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Lucy Carlyle was an odd duck.
He was pretty sure hiring her would turn out well in the end, but she didn’t settle in all that quickly. She was quite shy, it seemed. That didn’t match with what he’d observed during her interview, but in those first few days she rarely made an appearance around the house. She spent most of her time up in the attic, doing god-knows-what.
He heard footsteps, sometimes, or the sound of the ancient plumbing working while she showered. Once, when he most certainly wasn’t hovering at the bottom of the staircase, where he most certainly hadn’t been contemplating going up to check on her for the last five minutes, he heard the sound of her talking to herself. Well, presumably to herself.
There were little signs of her presence around the house. A bookmark steadily moving through a book in the library. The bread, biscuits, and tea depleting at a rate roughly one third faster than he was used to. Mugs sitting in the drying rack that hadn’t been there before. The washer running a load of pants and bras that almost certainly weren’t his or George’s, things like that. Every so often he might pass her on the stairs, but it was rare, and she always quickly made herself scarce. She seemed to have some sort of preternatural ability to tell where he and George were in the house, and avoided them with ease.
There was nothing wrong with any of that, of course. She’d been hired on as an agent, and when he’d taken her on her first job a few nights ago, the ghost of a little girl who tried to lure in other children to play with her, she’d worked efficiently in locating and containing the source. There was nothing in her job description requiring her to be friendly with him and George. He’d just kind of expected her to be.
George had taken to referring to her as ‘the Lurker upstairs’, which wasn’t an altogether inaccurate description.
Which meant that one day, about three weeks after she’d moved in, Lockwood nearly dropped his grocery bag in the front hall upon catching a glimpse of her through the open door of the library. She’d been upstairs when he’d popped out to the shops, and George had been off at the Archives all day long.
He deposited the groceries in the kitchen, putting the milk in the fridge but leaving everything else out on the counter, and went to investigate.
Lucy was curled up in an armchair in front of the fire, a mug of tea to one side of her and a book slipping out of her hand. Her neck was tilted forward at a frankly painful looking angle, and she was fast asleep.
He smiled and shook his head at that, standing in the doorway. He reached over and flicked the light off, casting the room into a general dimness, although pale light shone through the window still. He took the other chair in the room, although he wasn’t entirely sure why. There was a reading lamp on the table at his elbow, and he turned it on and picked up the first book in his reach, which turned out to be a rather raunchy tome of George’s, featuring an improbable relationship between a yoga teacher and a goat demon.
He buried his nose in it for the next twenty minutes or so, although he had to keep tearing his attention back to it when it inevitably wandered to the sleeping girl across from him. He allowed himself to admit, for the first time, that he was sad that she’d been so withdrawn. He’d liked her, at her interview. Had liked the way she needled at George, giving as good as she got. He’d been looking forward to snarky breakfasts and cozy evenings between the three of them. To the addition of a new friend, as well as colleague. Lockwood’s friends were few and far between. George. Flo Bones. It was a bleakly depressing list.
She came awake then, with a soft gasp, the book slipping the rest of the way out of her hand to hit the floor with a muffled thump. Her eyes went directly to Lockwood, and she leapt to her feet, scooping up the book and the tea all in one go.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, making for the door. “I didn’t mean to disturb you. I’ll just—” she jerked her head in the direction of the kitchen.
“Wait!” he caught her wrist as she went by, holding her in place. He didn’t want her to go, he realized. “It’s okay! If anything, I’m the one disturbing you. Sit back down, please.”
She looked as though she wanted to argue, but didn’t, instead sinking back into the chair she’d so recently vacated, keeping a death grip on her mug. Lockwood watched her for a minute, appraisingly. Something occurred to him then, curdling unpleasantly in the pit of his stomach.
“You know,” he said slowly, trying to sound gentle. “You’re not an imposition here.”
“Oh, no, I know!” she said brightly. It was entirely unconvincing.
“Seriously, Lucy,” he said, leaning forward and keeping eye contact. “We want you to be around. We don’t like it when you hide from us all the time.”
