“Basically,” I answered. “She said that my demise would be imminent if I followed you. I guess you were right about her being unreliable. A lucky thing, too—I much prefer damaged to dead. She was trying to warn me to stay away, but I didn’t listen.”

Jackaby did not respond. He was surveying me with a brooding, sober expression. I was just starting to grow uncomfortable when he broke out of the moment with a wave. “Yes, well, anyway,” he said, the storm clouds vanishing instantly from his eyes. “Nice to have the whole affair behind us. I’ll be whipping up a bit of breakfast. Toddle on over to the laboratory when you’re ready.”

Douglas, from his perch atop the bench, shook his feathery head in a silent caution. I nodded as Jackaby bustled off down the hall. In the distance I could hear him calling, “Jenny! Have you seen that saucepan? The one from that set your grandmother left you?”

“You mean the one you riddled with buckshot dents last month?” came the spirit’s muffled reply. “Or the one you melted last summer with that alchemy nonsense?”

“The first one!”

I eased up to a seated position. The motion was difficult, but not overwhelming, and I found myself smiling as I took in my outrageous surroundings again. It was good to be home.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

By midday, Charlie had regained his color, and many of the nasty red scratches had somehow already faded to pale scars. I watched his chest rise and fall again until Jenny came to help me into a fresh, loose blouse. I found it in me to finish a cup of tea and a bit of toast, but still Charlie slept.

Now that I was awake, Douglas had relieved himself of his post and flapped off into the house somewhere, leaving me alone with the injured man. I stepped gingerly to the bench where he lay. He looked every bit as sweet and unassuming as he always had, perhaps even a little more so when his brow crinkled ever so slightly and his muscles tensed in his sleep. I hated to think he might be reliving his savage battle, and dearly wished there was something I could do to ease his turmoil. I reached out a hand to brush a curl of dark hair from his forehead, and then hesitated.

My heart thumped, beating hot against my scar. In the storybooks, a beautiful princess would revive him with a kiss, and the pair would live happily every after—but I was not a beautiful princess. I was a girl from Hampshire who liked to play in the dirt.

A cold breeze brushed my elbow, and a moment later Jenny’s soft voice came from over my shoulder. “How are you feeling, Abigail?”

“Helpless,” I answered, honestly. “I don’t like feeling helpless.”

She stood beside me, looking over Charlie. “He’s doing quite well, all things considered.”