“You’re the new Douglas. He used to be Jackaby’s assistant, just as you are now. These days Douglas just tends the archives.” She gestured at the cabinets against the wall, the tops of which were carpeted with moss and wildflowers.

“Where does Douglas sleep?”

Jenny giggled at a joke I didn’t get. The duck ceased waiting for me to toss another handful and flapped his wings in a brief flurry to land gracelessly on my knee. The bird was not small, at least a foot and a half from beak to tail, and his perch put us more or less face-to-face. He stared at me, and not the bread in my hand, and his tiny eyes bore into mine.

“Douglas?” I wagered.

A reddish orange bill bobbed once. One wing craned out, and the bird wobbled unsteadily to keep balance. Talons on the ends of his webbed feet poked into my leg uncomfortably.

“Well?” Jenny giggled again. “Go on, then. Don’t be rude. Abigail, meet Douglas.”

I took the duck’s extended feathers with my right hand and shook them carefully. Douglas returned to a more dignified stance, briefly preened, and then snatched the remaining half of a baguette and took off. He swooped in a lazy arc to land on the plum-colored armchair in the center of the bushy island and peck at the bulky morsel.

“Jackaby felt really guilty about Douglas,” Jenny told me when he had flapped away. “He used to be a person, of course. Jackaby sent him in alone to check out a lead that might have been nothing, but Douglas stumbled right into the thick of it. By the time Jackaby realized his mistake and hurried to help, it was too late. All he could do was shout out a warning before Douglas was hit with a powerful wave of untempered magic.”

“Don’t tell me,” I said. “He warned him to . . .”

“Duck.” It was Jackaby’s voice that finished the sentence, and Jenny and I both turned to see him step off the path and onto the grassy hill. “That’s right, and the irony that my attempt to help Douglas became the final mark of his curse was not lost on me. I vowed never to let anything distract me until I had found a way to reverse his metamorphosis.” The detective came to stand just behind the bench, scowling at the memory.

“My goodness,” I said. “But, then . . . are these recent murders somehow connected to the case that transformed Douglas?”

“What? No. The incidents have nothing at all in common.”

“Then, what made you abandon your vow?”

“I didn’t abandon it! I fulfilled it,” he answered. “The solution presented itself after an exhaustive evening’s research and one short trip into the country for supplies.”

“Then, why is Douglas still a duck?”

“You can bloody well ask him!”

“But . . . he’s a duck.”

“He’s stubborn is what he is.”