Chapter Text
Lucy slumped in her coach, dreading her arrival at the palace. When she had received the invite, her mother had been ecstatic, eyes filled with joy that her youngest daughter was finally useful. Nevermind that her six other attempts at marrying her daughters into high society had failed—surely seventh time’s the charm!
The Feast of Halona didn’t mean much to Lucy. It wasn’t a holiday celebrated in the north, and especially not after her sisters had all come home from it husbandless and penniless. The years between Mary and Lucy’s seventeenth birthdays were rich with tension and suspense; would the Carlyles be invited back for another failed year? She had hoped not. Finding a match at this young an age was not in her interests.
“I’m bored.”
Lucy glanced at the ghost across from her. “And that’s my problem, how?”
“You’re the one who dragged me along with you,” he said.
“And I’m the only one who can talk to you. You’d be bored to death if I’d left you back home.”
“I’m already dead.”
“That’s beside the point. And I can’t leave you by yourself, lest I want to wake up with half a village dead with no good explanation.”
“You’re no fun, Lucy. We could be a team, wrecking havoc. Of course, you’d take all the blame for it and probably be put to death, but imagine how much we could do! Deal?”
“As tempting as that offer is, I sadly must decline,” she said blankly. “Now shut it. I’m going to sleep.”
As she closed her eyes, the ghost shot out, “How do you know I won’t kill you in your sleep?”
“I don’t,” Lucy replied. “But I trust you enough not to kill your only friend.”
Lucy was jolted awake by a lurching stop. Bleary eyed and stumbly, she unsheathed the dagger strapped to her calf. It wasn’t a rapier, but it would do in this tight space.
She opened the window and leaned her head out. “Harold?” she called. “Why’ve we stopped?”
The coachman’s voice floated back. “Royal soldiers, miss! They’re doing a sweep of the area and we can’t pass until they’ve finished.”
Lucy groaned and sheathed the dagger. “And how long will that take?”
“They didn’t say.”
Lucy let out a stream of curses as she retreated back into the coach, pulling her boots onto their feet and lacing them up.
“Whew, Lucy. Even I didn’t know some of those.”
Ignoring him, she strapped her sword to her side and stepped out of the coach, swiping the bag that contained the ghost’s skull. Her feet hit the ground with a thud, the warmth from the late summer air driving out the cold that the ghost emanated. It felt nice; warmth is a rarity when someone keeps ghosts for company.
She found Harold talking to a slight man who’s flaming hair could stand out for miles. He held himself with great importance, his grey uniform proudly displaying the royal insignia. Lucy recognized him as Quill Kipps; he had visited her family a few times in her youth. None of the visits had been particularly pleasant.
“Carlyle,” he said, giving her a quick nod.
Coldly, Lucy returned the greeting. It was just her luck that he was the one they ran into.
“Kipps,” she sighed. “How long is this going to take?”
“There’s been reports of several robberies on this road. Whispers of a highwayman. Official royal business that you should stay out of.”
“That didn’t answer my question.”
“I’m well aware. Just sit tight and don’t get into any trouble, which I know is difficult for you.”
“He’s a prickly one, isn’t he? Nearly as much as you.”
The ghost materialized next to Lucy, his ectoplasm thin in the early evening. As the sun continued to set, he’d grow stronger and more solid, and easier to see.
As much as she was tempted to make a snarky remark back, Lucy reined herself back in and kept her composure, a talent that had taken years to refine. Even now, her temper usually got the best of her.
“I’m going on a walk,” she grumbled. “Just be gone by the time I’m back.”
- - -
Anthony Lockwood sat on his perfectly hidden ledge, watching the soldiers sweep the area below. They were after him, he knew that, but he couldn’t help but be amused by their efforts.
He and George had found this ledge on the cliffside a month prior, and it had been his stakeout spot ever since. Above the treeline and virtually impossible to see from the road, it offered protection from the weather and only took a small climb to get down from. From there, it was only a quick dash to the road, and Lockwood could do it as many as a hundred times a night without breaking a sweat.
As such, it was the perfect spot for a highwayman to look for his next victim.
