OâConnorâs last patient had been only mostly human. âI gave Mama Tilly Monaâs information and advised her to charge the services to me.â
I nodded. âThat was kind of you.â We walked on for a few more paces. âWas Miss Lee really . . .â I hesitated.
âWhat?â Jackaby looked back at me.
âMiss Lee was really a boy, wasnât she? Underneath?â
He slowed and then came to a stop and looked me square in the eyes. âThatâs up to her to decide, I suppose, but itâs not what I saw. Underneath, she was herselfâas are we all. Lydia Lee is as much a lady as you or Jenny or anyone. I imagine the midwife or attending doctor probably had another opinion on the matter, but it only goes to show what doctors really know.â
âShouldnât a doctor be able to tell at least that much?â
Jackabyâs expression clouded darkly. âI have great respect for the medical profession, Miss Rook,â he said soberly, âbut it is not for doctors to tell us who we are.â
Chapter Eight
The sun slipped down to meet the horizon as we pressed on through New Fiddleham, the sky darkening like a dying ember. A lamplighter was making his way from streetlight to streetlight as we passed. My feet were beginning to ache and I had a stitch in my side, but Jackabyâs inner fires seemed only to have been stoked by our encounter with the thugs. He marched forward briskly and I began to lag behind.
A hansom cab rolled past with rubber wheels that glided smoothly along the cobblestones behind its horse. The couple seated within looked impossibly, almost arrogantly comfortable. âHave you ever considered hiring a driver, sir?â I called ahead breathlessly. âItâs just that we do seem to do quite a bit of traveling.â
âThere is a great deal to be experienced in this city,â he answered, not looking back. âNo reason to limit the scope of our vision.â
âThe scope of my vision,â I said, panting, âis not quite the same as the scope of yours, Mr. Jackaby. And I have experienced blisters before.â
He paused at the end of the street and waited for me to catch up. I half expected him to be cross with me, but he looked sympathetic. âThere is quite a lot to miss,â he said. âDo you know that long before it was ever called New Fiddleham, this area was already inhabited?â
âYou mean by Indians?â I said.
He leaned against a wrought iron hitching post and nodded. âDo you see that?â He pointed at the empty road. At midday, this stretch of Mason Street would be a blur of carriages and pedestrians clamoring to and fro, but in the dwindling light of dusk it was abandoned. âJust there,â Jackaby prompted, âin the middle of the lane.â
Between the worn path of countless carriage wheels, a single weed had pushed up through the paving stones. âI see a little green plant, if thatâs what you meanâ I said.
âAnd I see the spirit watching over it,â he said. âThe Algonquian peoples would call it a manitou. It is older than any of these buildings, older than the city, older even than the tribes who named it. I would wager it will be here long after all of these bricks have crumbled to dust.â
He began to walk again, but slowly. âThere is something humbling about knowing that an entity capable of moving mountains and reshaping continents still takes the time to tend to the smallest patch of dirt. Little things matter. Footsteps matter.â He stepped a little farther down the block and I followed. âThere,â he said. âThe flower shop. Do you see the little alcove in the wall?â
âYes,â I answered. It was an inconspicuous break in the masonry, an indentation only a foot deep, topped by a simple awning of red stone. I might have taken it for a bricked-up window.
âThis whole block had become home