daughter."
I looked around the graveyard. "Here? At night?"
She pointed at the grave with the fresh flowers. "Matilda is buried just over there."
The idea that Jane could be the mother of someone who died nearly two centuries ago sent a shiver down my spine. Then I shook off the notion. It was impossible. Jane was suffering from amnesia, and, judging from that outburst in the hospital, possibly also a multiple-personality disorder. Spirits only knew what other mental illnesses she had. She was obviously delusional if she believed that the moldering bones that lay in the ground a few meters away were those of her daughter.
Wasn't she?
Jane unfastened the necklace and held it out toward me. "Look inside the locket," she said. "There's a picture of her there."
I wasn't about to touch anything silver. "You open it for me," I said.
She frowned, but did as I said.
"Hold it out so I can see it."
She undid the necklace and held it out for me.
I bent closer. Inside the locket was a tiny two-dimensional image, rendered in brown-black tones on a flat sheet of metal. It showed a middle-aged human woman. The portrait was faded, the image ghostly, but I could still make out the woman's image. Her hair was long, tied back in a bow. Her dress had a full skirt and white lace collar. It hung to her ankles, covering most of her button-up black boots.
I wasn't sure what to say. Should I humor Jane's delusion, or challenge it? The woman in the photo did indeed resemble Jane, but was as old as she was. Jane could have picked up the locket in a pawn shop, noticed the resemblance, and bought it for that reason.
"Nice photo," I murmured in a noncommittal voice. "It looks old."
"It's a tintype," Jane said. She snapped the locket shut, then ran a finger along its tarnished surface—a gesture that made it clear this was her most treasured possession. Then she refastened the necklace at her throat.
I looked around the burial grounds. Still no sign of any dealer. There were plenty of rough types on the sidewalks outside the burial grounds, but none of them showed any sign of being about to venture inside.
Jane was beginning to spook me. Not only was she wandering around a rough port city without any knowledge of where or who she was, she was putting complete trust in total strangers—which, apparently, was what I had become to her once more. Had I been a thief, it would have been all too easy to take the necklace from her. Despite its sentimental value, she'd practically handed it to me.
Jane's vulnerability touched me. She was a grown woman, and yet ... a child. When she yawned, I could see that she was barely keeping her eyes open. If I left her here, she'd probably curl up on the bench and sleep. I didn't want her to become fodder for a malicious ghost.
"You look tired," I told her. "Come on. I've got a place where you can doss down."
She looked at me, for just a moment, with narrowed eyes. She was sizing me up, weighing my offer.
"You'll have privacy," I assured her. "I usually sleep during the day. You can sleep on the couch. You wouldn't like my bed, anyway."
She stood. "All right."
We climbed over the fence and walked back up the hill to Robie Street. I could tell that Jane was exhausted, but she kept up the pace throughout the twenty-minute walk. We at last came to a house built in the last century, a tall and narrow two-story building with a sharply peaked roof. I led Jane around the side and opened the gate that leads to the back yard. Gem and I don't bother locking it, because there's plenty behind that gate to deter burglars: forty kilos of snarling menace, trained to take down an intruder in three seconds flat.
As soon as I stepped inside the gate, Haley caught my scent. She streaked across the yard toward me, running low and strong. When she reached me she skidded to a stop, chest down and hindquarters high, and gave a sharp, playful yip. Despite the greeting, she still remembered to do her job; she kept one eye on
I looked around the graveyard. "Here? At night?"
She pointed at the grave with the fresh flowers. "Matilda is buried just over there."
The idea that Jane could be the mother of someone who died nearly two centuries ago sent a shiver down my spine. Then I shook off the notion. It was impossible. Jane was suffering from amnesia, and, judging from that outburst in the hospital, possibly also a multiple-personality disorder. Spirits only knew what other mental illnesses she had. She was obviously delusional if she believed that the moldering bones that lay in the ground a few meters away were those of her daughter.
Wasn't she?
Jane unfastened the necklace and held it out toward me. "Look inside the locket," she said. "There's a picture of her there."
I wasn't about to touch anything silver. "You open it for me," I said.
She frowned, but did as I said.
"Hold it out so I can see it."
She undid the necklace and held it out for me.
I bent closer. Inside the locket was a tiny two-dimensional image, rendered in brown-black tones on a flat sheet of metal. It showed a middle-aged human woman. The portrait was faded, the image ghostly, but I could still make out the woman's image. Her hair was long, tied back in a bow. Her dress had a full skirt and white lace collar. It hung to her ankles, covering most of her button-up black boots.
I wasn't sure what to say. Should I humor Jane's delusion, or challenge it? The woman in the photo did indeed resemble Jane, but was as old as she was. Jane could have picked up the locket in a pawn shop, noticed the resemblance, and bought it for that reason.
"Nice photo," I murmured in a noncommittal voice. "It looks old."
"It's a tintype," Jane said. She snapped the locket shut, then ran a finger along its tarnished surface—a gesture that made it clear this was her most treasured possession. Then she refastened the necklace at her throat.
I looked around the burial grounds. Still no sign of any dealer. There were plenty of rough types on the sidewalks outside the burial grounds, but none of them showed any sign of being about to venture inside.
Jane was beginning to spook me. Not only was she wandering around a rough port city without any knowledge of where or who she was, she was putting complete trust in total strangers—which, apparently, was what I had become to her once more. Had I been a thief, it would have been all too easy to take the necklace from her. Despite its sentimental value, she'd practically handed it to me.
Jane's vulnerability touched me. She was a grown woman, and yet ... a child. When she yawned, I could see that she was barely keeping her eyes open. If I left her here, she'd probably curl up on the bench and sleep. I didn't want her to become fodder for a malicious ghost.
"You look tired," I told her. "Come on. I've got a place where you can doss down."
She looked at me, for just a moment, with narrowed eyes. She was sizing me up, weighing my offer.
"You'll have privacy," I assured her. "I usually sleep during the day. You can sleep on the couch. You wouldn't like my bed, anyway."
She stood. "All right."
We climbed over the fence and walked back up the hill to Robie Street. I could tell that Jane was exhausted, but she kept up the pace throughout the twenty-minute walk. We at last came to a house built in the last century, a tall and narrow two-story building with a sharply peaked roof. I led Jane around the side and opened the gate that leads to the back yard. Gem and I don't bother locking it, because there's plenty behind that gate to deter burglars: forty kilos of snarling menace, trained to take down an intruder in three seconds flat.
As soon as I stepped inside the gate, Haley caught my scent. She streaked across the yard toward me, running low and strong. When she reached me she skidded to a stop, chest down and hindquarters high, and gave a sharp, playful yip. Despite the greeting, she still remembered to do her job; she kept one eye on
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