“I seriously doubt that’s what George wants,” she tried to joke off his serious tone. “I think even the sound of me breathing annoys him.”
“How is George supposed to get to know you if you’re never around?” he countered. “You handled him so well during your interview. Keep that up for a week or two and you two will be absolutely inseparable.” That might have, possibly, been a small exaggeration.
“Okay, I guess,” she said reluctantly. A few things about her had clicked for him over the course of this short conversation.
“Seriously, Lucy,” he said, still refusing to let the eye contact go. “You’re not an imposition to us. You live here. You’re allowed to leave your dirty mug in the sink and your boots in the front hall. We want you to come hang out with us in the afternoons. We want you to leave us messages on the thinking cloth. You pay rent here, it’s your home just as much as it is mine or George’s.”
“Okay,” she said again, hesitantly.
“Wonderful!” he closed George’s book with a snap and set it aside. “Do you wanna go spar in the basement for a bit? Say yes.”
“Um, well…yes?”
“Perfect.”
After that he made sure to tell her whenever he wanted her to join them. “Lucy, George made dinner for the three of us. Come join?” or “I’m going to the shops, come keep me company?” or “Lucy, we were gonna play a boardgame in the library after dinner, we need three people, though?”
It usually did the trick.
Now, several weeks later, when they got home late from a job, she would flop down on the couch in the front room and moan pathetically at George until he or Lockwood caved and brought her a cup of tea and a biscuit. More often than not her boots were lying in front of the door for him to trip over as he came in, and her colored pencils were scattered across the table when he went to eat his morning tea and toast. It made him smile every time. Or, the colored pencils did, at least. He usually swore a bit; stubbing his toe or banging his shins into something after tripping over the boots, and only smiled a few minutes later, when the soreness had faded.
Lucy, as it turned out, was a bit of a slob.
He did not, of course, find that attractive in the least.
It was several weeks later, and things were finally settling in. They had a couple of successful cases under their belts, and Lockwood had gotten used to looking for Lucy at his elbow. She had a sharp wit and a comfortable presence, and he quickly forgot there was ever a time where she hadn’t been there.
He got used to her making jobs so much easier. He got used to her falling asleep on his shoulder on the cab ride home. He got used to making three cups of tea in the mornings instead of two.
Like he had this morning. He’d just set George’s mug on the table in front of him when Lucy shuffled in, running into the door frame on her way in. She paused for a moment, staring at it in confusion, and then carefully redirected around it, flopping down miserably at the table.
“You alright there?” George asked, smirking. Lucy stared at him.
“Luce?” Lockwood asked, setting her mug down and resting a hand on her shoulder.
“What?” She mumbled. “Oh, yeah, no, I’m fine.”
“Usually we wake up before we get out of bed,” George said, like he was speaking to a four year old. “Honestly, I’m impressed you made it down the stairs.”
Lucy groaned and buried her head in her arms, nearly knocking her teacup over. George only barely pulled it to safety.
Lockwood rested his hand on the bottom of her neck, a gentle, heavy pressure, rubbing lightly at the knob of her spine. “Drink up,” he said. “The caffeine will help.”
She groaned.
The next day, she didn’t come down for breakfast.
That was fine, she was probably just sleeping in. There was nothing to worry about. George glared at him as he paced back and forth across the kitchen.
“Look,” he said finally, irritation evident in his tone. “Either you go up there and check on her, or you leave her alone. Those are your only two options. What is not an option is continuing to annoy me about it.”
“But what if she’s sleeping and I disturb her?”
“It’s nearly noon. I daresay you’ll be doing her a favor if you wake her up. Just like you’d be doing me a favor by chilling the fuck out.”
“Fine,” he muttered. He went and sat down at the table, picking up a pen and doodling on the thinking cloth. “Maybe I’ll go bring her a cup of tea,” he said after a brief moment of this.
“What a wonderful idea,” George muttered.
“Was that sarcasm?”
