“Because the last thing I need is another ghost hanging over my head—or worse, another damned duck. I would feel more comfortable knowing you were safe in the house. Although, come to think of it, it really is best if you avoid the Dangerous Documents section of the library . . . and don’t fiddle with any of the containers in the laboratory . . . and generally steer clear of the whole north wing of the second floor.”

I felt my ears grow hot and my heart dip, but wasn’t entirely certain why. I squared my shoulders to my employer and took a deep breath. “Mr. Jackaby, I am not a child. I can make my own choices, even the bad ones. I have spent my entire life preparing for adventure, and then watching from the front step while it left without me. Since I picked up my first book, I have been reading about amazing discoveries, intrepid explorers, and fantastic creatures, all while scarcely setting foot outside my own house. My father used to tell me I had read more than most of his graduate students. Yet, for all my preparation, the only thing remotely daring I’d ever done before meeting you was running away from university to hunt for dinosaurs—which amounted to nothing more than four months of mud and rocks.” I stopped to breathe.

“I didn’t know you hunted dinosaurs, Miss Rook.”

“You never asked.”

“No, I didn’t. I suppose I don’t tend to focus on that sort of thing. That is what impressed me about you on your first day—your attention to the banal and negligible.”

“Once again, not the most flattering way to put it, but thanks, I’ll take it all the same. As for your decision, my answer is no.”

“There wasn’t a question. My decision is still final.”

I wanted to protest, but the priest had wound his way up to the makeshift podium at the head of the crowd, and the crowd was settling. I bit my tongue as the ceremony began, but I would not be content to let the matter lie.

With the congregation quieted, I found the source of the lilting music. Four women with long, silvery hair and pale gowns stood just to the left of the podium. As various speakers took the stand to deliver sentimental eulogies, the gray women quietly wept and hummed, their cries carrying tender chords across the assembly. As the proceedings drew to a close, the women began to sing the most beautiful, mournful dirge. It was unmistakably akin to Mrs. Morrigan’s final song, but magnified in intensity and complexity. Their voices harmonized, elegant melodies and countermelodies weaving a tapestry of sound that drew tears from every listener, but with it grew an overwhelming sense of peace as well.