Chapter Text
“Lockwood?”
“Yes?”
“Do you remember the Dagny River case?”
“Yes, why?”
“Might be the next place to look, if you’re still interested.”
There was silence for a moment in the sunlit kitchen as George scribbled something down on the Thinking Cloth. Then the floor shook slightly as Lockwood came bounding up the basement staircase and pushed through the kitchen door, panting from exertion. He’d been sparring with the steam jets in the basement for nearly an hour.
“You know, I hadn’t even thought of that. That would be around the same time that I lost it,” he said, pushing his damp hair out of his eyes and filling a glass with water from the tap.
“You guess, anyways,” George countered. “Really, I would have expected you of all people to keep better track of your jewelry.”
“That sounds vaguely like an insult, but I don’t think I can contradict it.”
“No, you cannot.”
Lockwood collapsed into one of the kitchen chairs and leaned back, closing his eyes against the warm rays of light streaming through the window. “I’ve got to get it back.”
“And maybe get it resized so it fits your bony fingers,” George muttered, still writing.
“They’re not that bony.”
“You could shake hands with a blind Rawbones and it’d think you were its cousin.”
Lockwood snorted, looking down at his hands. George was, of course, right; they were a bit bony. He looked at his right ring finger, at the spot he was so used to worrying when there was actually a ring around it. But there hadn’t been a ring around it for nearly three months, and after turning the house practically inside out (with George’s help) and revisiting countless former case sites to search for it (occasionally with George’s help), he’d nearly resigned himself to the fact that there might not ever be a ring there again.
“I suppose I’ll have to give that Mr. Pruett a call, then? Ask him if it’s alright if I have a look around?” Lockwood asked, looking up at George.
“Already done. No cases tonight, nothing on the agenda. Figured you’d want to cross it off the list as soon as possible. He’s expecting you around seven, so take your torch. I asked for earlier, but he said he’d be out until evening.” George finally looked up from the table, where he’d been jotting down a list of . . . something. Lockwood could barely read his handwriting up close, let alone from across the table. “I did ask him if he’d found it lying about, but he said he hadn’t seen it.”
“Oh. Well, then. Guess that’s my evening set. Want to come along?” Lockwood asked, pushing his chair back from the table. It was only 5:00, but he’d need a shower before heading out.
George shook his head. “No thanks. I’ve got a date with Furney’s Comprehensive Guide to Herbal Wards. There’s been so much speculation and research done in the last few decades on the kinds of plants used to ward off Visitors. It’s really a fascinating topic. The regional differences get especially interesting. Oh, and did you know that magnolia petals have been speculated to stave off the beginning stages of ghost-touch when ingested immediately? It’s not as effective as an adrenaline injection, of course, but it does slow down the spread. At least, that’s what some researchers say. I’d like to get some petals and test it out myself, next time a case goes badly.”
Lockwood just stood at the kitchen doorway, grinning. “You’re hoping to be ghost-touched?”
“This is important research, Lockwood! Think of the medical breakthroughs!”
But Lockwood had already turned toward the stairs with a shake of his head. “I’m off to the shower. Please keep your research confined to the theoretical for now. I’d rather not have to drag your ghost-locked body out of a haunted house.”
“Oh, why’d you have to say that? I was just about to go searching for a Wraith to cuddle up with.”
“Don’t bother, I’ve got a Rawbones cousin who’d be perfect for you!”
The sound of Lockwood’s chuckling reached the kitchen as he bounded up the stairs, with George making faces at his back.
-
A long cab ride out to the countryside later, and Lockwood stood in a thick stand of trees near a popular public walking trail, and a deep stretch of the Dagny River. The groundskeeper of the property, a nervous little man named Mr. Pruett, had requested the services of Lockwood & Co. a few months prior. He’d had the misfortune of coming upon a wrathful Phantasm after accidentally disturbing an old, unmarked grave near the riverside while clearing out brush. That, as he informed Lockwood, was his last time venturing into those woods.
“Should have brought a metal detector,” Lockwood hummed to himself as he tramped through the underbrush. The evening light was quickly fading, so he switched on his torch and cast its light around as he walked. He was surrounded by shrubs and dizzyingly tall trees. There wasn’t a real footpath that led down to the riverbanks, but there were more than a few small animal trails carved out in between the bushes.
“Will you search through the loamy earth for me, climb through the briar and bramble …” he sang to himself. It seemed appropriate.
His steps slowed as he began to remember exactly where he’d been during the case a few months back. With the harried duel that had taken place between himself and the crazed Phantasm, his ring could have fallen off anywhere.
“I’ll be your treasure … I’m waiting for you . . .”
There was, however, a part of that case that he could not remember.
-
The hazy blue light of dusk had firmly settled in by the time Lockwood realized how late it was. His hands were stained from the soil and leaf litter he’d been sifting through while trying to retrace his steps on the night of the case. The knees of his trousers, which were currently planted in the dirt, had also seen better days.
“Another to scratch off the list, I suppose.” Lockwood heaved a sigh and sat back on his heels, trying to ignore the soreness in his back from being hunched over for the last hour.
A few night birds had picked up their voices as the light had faded. The river, not far at all from where he was sitting, played in a buoyant rush and lent a cool dampness to the night air. The moonlight cast about through the branches in rippling patches on the ground.
Lockwood, so used to spending his nights in battle with vengeful spirits or lying in endless waiting for one to show up, found himself reluctant to leave. He closed his eyes and breathed in, taking in a moment’s peace.
A few more minutes, and then he would go home.
He clicked on his torch once more and shone it around the forest floor, stopping when the light bounced off of something small and silvery a few paces away. He made his way over to the little reflection and stooped down, pushing dead leaves and weeds aside.
There. A small band of silver, half concealed in the dirt. He held his torch up and reached down to dig it out—
“Lose something?”
The voice of a girl sounded directly in front of him, airy and not unpleasant. Lockwood’s head shot up, a gasp tearing into the stillness of the night.
She stood there with him, under the trees and the stars and the gently streaming light. Her hair was a soft, sweet scarlet; her eyes a subtle green.
And if it weren’t for the hint of a wispy halo that hung around her, he would have thought she was alive.