“No, of course not, what could there possibly be to be sarcastic about here?”
“Well, that was definitely sarcasm, and there’s no call for it.”
George rolled his eyes. “Just make the tea, Lockwood.”
And so he did.
He paused at the bottom of the attic stairs for a bit, but steeled his nerves and forced himself to go up. He was her colleague, and friend, and there was nothing at all strange about checking in on her, or bringing her a cuppa on a cold morning.
“Lucy?” he called hesitantly, peering over the railing at the top of the stairs. The lights were off, the room lit only by the weak London sunlight spilling in through the window. There was a human-shaped lump on the bed, covered by what looked to be every spare quilt and blanket from the linen closet. “Lucy,” he said again, creeping closer. “Are you alright?”
He set the cup down on her bedside table and reached out to gently shake her shoulder. She grumbled something and burrowed deeper into her mound of blankets.
“Lucy,” he tried again, pulling the blankets back to see her face. “It’s past noon. I brought you some tea.” He pulled enough blankets aside that her face was revealed. It was red, and sweaty, and even after more than twelve hours of sleep, there were dark puffy circles under her eyes.
Her eyes fluttered open and she frowned at him. “Lockwood?” she asked, her voice froggy. “What time is it?”
“It’s past noon,” he said gently, and reached out to lay a hand on her forehead. “Are you feeling alright?”
She squirmed away from his touch. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
“Are you sure? You don’t look great.”
“Gee, thanks,” she said, slowly pushing herself up to sitting. “Oh, is that for me?” she had caught sight of the tea.
“Yeah,” he said distractedly. “Seriously, Luce, are you sure you’re okay?”
“Luce?”
“Sorry, do you not like being called that?”
“No, no, it’s fine. Um, I’m fine. Thanks for the tea.”
“Okay, if you’re sure. See you downstairs?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“Okay.” He backed awkwardly out of the room, and then stumbled down the stairs, stopping at the bottom and staring blankly at the front door for a few minutes.
George was still in the kitchen where he’d left him. “Lucy still alive?” he asked, doing what looked like some sort of equation on the thinking cloth.
“Yeah, she seemed a little off though. I think she might be coming down with something.”
“Well,” George hedged.
“What?”
“Well, maybe it’s…you know.”
“No, I don’t, what are you talking about, George?”
“Well maybe it’s, you know, her time of the month.”
“Oh!” Lockwood started counting. Lucy had been with them for more than a month, closer to three. Or was it four? Regardless, it had probably only been a month or so since he’d gotten her to start spending time downstairs, so, well, maybe that lined up. Maybe that made sense. “Do you think…well, does she need anything?”
“Probably best to just…leave her to it?” George said, but he sounded unsure.
“You’re the one with a sister!” Lockwood hissed. “How do you not know?”
“Layla doesn’t tell me about these things!” George hissed back. “I only know when she’s on her period if she puts tampons on the grocery list!”
“Okay, okay,” Lockwood said. “So…we just shouldn’t do anything?”
“Yeah.”
“What about the job tonight? Will she be okay to come?”
George thunked his head down onto the table. “Ugh.” he said. “Um, probably we should assume that she’s fine unless she tells us otherwise?”
“Yeah,” Lockwood said. “Yeah, that seems…yeah.”
Lucy didn’t come back down until they were kitting out for the job, and when she did she looked pale, and vaguely seasick.
“Um, do you need anything?” Lockwood asked while they packed up the bags.
“No, I’m good,” she said, giving him a bit of a smile.
“Are you sure you’re alright?” he asked while they loaded into the night cab.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” she said.
“Are you sure? It sounds like a fairly straightforward case, if you’re not feeling up to it, you can sit it out. No judgment.”
“Seriously,” she cleared her throat. “I’m fine. You don’t need to baby me.”
“I’m not—” he cut himself off. “Well, if you’re sure, then.”
“I’m sure.”
“Lucy, you’re sure you’re good to go on this one?” he tried one last time, as they were setting up their iron chains.
She didn’t answer.
