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I had been introduced to a snow-swept New Fiddleham earlier that year, a New Fiddleham where baroque buildings glistened with frost and chilly winds whispered through the alleyways. With the summer sun now beating down on the cobblestones, the city did not whisper so much as it panted heavily, its breath humid and cloying.
A bucket of foul wash-water would evaporate in minutes on the hot paving stones, but its essence would linger for days, wandering the rows of the tenements like a stray cat.
“You should try blowing up a dragon some time,” I said. “No, scratch that. That went terribly. I don’t recommend it.” “Impressive blast radius, though,” Jackaby confirmed. Mayor Spade looked from me to my employer and rubbed the bridge of his nose with one hand. “Good lord, one of you was quite enough. You had to recruit?”
“You know that I love wistful anecdotes about the destruction of property and endangerment of the public as much as the next man,” Marlowe interjected, “but we’re busy here.”
It looked like precisely the sort of place where a living body might go if it wanted to become a dead one.
“You know a lot about cleaning carpets for someone whose floor looks like a topical map of the East Indies.” “I know the Viennese waltz, too, but I don’t waste my time doing it every day.
This was one of those neighborhoods that knew more shadows than light, without a doubt.
Curious, isn’t it? How the monsters always seem to prey on the innocent and the weak? Perhaps it’s because goodness and love are so unlike monstrosity. It is the ugliest aspect of human nature that we fear what is most different from ourselves with such violent contempt.”
“People often feel more alone than ever when they first arrive in a new place,” Jackaby continued, “but we are never alone. We bring with us the spirits of our ancestors. We are haunted by their demons and protected by their deities.”
I like to see the lights all around me and feel the ground beneath my feet. This city is alive. It has a soul, and that soul is a glorious mess of beliefs and cultures all swirling together into something precious and strange and new.”
“Just like Monet. Exactly like that. I prefer to walk because I like to be right up close to the beautiful madness.”
I felt ready for a second encounter with a paranormal predator like Pavel, but I had to admit that to an ordinary bear or wolf, we were mostly just well-seasoned.
“Hello, detectives. My name is Cordelia Hoole,” she said. “I got your message.” “Hello, Mrs. Hoole. My name is Jackaby,” said Jackaby. “I’ve got the unconscious body of an unpleasant stranger. Would you mind holding the door?”
I can see willful obfuscation spread over you like marmalade on toast. I do not care for marmalade, madam, and I care less for secrets.”
Kindness is an act of bravery, I think, just as hatred is an act of fear.
Jackaby leapt aside, but the oreborn moved with remarkable speed for a landmass.
