“Ah, but the details are delightful.” Jackaby tossed his scarf around his neck and pulled on his knit hat. “It seems Mrs. Wiggles has recently shrunk in stature, begun to molt, and started lounging in her water bowl for hours at a stretch. Most perplexingly, she has begun growing scales from tip to tail as well. The veterinarian just made useless jokes about it being ‘rather fishy,’ and then prescribed some skin ointment, the tit. The whole thing is marvelously odd.”

“And you do love odd,” I said. “Let me just get my coat. Where are we going, anyway?”

“You are going nowhere,” Jackaby said flatly. “As for me, I am tracking this post back to its origin. There are distinct traces of the supernatural saturating the paper—no doubt remnants of the lady’s curious pet. The document will have left an aura along its path, one that I can navigate as long as I make haste before it fades.”

“Alternately,” I said, tilting my head to peek at the back of the torn envelope in my employer’s hand, “we could try 1206 Campbell Street.”

Jackaby glanced at the return address and then back to me. “I suppose your approach might complement my own in the field—but no!” He shook his head, the ends of his ridiculous cap flapping as he attempted to steel himself in his resolution. “Just think how it would look to your parents,” he said, “if they found out you left your civilized books and classrooms to go running all over town after supernatural nonsense. Not to mention how you must look to the townsfolk right here in New Fiddleham. They’ll think you’re as bad as I am.”

I considered this for a moment before responding. “I have ceased concerning myself with how things look to others,” I said. “As someone told me recently, others are generally wrong.”

His eyes glinted for just a moment, but he fought against the suggestion. “No, it’s for your own good, Miss Rook. You’re staying here. Marlowe was right. This business is not fit for an impressionable young lady.”

“I hate to break it to you, Mr. Jackaby,” I said, “but the damage is done. The impression is made. I don’t want to wait at the doorstep any longer. I want to go dashing off after giants and pixies and dragons. I want to meet with mysterious strangers at crossroads and turn widdershins in the moonlight. I want to listen to the fish, Jackaby. Come to think of it, I am already keeping correspondence with a dog, with whom, I must admit, I find myself rather smitten. Also, I’m secretly hoping Mrs. Wiggles ends up a full halibut when this is through, because that would save me a trip to the market . . . although if Hatun’s troll keeps company with a tabby, perhaps he wouldn’t much appreciate a meal that used to be a cat.”