“Luce?” she was standing facing away from him, swaying slightly on her feet. He scrambled to his feet, racing to her side. He grabbed her shoulders and she flinched, turning to look at him, his nose only inches from hers.
“She’s coming,” she whispered. The sun had just barely dipped below the horizon, they were supposed to have more time.
“Are you sure?” he asked.
“Guys!” George called from the kitchen. “Temperature just dropped four degrees!”
“Okay!” Lockwood shouted back, hauling Lucy back into the circle. “Are you good in there?”
“Yeah, I’m in a circle. You guys?”
“Yeah, us too!”
“Game plan?” George shouted back.
“I can hear her,” Lucy said, so softly he almost missed it. Her eyes were closed.
“Give us a sec!” He shouted to George. “What’s she saying?” he asked Lucy.
“It’s…I…” she furrowed her brow. “I need to get out of this circle, I can’t hear her clearly.”
“Okay,” he said. “Okay, I’ll go with you, cover you while you Listen. You ready?” She nodded, and he took her by the shoulders. “Okay, take a step forward, careful, don’t trip on the chain.” She shuffled forward, stepping carefully over the edge of the circle.
“Okay,” she said. “Okay,” she sighed. “Um, the source is close by. I can hear her, but I can hear it too. She’s…singing, maybe? But the source is crying, I think. She’s…she’s here.”
“Yeah, I see her,” Lockwood said. “Holding steady for the moment.” The ghost was floating slowly into the room, advancing on them at roughly the pace of a snail. “We’ve got time. You got a direction for the source?”
“I think? It’s…”
George rounded the corner, spotted the ghost, and threw himself back again. The ghost slowly turned to face him, rotating in place.
“Is she…singing?” George asked, squinting as though it could sharpen his hearing.
“The source is by the window, I think,” Lucy said.
“Okay, you go find it, and George and I’ll distract her.”
Lucy’s eyes fluttered open. She didn’t move.
“Lucy?” Lockwood asked. “Are you going to go find the source?”
“Yeah…” she said. “Oh, right, yeah, er…” she wandered off towards the window, and Lockwood turned back to the ghost.
She was starting to warm up, tendrils of plasm starting to float off of her. Lockwood and George drew their rapiers, and started a complicated dance of jabs and sweeps designed to keep her distracted.
“I see something!” Lucy called out, and then stopped to cough.
“You good, Luce?” Lockwood called over his shoulder. He couldn’t turn to look, the ghost was demanding all of his attention.
“Mm-hmm,” she managed, still coughing. “Here, I got it, I…”
“Lucy?” George asked. He was facing Lockwood, and could see Lucy over his shoulder, presumably.
“What’s going on?” Lockwood said, lunging forward.
“Lucy!” George called out. There was a heavy thump. Lockwood spun on his back foot, turning to find Lucy laying flat out on the floor, a small book clutched in one hand.
“Lockwood!” George shouted, and he swept out behind himself with his rapier, hearing a hiss as the blade made contact with ectoplasm.
“Cover me, George,” he said. “I’ll go neutralize the source.”
“Okay,” George said. “3…2…1…Go!”
Lockwood leapt across the circle, falling to his knees by Lucy’s body and yanking a silver net from his belt, snatching the book — a journal, maybe? — and wrapping it securely.
“Good!” George called, and Lockwood let his rapier fall from his hand, leaning over Lucy. She was breathing, thankfully, but it was fast and irregular.
“Call a cab!” he shouted to George. “Something’s wrong here!”
He laid his hand over her forehead; she was burning up.
“Okay,” he murmured to her. “It’s okay, Lucy, you’ll be okay.” He stroked her hair away from her face.
He didn’t know how long they waited for the cab. It honked when it arrived, and Lockwood scooped Lucy into his arms, heaving up to his feet. George ran ahead of him, opening doors and dealing with the cabbie.
“Shit,” Lockwood said, looking up halfway to the hospital. “Our kit?”
