My idle eyes scanned the books and decorations around the room. For all the interesting artifacts and volumes they held, I realized there was one thing missing. Not a single photograph, nor portrait painting—not even a simple silhouette—adorned the walls. Even Arthur Bragg’s lonely bachelor apartment had held a photograph of a woman. The woman he loved. The woman who loved him. The woman who sobbed in the street when he was gone. The memory caught in my throat. I wondered which was sadder, leaving someone to cry after you when you were gone, or not having anyone who would miss you in the first place.

My gaze landed again on the bail jar, stuffed with bank notes, which pulled me away from feeling sorry for others and reminded me to feel sorry for myself, as well. Meeting with Hatun had bluntly reminded me of my current state of homelessness, and I tried to consider the best way to broach the topic of cash before we completely lost daylight and parted ways for the night. Whether from the potent tea or the helpless idleness, I began to feel a bit jittery, waiting for Jackaby to come up for air from his reading.

I poured a second bitter cup from the beautiful teapot and slid back into my seat. A glimmer of light on the wall caught my eye, and I looked around to see what might be reflecting it. When I glanced back, the glimmer had grown, expanding beyond the surface. I stared. My brain ground into action and made sense of what I was looking at: a face. It was a woman’s face, silvery and pale, and then a smooth, slender neck, and then a body, clad in a simple gown, every inch of her incandescent and immaterial. She slipped from the wall like a swimmer rising from a pool, only it was her form and not the surface behind her that rippled delicately in the wake of the motion. Gently, fluidly, a ghost entered the study.

I froze, and the cup dropped from my fingers. My mouth gaped, but I found I had forgotten how to make a sound. Fortunately, the scalding sting of hot tea across my thigh pushed its way through my stunned stupor, reminding me. The sound that I made was “Aaayeeaarrgh!”

This caught Jackaby’s attention.

The detective quickly pressed a chalky rag into my hands and righted the armchair. I did not recall standing but had apparently done so with great haste, the toppled furniture lying in evidence. I dabbed at my sore, damp leg, staring at the spectral figure as she drifted halfway through the desk to scoop up the teacup that had bounced beneath.