“Well, we seem to be sneaking into a crime scene, but you’re not worried about rousing police suspicion, and all your talk about . . . you know.”

“What has that policeman got to be suspicious about? There are half a dozen armed watchmen outside ensuring that only authorized personnel are allowed in. Not unlike your little feigned faint, I merely allowed his assumption to work for me. A far cry from magic spells, Miss Rook, honestly.”

“Well, it’s hard to know what to expect from you. I don’t exactly believe in all this . . . this . . . this occult business. I don’t believe in house spirits, or goblins, or Santa Claus!”

“Well of course not, that’s silliness. Not the spirits or goblins, of course, they’re quite real, but the Santa nonsense.”

“That’s just it! How can you call anything nonsense when you believe in fairy tales?”

“Miss Rook, I am not an occultist.” Jackaby turned on the landing and faced me. “I am a man of reason and science. I believe what I can see or prove, and what I can see is often difficult for others to grasp. I have a gift that is, as far as I have found, unique to me. It allows me to see truth where others see the illusion—and there are many illusions, so many masks and facades. All the world’s a stage, as they say, and I seem to have the only seat in the house with a view behind the curtain.

“I do not believe, for example, that pixies enjoy honey and milk because some old superstition says they do . . . I believe it because when I leave a dish out for them a few times a week, they stop by and drink. They’re fascinating creatures, by the way. Lovely wings: cobweb thin and iridescent in moonlight.”

He spoke with such earnest conviction, it was difficult to dismiss even his oddest claims. “If you have a . . . ,” I spoke carefully, “a special sight, then what is it that you see here? What are we after?”

Dark shadows clouded Jackaby’s brow. “I’m never sure what others see for themselves. Tell me what you observe, first, and I’ll amend. Use all your senses.”

I looked around the stairwell. “We’re on the second-floor landing. The stairs are wooden and aging, but they look sturdy. There are oil lamps hanging along the walls, but they’re not lit—the light is coming from those greasy windows running up the outer wall. Let’s see . . . There are particles of dust dancing in the sunbeams, and the air is crisp and nipping at my ears. It tastes of old wood and something else.” I sniffed and tried to describe a scent I hadn’t noticed before. “It’s sort of . . . metallic.”

Jackaby nodded. “Interesting,” he said. “I like the way you said all that. The dust-dancing business, very poetic.”

“Well?” I prompted. “What do you see?”