“We’ll go back and grab it once we’ve gotten her seen to,” George said. He nodded, and then they were pulling up outside of accident and emergency.
* * *
Lucy didn’t feel good.
She really, really didn’t feel good.
Shit.
The job.
Shit.
She pulled herself to sitting, and then immediately regretted it when her head swam. She slowly focused on the room around her, blinking hard. It was bright, and the walls were light green. She wasn’t at home…there was a beeping somewhere…it smelled like antiseptic…
Hospital.
Shit.
There was an IV placed in the side of her wrist, and a pulse ox clip on her finger. She hissed in pain as she pulled the sticker off her wrist, yanking at her arm hairs, and then she pulled the IV out too.
The pulse ox came off easy enough. Where were her clothes? And why wouldn’t that damn beeping stop?
“Ms. Carlyle,” a nurse appeared around the edge of the curtain. “Ms. Carlyle, you need to get back in bed.” Was she out of bed? When had she done that? The ground was swimming under her feet.
She needed to get back to work. Where were the boys?
“I need to go,” she mumbled. “My boss’ll be expecting me.”
“Mr. Lockwood?” the nurse asked. “He’s the one who brought you in, love, he was quite worried, too.”
“No,” she said. “I’m fine, I need to get back.”
“You need to get back in bed,” the nurse said sternly.
“I’m fine, it’s just a cold,” she mumbled. “I need to get back to work. I have to show them that I’m not slacking off.”
“They know you’re not slacking off. Now, get back into that bed before I have to get a doctor down here to sedate you.”
“But Jacobs will dock my pay.”
“I don’t know who that is, Ms. Carlyle. Please lay back down.”
“Mum will be so angry,” she said. She could feel herself panicking.
“We couldn’t get ahold of your mother, dear,” the nurse reached over and pushed a button over her bed. "But I’m sure she’d only be worried about you.“
“No…” Lucy mumbled. "She’s gonna be so mad. I can’t make her mad, I can’t.“
“Shush now, everything will be fine. Those young men of yours are very concerned. I’m sure they’ll explain everything to your mum if needed.”
* * *
Lockwood and George arrived back at the hospital as soon as visiting hours opened. Lucy had been moved from A&E to the paediatrics ward overnight, and they found her in a bay with two little kids, and another agent, who was out cold.
Lucy was asleep, and her color looked better. The student nurse who’d shown them where to go said she’d woken in the early hours of the morning, and had been so agitated that she’d needed to be sedated.
“She should be waking up soon, though,” she said, and pulled up an extra chair for them beside Lucy’s bed.
Lockwood got them a couple cups of tea from the cafeteria, and they sat in silence until Lucy’s eyelids started to flutter.
“Lucy,” Lockwood said, setting his styrofoam cup aside and leaning in close.
She opened her eyes, and then winced, and closed them again. “Sorry,” she said. “I’m so sorry.”
“What are you sorry about?” George asked.
“The job,” she said miserably. “I didn’t mean to ruin it, I’m sorry. I can go back and finish it tonight.”
“You didn’t ruin anything, Luce,” Lockwood said, trying to be reassuring. "You found the source, and we got it secured. Happy client. Payment received. No harm done.“
“Besides,” George said. "Even if it had gone wrong, it wouldn’t be your fault, exactly, would it?“
“You have some sort of a viral infection,” Lockwood said. “It sounds nasty. Why didn’t you tell us you weren’t feeling well?”
“I wasn’t feeling bad enough that I couldn’t work,” she said. She started trying to sit up, but Lockwood reached out a pressed gently down on her shoulder, keeping her laying down.
“It’s clear to us that you have an insane work ethic,” Lockwood said. “You don’t have to prove anything to us. If you’re not feeling well, you have to tell us.”
“Okay.”
“Promise?”
“Yeah, okay, I promise.”
“Good.” He sat back in his chair and offered her a grin. Lucy Carlyle was an odd duck, but she was their duckling.
He probably should stop referring to her as such in his head, lest it slip out in front of her one day. He couldn’t imagine she’d react well to it.