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Following his lead tends to call for a somewhat flexible relationship with reality.
He was fond of reminding me that “appearances aren’t everything,” but I dare say they aren’t nothing, either.
“Miss Rook, on a scale of one to pomegranate, how dangerous would you say this situation has become?” “Dangerous?” I faltered. “Yes, Miss Rook,” prompted Jackaby, “in your expert opinion.” “On a scale of one to pomegranate?” I followed his lead, checking over the notes I had scribbled in my notepad and speaking in my most audible, serious whisper. “I should think . . . acorn? Possibly badger. Time alone will tell.”
Some girls work in shops or sell flowers. Some girls find husbands and play house. I assist a mad detective in investigating unexplained phenomena—like fish that ought to be cats but seem to have forgotten how. My name is Abigail Rook, and this is what I do.
“Rumpelstiltskin Finnegan?” Jackaby sighed. “Yes, Miss Rook. Rumpelstiltskin. You’ve found me out. I am the devious imp of the fairy tales.” “It wouldn’t be the strangest thing you’ve told me since I started working for you.”
“Of course I disagree. The ‘most obvious conclusion’ is a lunatic with an ice pick or a jealous lover with a letter opener . . .” He took a deep breath. “But the most obvious conclusion keeps falling short—which is why you’re here. So, that’s your first guess, then? You’re opening with vampire?”
What we need is a thorough, discreet report from somebody accustomed to working outside the usual parameters of the law.” “What a coincidence,” Jackaby said. “I’ve been thinking of putting that very thing on my business cards.
“The smallest gestures can have the biggest impact,”
All exceptional people are, by definition, exceptions to the norm. If we insist on being ordinary, we can never be truly extraordinary.”
I smiled and nodded cordially. Their cheery goodwill only made me more keenly aware that I had left the big city, where sidewalk courtesy rarely extended beyond avoiding eye contact and not intentionally pushing fellow pedestrians from the curb.
“The categories spooky creatures and people are not as separate as you might imagine.
“I’ve nothing against people as a general rule, but people don’t tend to have the sort of answers I’m looking for.”
Jackaby’s cap looked a bit like a child’s wobbly sketch of a hat—the sort of sketch you might accidentally mistake for a lumpy elephant or perhaps a floret of broccoli, if you weren’t holding it the right way up. At best, it was yarn trying very hard to be a hat.
“Won’t be a moment, madam. Just looking for residual traces of paranormal malignance, something indicative of heinous moral grotesquery.” “You’re weird. Watch out for duck poop.” “I always do!”
“Out of the question,” I said. “We’ll find our clues with good old-fashioned, normal detective work.” “Ugh.” Jackaby tossed back his head. “That sounds awful.”
May I be the first to say that fetching dust-gray suit really brings out the color of your personality.
“Why, Mr. Lamb, how kind of you to notice.” Miss Fuller put a hand to the jet-black curls peeking out beneath her hat. “I was hoping for a come-hither look this morning. Of course, if my hair is preventing you from carrying out your work, I would be happy to stuff it up under my hat. Then again, if your opinions on women prevent me from carrying out my work, then I would be more than happy to suggest a place for you to stuff them.” She gave the professor a saccharine smile and a polite nod.
“Just what do you think you’re doing?” Lamb snarled. “Journalism,” she said. “It’s a terrible habit, I know, but I can’t seem to kick it.
Miss Fuller, I addressed you by name, looked you squarely in the eyes, and told you to stay out!” “Then we’re agreed that it was poor communication all around. No hard feelings, though, sunshine. I forgive you.
might have been as leery as Professor Lamb—history and fairy tales lived in opposite ends of my mental library—but the longer I looked, the more the shelves slid into one another, and the more possible the impossible became.
“Men’s hearts are easy targets, Abbie. I’m much more interested in winning their respect.”
Behind every great man is a woman who gave up on greatness and tied herself into an apron.
“So often,” Jackaby said, “people think that when we arrive at a crossroads, we can choose only one path, but—as I have often and articulately postulated—people are stupid. We’re not walking the path. We are the path. We are all of the roads and all of the intersections. Of course you can choose both.”
“Also, if I hear any more nonsense about your allowing other people to decide where you’re going in your own life, I will seriously reconsider your employment. You were hired for your mind, Miss Rook. I won’t have an assistant incapable of thinking for herself.”
“Stay here until we return.” I shook the last of the fog from my brain. “Well, you already know that isn’t going to happen.”
“Oh, he cares very much,” I said. “He just doesn’t show it with—you know—emotions.”
I might be better prepared to slay dragons, I decided, than to flirt with boys.
“But I need to ask you a few questions, so please try to remain calm. If you do not remain calm, we may all be devoured in a horrifically violent manner by that very same medieval monster that consumed your cows–or possibly by one of the two similar monsters also presently at large. Are you calm? Mr. Brisbee?” “He’s fainted,” said Charlie. “Well that’s not helpful in the least.”
“They certainly seem to be something special,” I said, allowing Jackaby to help me up the step into the driver’s box. “Well, of course they are.” Jackaby climbed in after me. “He expected nothing less of them, and treated them accordingly. They were never given the option to be anything but exceptional.” His mouth turned up in a smile, and he gave me a meaningful glance,
“the greatest figures in history are never the ones who avoid failure, but those who march chin-up through countless failures, one after the next, until they come upon the occasional victory.” He put a hand on my shoulder. “Failure is not the opposite of success—it’s a part of it.
The only paths you can’t travel are the ones you block yourself—so don’t let the fear of failure stop you from trying in the first place.
for future reference, discretion doesn’t generally involve blowing a crime scene off the map with a fireball the size of an ocean liner.” “No?” said Jackaby. “Language can be such a nuanced art.”
How long has he been at it? Did he orchestrate the reclusive redcap’s rise to become a predator in public office? Plant the swarm of brownies on the mayor’s lawn? Promote adoption of the Dewey decimal system in libraries across the continent? It’s the not knowing I find most irksome.” “The Dewey decimal system?” “It’s gaining popularity. I don’t trust it.”
