“Let’s see,” he said at last. “I observed you were recently from the Ukraine. This was a simple deduction. A young domovyk, the Ukrainian breed of the slavic house spirit, has had time to nestle in the folds along the brim of your hat.”

“A what?”

“Domovyk. Were the fur a bit longer, it could easily be confused for a Russian domovoi. It seems quite well established, probably burrowed in more deeply as you boarded the ship. Ah, right, which brings us to Germany.

“More recently, you seem to have picked up a young Klabautermann, a kind of German kobold. By nature, kobolds are attracted to minerals, and take on the color of their preferred substance—yours has a nice iron gray coat. Fondness for iron is rare among fairies and their ilk. Most fairy creatures can’t touch the stuff. That’s probably why your poor domovyk nestled in so deep. Klabautermann are among the most helpful of their breed. See, he’s made some repairs to the hem of your coat, there—probably his little way of thanking you for the ride. These charming fellows are known for helping sailors and fishermen. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow wrote about a cheeky little one who . . .”

I interrupted, “You mean to say I’ve got two imaginary beasties living in my clothes, even though I haven’t ever seen them?”

“Oh, hardly imaginary—and I should think it’s a good thing you didn’t see that little chap!” The man allowed a throaty laugh to escape. “Goodness, it’s a terrible omen for anyone blessed by a kobold’s presence on a ship to actually lay eyes on the creature. You’d likely have sunk the whole vessel.”

“But you see them?” I asked. “You saw them right away at the pub, didn’t you?”

“Not right away, no. As you hung your coat, I did spot the droppings on your lapel, which naturally I thought might . . .”

“Droppings?”

“Yes, just there. On your lapel.”

I glanced down, brushing a few stray bits of lint from my otherwise spotless lapel, and then straightened, feeling foolish. “People pay you to tell them this sort of thing?”

“Where it is pertinent to the resolution of their problems, yes,” replied Jackaby, resuming his brusque walk. “Some of my clients are most grateful, indeed. My property on Augur Lane was a gift from Mayor Spade. He was particularly happy to be rid of a nest of brownies who had settled in a corner of his estate—caused no end of trouble, those little ruffians. At least the mayor’s eyebrows seem to have grown back faster than his wife’s rosebushes.”

“Your clients pay you in real estate?” I gawped.