He saw the coach from a mile away. It saddened him to let it go, but he couldn’t very well run out in front of Kipps and his regiment. Kat Godwin was as strong as her chin was pointy, and though Bobby Vernon was small, he could leave a nasty bite. Lockwood had run into them before and wasn’t looking forward to the reunion.
Lockwood’s stomach rumbled and he suddenly wished that he’d brought more of George’s pastries. The bakery was only their cover, but it was a delicious one. George really knew how to make an almond bun.
He resigned himself to snacking on the raspberries that grew on the cliff. They weren’t his favorite fruit, but they would do.
He scrunched his face as he got a particularly tart raspberry, watching the interaction below. The girl was young, probably a year or so younger than him, and carried with her a long, thin sword. Rubies glinted from the hilt, and Lockwood immediately wanted it.
He had his pistols, of course, but bullets cost money he didn’t have and weren’t as useful in close combat. And besides, he hadn’t trained with a rapier in his youth to never use one again.
The girl stalked off into the forest, a strange haze following her. Lockwood squinted, sure he could make out the outline of a person. But then they disappeared into the trees, and Lockwood chided himself into thinking the fog could have been a person.
Content with his day of plundering, Lockwood descended down, his burlap bag swung over his shoulder. Though he wasn’t afraid of heights, he felt better with his feet planted firmly on the ground. On the ground, he could fight. Or, in some embarrassing cases, run.
The girl’s rapier was unattainable to him now. He cursed Kipps and all the royals—if they hadn’t been there, he would’ve stopped that coach and nabbed the sword, as well as whatever else was in that satchel she was carrying. It had to be important to her if she didn’t leave it in the coach.
There was no set path back to his home; he took a different route every time, sure to leave no trace that he was ever there. If someone were to follow him, there would be disastrous consequences for everybody.
He untied his mask and shoved it into his pocket. It was necessary to hide his identity, but he hated wearing it. Though, he supposed, it did help with his mysterious charm.
Running a hand through his hair, a voice caught his attention. Nobody would be in the forest at this time, besides, perhaps, the village children playing. Yet there were no screams, no crying, no mirthful sounds that followed the children around. He slowed his steps, quietly getting in earshot.
“. . .insufferable! You know that, right? I should have left you in that ditch where I found you.”
There was no answer, no second voice. Instead, there was a slight pulse, one that pulled him in and rejected him at the same time. The air thickened, grew colder. Then, the tension was gone.
The voice snorted. A girl’s voice, the same girl from the coach. Excellent, a chance to steal the sword.
The girl said something again, but his focus was no longer on her. He approached quietly, setting his sack down without a sound. With luck, he’d be able to sneak up on her and knock her out before running off with her belongings.
The forest was quiet. Strange. No birds were chirping in the trees, no little rodents scurrying around. The air was chilly, colder than it should be for the season.
Lockwood came upon where the girl was, but she wasn’t there anymore. A broken stick where she might have stepped, a flattened patch of grass where she sat. One pair of footprints in the mud, and no sign of who she was talking to.
“She’s mad,” Lockwood blurted. He hadn’t meant to say it aloud, but it was the only conclusion he could come to. The girl was mad.
He felt something at his back, and he didn’t even have to glance around to know what the point of a sword felt like. Sykes, his old mentor, had taught him that well.
“I’m not mad,” the girl hissed, “but give me one good reason I shouldn’t run you through.”
Lockwood stiffened, weighing his options. He could make a run for it, but that would make him a coward. He could fight, but that would make him a dead man. The only option left would be to convince her to let him go.
“My dashing charm and wit?” he answered quickly.
The girl scoffed. “It’s going to take more than that. Why were you following me?” He couldn’t see her face, but he imagined her scrunching it into a scowl as she snapped, “Shut it.”
“I. . . I didn’t say anything.”
“I wasn’t talking to you. Just. . .” She huffed, pressing her sword against him harder. “Just answer the question. And tell the truth.”
“The answer is bound to be a disappointment to you. I was merely making my way home.” A half-truth, not a lie. But he wasn’t about to tell her that he was trying to steal the very sword she was threatening him with.
