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To be clear, it’s George’s idea from the start.
“We need someone else,” he says, as he and Lockwood stagger home in the cold, gray dawn. “Another agent. Someone who's better at Listening than you or me, because this is the third time we nearly got out in one piece, because you can’t Listen and I’m shit at it.”
Lockwood would probably feel more amenable to this suggestion if his best coat didn’t smell of burnt salt and iron, not to mention if every salt bomb and his rapier didn’t feel like it weighs fifty kilos–each. “Weren’t you just saying we needed to start out slow? We’ve only been open for three months. And besides,” he adds, “who can we get? The other agencies won’t work with us, because we don’t have a supervisor,” he spits out the last word like it’s a curse.
“I’m not spending another night nearly getting ghost touched because we’re hamstrung by our limitations,” says George, flatly unimpressed by him, as always. “We need someone else. Put an advertisement in the Times if you won’t work with the agencies. ”
So that’s the start of it. The second part is mostly Lockwood, who proves to be…annoyingly particular about the specifications of who they’re willing to hire. Much to George’s chagrin. It takes five days and three meals around the Thinking Cloth before they get anything hammered out.
“They need to be our age,” Lockwood says. “A Listener, or Sensitive. Younger than us, if possible. Any older than eighteen than the talent starts to become unreliable, and we need someone who’s in the flush of their power.”
“Fine. And, if we’re going to bring in another agent, it has to be a girl,” says George matter of factly, scribbling on the Thinking Cloth.
Lockwood scoffs. “Why does it have to be a girl?”
“Because if it’s another bloke, he’ll just start competing with you,” says George, with his habitual brutal honesty. “And you won’t rest until you get the better of him, and I get enough of that kind of energy every time you cross paths with Kipps.”
“I have never let Kipps get the better of me–alright, fine,” Lockwood says, deciding there are some battles just not worth pursuing. Kipps’ general existence being one of them. “Put it down. Preferably female. Add ‘well-dressed.’ We’re not amateurs.”
George, who routinely makes questionable fashion choices, re: none at all, shrugs as he adds it to the list of specific requirements. “Okay, so far we’ve got: sensitive, female, not over sixteen and…well-dressed.” He looks at Lockwood. “Is that it? We’ve spent the last five days going around about this and this is what we’ve got?”
It’s Lockwood’s turn to shrug. “With that as the standard, we’re bound to get a lot of applications, no? Has to be someone in all of London who can fill them.”
Lockwood places the advertisement in the Times and two days later, applications start coming in. Not very many, but it’s enough to make both of them cautiously hopeful.
They agree on tests, rather than references or testimonies. It’s George who sets the skull in the ghost-jar out as the first test, despite Lockwood’s protests. “Weeds out the weak ones,” he says, with far too much relish than what’s socially acceptable.
They agree to have one week in October for the main bulk of interviews, and see if they can’t find someone by Friday, end of week.
The first inclination that things are not, in fact, going to go as well as they might have hoped, is that the first applicant doesn’t even make it past the ghost-jar. The skull flares once and he flees.
The fourth applicant, a young woman with two long yellow braids, holds George’s toothbrush cup in her hands and intones dramatically, “I sense…darkness surrounding this cup. It–it–it held… poison, at one point. Used to end the life of a beautiful young maiden–”
“Ah, no,” says Lockwood, as George rolls his eyes so hard they almost come out of his head. “Sorry, no, it didn’t.” She departs in high dudgeon, as George reclaims his cup.
The fifth applicant spent the whole time asking who was “really” in charge, and the seventh applicant wouldn’t even touch the watch from Lockwood, and the tenth…well, George had gotten into a shouting match with, so the least said, soonest mended.
Friday afternoon, and their eleventh candidate, a wary young woman who keeps looking around the walls of the house like she expects one of the masks to come to life and bite her.
Lockwood insists on tea and biscuits on each one of these meetings, mostly for appearance’s sake, and because it gives him something to do with his hands, as he tries not to laugh, or get frustrated. George has bet him three week’s worth of biscuit rotation that this will be the last applicant, and then they shall simply have to start the search anew, or carry on as an agency of two. Lockwood has to hold out hope, mostly because in the whole wide city of London there has to be one person they can work with?
The young woman continues to look nervous, so he sets himself to putting her at ease. “Miss…Barnes, is it?” He gestures to the sofa. “Please, take a seat. I’m Anthony Lockwood and this is my associate, George Karim. We are Lockwood & Co.” He gives her his most reassuring smile, not that it seems to be helping.
Miss Barnes twists her hands together. “You’re supposed to be, like, independent, right? No supervisors?”
“That is correct,” Lockwood says, as George folds his arms across his chest. “We’re a small, independent agency, and we mean to stay that way. But before we begin—”
There’s a knock on the door. “I’ll get it,” George says, “It’s probably Arif’s new girl.” He gets up without another word, clearly uninterested in continuing the interview. Lockwood does his best to smile, as Miss Barnes presses her hands together. “My colleague will be rejoining us shortly.” He can hear the door open down the hall, the sound of an indistinct conversation. That might not be true, George clearly has thrown in the towel. Lockwood wouldn’t put it past him to simply take the donuts into the kitchen and stay there. “Okay, take a look at this. Tell me what you think it is.” He pulls the cloth off of the ghost jar, revealing the skull’s murky grin.
Miss Barnes springs out of her chair like she sat down on a pin. “Oh my God! Get it away from me!” Before he can protest or explain, Miss Barnes throws herself out of the sitting room, down the foyer and he can hear the front door open and slam.
Profoundly discouraged, Lockwood recovers the skull, and gets up to stand by the fireplace, checking the name off the list he keeps, as he can hear George reenter the sitting room.
