My father was highly respected in certain scientific circles, and his notoriety kept him perpetually away on business. I had my mother, of course, but her wildest ambitions involved parasols and cucumber sandwiches. Most little girls would probably have preferred playing dress-up with mommy to learning about their father’s work—but most little girls did not have the intrepid Daniel Rook for a father. For him, “work” meant dashing off to exotic locales with groups of daring, khaki-clad adventurers. I could not count the times I begged him to let me see a real dig site, but to no avail. While he explored lost civilizations and unearthed the bones of monstrous beasts, I explored the garden and pulled weeds for a two-penny allowance.

I was not in my mother’s garden, now. I was standing beneath a balcony in an alley that smelled faintly of old wash-water and dead fish, feeling my mind spinning from the day’s events and teetering like an unbalanced top. This was different. I had in the span of the past hour experienced more genuine adventure than in all my time at home or my travels abroad. Inspector Marlowe had sounded just like my father. “This business is not for the female temperament,” he had said—but Jackaby had not hesitated to point me toward the worst of it and ask for my opinions. It made me inexplicably excited that I would be working with this mad detective again. Looking back, I suppose I ought to have been less afraid of being left safely behind, and more afraid of the looming precipice ahead.

I walked back to the street and tried to get my bearings. The straightest path back to the odd little building on Augur Lane, I realized, would take me past the police barricade again. I decided that Marlowe would hardly notice or mind my muddling my way through the onlookers, so I chanced it, keeping close enough to the front of the crowd to watch the windows for any sign of my strange, new employer.

I caught no sight of him, but I did hope he would move quickly. Chief Inspector Marlowe was already walking back toward the front door, his cuffs beating their metronomic clink against his leg. He kept pace with a new figure, who must have been the commissioner. The man wore an expensive-looking suit, which demanded attention. It was just a bit old-fashioned, with notes of formal uniform to the fitted cut. The long coat was charcoal black and decorated with military epaulettes and red trim. On his head sat a velvety red derby with a slightly wide brim and a gaudy feather tucked in the dark sash. He carried a polished metal cane and walked with his chest puffed out and his chin propped up. The overall affect of the man was just a shade subtler than a sandwich board with the words BETTER THAN YOU written out in big block letters.