Free Ghostly Echoes by William Ritter Page B

subtle way that made it hard to remember if she had ever been there at all. She wore several layers of faded petticoats, and her pale gray hair was tied up in a handkerchief.
    â€œGood evening, Hatun,” I said.
    â€œHammett’s cat,” she replied.
    â€œCome again?” I said. “Hammett the troll?”
    She nodded. “Yes, yes, of course the troll. He has an orange tabby, only it’s gone missing, and now Hammett’s in a terrible state.”
    â€œNot to put too fine a point on the matter,” Jackaby said, “but isn’t being in a terrible state Hammett’s natural state? He may be diminutive, but he’s still a bridge troll. How many times has he threatened to eat your toes?”
    â€œPardon me, Detective Knows-So-Much, but which one of us spent all season looking after him? I know my troll, Mr. Jackaby, and he’s off.”
    â€œFair enough. Still, he can’t have expected the thing to stick around forever,” Jackaby said. “You’ve seen the way he abuses the poor creature. Cats were not bred for riding.”
    Hatun squinted her eyes at my employer. “Those two were nigh inseparable, thank you very much. Should’ve seen them hunting voles together at night. Two halves of a whole. It was like watching music by moonlight. Music played on a miniature saddle made from gopher leather.”
    â€œI’m sure we can help find Hammett’s friend,” I said. “Only right now we’re already on a rather pressing case, Hatun. People have gone missing and lives are once more at stake in New Fiddleham.”
    Hatun looked at me for several long seconds, until I began to feel a little uncomfortable under her gaze. Her eyes swam out of focus, and I could tell that she was leaving lucidity and falling into something else. Hatun, like my employer, saw visions the rest of us could not perceive. Unlike my employer, whose sight was constant, invading even his dreams, Hatun’s visions were unreliable. She oscillated from normalcy to profound insight to absolute gibberish. Her inscrutable predictions included the coming insurrection of the city’s united weathercocks, a strong chance of a mild rain on Thursday, and the approach of my imminent and inescapable death—a fate which thus far I had escaped. Twice. “What is it, Hatun?”
    â€œThis is the one,” she whispered. She was squinting at me as though gazing into the sun. “Oh my. Oh dear. You’re already so far down the path, aren’t you? I told you not to follow him. I told you.”
    â€œYes, you did, Hatun. Thank you for the warnings, truly. I do promise to be watchful.”
    â€œI see a hound,” Hatun continued. She had screwed her eyes shut while she spoke. “And a man with red eyes at the end of a long, dark hallway . . .”
    Jackaby went ashen. “What did you say?”
    â€œDeath. Death is waiting for you on the other side of Rosemary’s Green. This is the one, Miss Rook. This is the path.”
    â€œOf course there’s death on the other side of Rosemary’s Green,” Jackaby said. “There’s a cemetery on the other side of Rosemary’s Green. What about the man—the hallway? What do you see? Hatun!” His sudden intensity seemed to rattle the woman. She opened her eyes. Dilated pupils contracted and she blinked up at him.
    â€œWhat? Yes, rosemary’s always green. It’s an herb, isn’t it? What’s got you so bothered?”
    Jackaby deflated. “Nothing. We will look into the matter of Hammett’s cat at our earliest convenience, Hatun. Come along, Miss Rook.”
    â€œTake care of yourself,” I said.
    Hatun smiled weakly back at me, her eyes hung with quiet sadness. She patted my arm gently. “Good-bye, Miss Rook.” She spoke the words heavily.
    Jackaby was already halfway up the block when I turned to hurry after him. He said nothing. His shoulders were