“You win,” George tells him. “There was one more.”
“No, you win, I checked the list. That was the last one,” Lockwood says, without turning.
“Then, who’s this?” George says and surprised, Lockwood turns around.
A girl, his age or a little younger, stands in the doorway. Her light brown hair is cut to her shoulders, a fringe across her forehead. She has a round, sweet face and a strong jaw, stubborn chin. She has a rucksack over her shoulders, like a schoolgirl out for an excursion.
There is an odd sense in his mind of a puzzle piece being clicked into place, a key being turned. “Hello,” he says, “I’m Anthony Lockwood.”
“I’m Lucy Carlyle,” she says. “I don’t have an appointment, but I saw your advert, and I was in the area.”
She’s a long way from home, if her Northern accent is any indication. “So you’ve heard of us?” Lockwood can’t help but ask, hopefully.
“No,” she says promptly and there goes the hope that maybe the exploits of their agency have reached any further than their own street.
“My CV,” she says, coming forward, holding out folded pieces of paper.
George is no help, resigned to one more person running out of their house, but Lockwood…he has a feeling. He can’t help it.
She seems uncertain about the idea of tests, but doesn’t protest. He offers her tea and biscuits, and neither he nor George miss how she eats hers like she’s not sure when she’ll eat again. And she sees them notice, judging by the wary way she puts down what remains of it.
“Now, can you tell me what this is?” Lockwood asks, revealing the ghost-jar once more.
Lucy Carlyle doesn’t flee, but peers closer, brow furrowed as she studies it. She correctly identifies its make and purpose, and only yelps a little when the skull’s face flares out and snarls at her. She snaps at George when he needles her, not intimidated, simply irritated. She takes his Uncle James’s knife in her hands and frowns as she lets the sensations flow over her, and says, slowly, “It belonged to someone happy…gentle.” A better description of his uncle he couldn’t have hoped for. She tosses Harold Beck’s watch back on the table like it burns her, and he can’t blame her. Successful case or not, it was vile.
The final test, George’s toothbrush cup, she simply holds it in her hands, and correctly identifies it as being completely benign.
Lucy Carlyle has passed their tests with flying colors and he couldn’t be more delighted.
Of course, because his life is never easy, he promptly manages to offend her the next time he opens his mouth and explains what it is. “I didn’t come here to be made fun of,” she grits out, snatching up her rucksack with her next angry words. The crack about them being two pathetic schoolboys stings. “I’ll see myself out.”
George whistles low. “Ooh, feisty.”
Lucy Carlyle comes to a halt in front of George’s chair and faces him. “Step over here and I will show you how feisty I am.” She looks fully capable of running him through.
“Maybe I will,” says George, blinking up at her, as if the prospect of dueling their only viable candidate is a reasonable one.
“I don’t see you moving,” she grits out.
“This is a deep armchair,” George says, “takes a while to get out.”
Lucy Carlyle reaches out, and snatches another biscuit from the plate. “Oh,” she says, eyes blazing, “I’ll wait.” She takes a bite like she’s imagining it’s George’s or his own head she’s biting off. Lockwood has never seen a biscuit being eaten so menacingly, and he would be lying if he said he wasn’t just a little delighted by it.
But he’s on his feet now too, ready to step in and smooth over George’s rough edges, an old dance.
George gets up too, clearly resigned to their fate. “You better tell her about the biscuit rule.”
Ah yes, the biscuit rule. Very important. “Assuming you are still interested in the position?” Lockwood asks.
Lucy Carlyle draws herself up, settling into her stance. “Yes,” she says, something like relief flickering across her face, “I’m interested.”
*
He’s showing off. He can’t wholly help it, this showboating habit of his. Maybe it’s just been a while since he’s had anyone other than George to talk to. He’s in need of a new audience, and Lucy Carlyle makes a good one. She’s wide-eyed, a little at sea, but she keeps moving. He can respect that.
He shows her around his house, the kitchen and basement, and finally, the attic. She’s clever and quick, catching on the times he doesn’t quite answer her question, the times he dodges answering. Another dance he’s always been skilled at. But she’s watchful too. Wary of George, cautious of him. It makes him want to dazzle her more, show off for her. Look at me, look at me. His greatest fault, as Flo and George and Sykes have all told him, at one point or another.
This is probably not what George had in mind when he said their newest addition needed to be a girl, but Lockwood isn’t going to dwell on it. They have a new member of the team, a strong, gifted Listener; now his company feels complete. Three is a magic number, after all.
He tells her so, later, in the library. She doesn’t deny or prevaricate when he calls her out on her missing Grade Four. He’d be something of a hypocrite if he judged anyone about their secrets. And Lockwood’s a lot of things, hardly any of them to his credit, but he hopes hypocrisy can’t be numbered among his many sins.
“One day, this will be one of the most successful agencies in London,” he says, putting all his will and intent into the words, like he might manifest that vision out of pure willpower. Isn’t that what magic i s? Intent made real. “And I want you to be a part of it.”
Lucy Carlyle looks momentarily drawn in and dazzled by the future he’s drawing for her, a castle in the air just waiting for her to step in and inhabit it. But those dark, clever eyes sharpen as she studies him. “There is just one other thing.”
“Name it,” he says immediately, because he suddenly wants, more than anything, for her to stay. Stay because his company needs her, his house feels a little less empty now with one more soul under its roof. Stay because he wants to dazzle her some more.
“You’ve said that I’m good enough for you….” She focuses on him, and he can sense power in that gaze. Clever, watchful, wary Lucy Carlyle, with her secrets. “But how do I know you’re good enough for me?”
It’s a challenge and he’s never been able to resist those.
“Lucy Carlyle,” he says, with a smile. “Stay long enough and I’ll show you.”