“From the road? With a burlap sack filled with coins and jewelry and other frivolous things?” She was silent for a moment, then continued, realization dawning in her voice, “You’re the highwayman that Kipps was looking for.”
The pressure on his back disappeared and he heard her strapping the sword back onto her hip. Lockwood stood, confused, as she tossed his sack back to him.
“Why’re you letting me go?” he asked, turning to face the girl. She was a whole head shorter than him, with dark brown hair cropped between her shoulders and her chin and a fierce look in her eyes.
She shrugged. “You’re a nuisance to Kipps. The longer you torment him, the more amusing it will be. And he won’t return to the palace until he catches you, which will give me at least some peace while I’m there.”
“You caught me. How are you so sure he won’t do the same?”
“I had help. He only has his arrogant soldiers who grumble anytime they break a nail.”
Lockwood wondered what help she had. She appeared to be completely alone, but she was talking to somebody earlier. She didn’t seem crazy, but maybe it was the fact that she was crazy that helped her catch him.
Instead of questioning her “help” further, which would surely turn him into a kebab, he asked, “You’re going to the palace for the Feast of Halona?”
She grimaced. “Yes, unfortunately. If my mother hadn’t forced me, I wouldn’t be here.” She extended a hand. “Lucy Carlyle.”
“Anthony Lockwood.” He shook her hand. “But, just call me Lockwood,” he tacked on quickly.
“Pleasure to meet you. We’d—I’d better get headed back—”
Lockwood interrupted, “Who else is here with you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Who else is here with you. You mentioned you had help, and just now you used ‘we.’ Who else is here?”
“There’s no one else here.” Lucy’s voice quickened, rising in pitch. Lockwood noted a bead of sweat forming on her forehead. She was panicking.
“Stop lying. There’s someone else here with us. Where.”
The air thickened again, just like earlier, and somehow grew even colder. Lockwood felt the push and pull tugging him.
Lucy sighed. “Fine, you can come out. He already thinks I’m insane.”
The mist around them started whirling, condensing into a singular form. A young man stood—no, floated—next to them, sheer and wispy, a malicious grin across his face as he reached out towards Lockwood.
“Stop it!” Lucy yelped. In the blink of an eye, she had drawn her sword and swiped it through the young man’s outstretched hand. There was a hiss as he drew back immediately, mist surrounding where Lucy had cut through. “I already told you, I don’t want anybody to die.”
The air thickened and the young man pulled a nasty face.
“I don’t care if it’s no fun, we’re not killing him.”
“Is that thing. . . talking to you?”
The young man looked affronted. “That ‘thing’ is a ghost,” Lucy explained. “A rather violent one at that. And yes, he’s talking to me. I’m surprised you can see him, really. It’s still bright, and most people can only make out the barest outline of him in the middle of the night.”
“I’ve always had good vision.” Lockwood stared dumbfounded at the ghost.
“With such good vision as that, I’m surprised you haven’t seen more of them. They’re popping up everywhere, and their touch is deadly. If you get even just one little drop of ectoplasm on you, the ghost touch spreads and you’re done for.”
“Ecto. . . plasm?”
“It’s what they’re made of.”
Lockwood blinked, his eyes now focused on Lucy’s sword. She noted, sighed, and continued:
“It’s made of pure silver. Hurts them, like you just saw with our ghost friend here. Iron works too, same with salt and lavender, though those aren’t as strong as the metals.”
“Does our ghost friend have a name?”
“No, not that I know of. He claims he doesn’t remember it, that it’s been too long since he died.”
The ghost spoke again, but Lucy didn’t bother to relay it. “Now,” she said, “we really mustn’t keep Harold waiting with the coach. Good day, Mr. Lockwood. I wish you luck on your. . . job and I hope you annoy Kipps as much as possible.”
“I wish you luck for the Feast of Halona. I’ve heard the nobility are vultures.”
“That’s being kind. They’re much worse than vultures.”
Lockwood offered her a small smile, one miles away from the bright one he used with everybody else. This smile was real. Genuine.
“See you around, Lucy Carlyle. Maybe I’ll rob your coach on your way back home.”
And with that, he took off, burlap sack in hand, towards George and the bakery.