Mama Tilly’s girls? She told me that you’re a bit like me, actually.”
Irina looked up at him for a moment.
“I also see things that other people can’t see,” said Jackaby. “And I know about things that are sometimes hard to explain.”
Irina nodded.
“We’re not exactly the same,” he continued. “I can see there’s something extra special about you.”
“Can you see her?” the girl asked.
Finstern swiveled in his chair to look around the room,
and I felt the hairs on my neck prickle up. Her?
Jackaby smiled. “Yes. I can see her. Don’t worry, she’s very nice.” He reached into his heavy satchel and pulled out a familiar cracked brick. He set it on the table. “She’s my friend, and she came along just to meet you.”
The air just over his shoulder shimmered, although Jenny did not materialize completely. She had been there all along, I realized, right where the girl had been watching. I shook my head, astonished and proud of Jenny’s progress. How long had we been walking around town? This was a far cry from taking a few steps onto the sidewalk.
“Hello, sweetie,” Jenny said softly. “You don’t need to be nervous.” Her voice was gentle and kind. “It’s an honor to meet you. You have a marvelous gift. Not many people can see me unless I really want them to. Do you see many other people who are . . . like me?” Jenny asked.
The girl was quiet.
“It’s just that we were hoping to find someone,” Jenny’s voice continued. “Someone who was dead.”
“I see them.” Irina’s voice was barely a whisper. We all leaned in to listen.
“That’s fantastic,” Jenny said. “Have you seen anyone recently? Can you describe them?”
The girl took a deep breath. “I see all of them.”
Jackaby cleared his throat gently. “All of them?” he asked.
“Everyone that’s dead,” she said. “Your friend is pretty.”
Jackaby nodded. “She is that. You see everyone that’s dead? Do you mean everyone, or just the ghostly ones, like her, who have stayed around?”
“Everyone. Forever. There are lots and lots. Too many. Lots more of them than there are of us. Most of them are on the other side. I can’t see them as well as the ones on this side, like her—but I can still see them. I can always see them.”
Jackaby’s eyes were alive with enthusiasm. “My word. She’s telling the truth.”
The girl nodded, meekly.
“You are very special indeed, Little Miss,” said Jackaby.