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Barnes called. Wants to talk to Lockwood. Sounded angry . Good luck.
It was a note George had left one morning. Lockwood’s reply had been scrawled underneath.
Beware; for I am fearless, and therefore powerful .
It turned out that Barnes had been calling up about a form Lockwood had been expected to fill in that had not yet made it back to the DEPRAC agent (or even out of the pocket Lockwood had shoved it into when he had first been handed it). George had gotten it filled in and sent back but the exchange remained on the thinking cloth for several days afterwards, drawing a smile to Lucy’s lips whenever she saw it.
“It’s from Frankenstein,” George told her one time he caught her staring. “Lockwood’s always quoting Frankenstein. It’s his favourite book.”
And Lucy had to agree. Lockwood wasn’t much of an avid reader: he lost focus too quickly, found that long words and small fonts made his head hurt. But his copy of Frankenstein had been read to within an inch of its life, the paper spine cracking, the writing fading into nothingness. Lockwood always seemed to have the copy on his bedside cabinet, his bookmark slowly edging down only to return to the beginning when he finished.
“I think he likes the existential drama of it all,” George said. “Probably figures he would have been friends with Percy Shelley and the rest.”
Although George sounded sceptical, Lucy could imagine Lockwood fitting right in, relishing in telling ghost stories by oil lantern in the days where they were nothing more than spooky tales and not a real and present danger. Humming, Lucy watched as George crossed through ‘fearless’ and wrote ‘hare-brained’.
Although Lockwood was more than willing to help finance any clothes shopping trip, Lucy had found herself unable to shake the lifelong habit of buying her clothes at charity shops. She just didn’t always feel comfortable buying new clothes when she had always made do with the cheap, repaired ones her mother had given her. She thought it made sense too, especially when buying clothes for ghost hunting. She likely was only going to ruin them anyway.
She was out on a shopping trip, looking for a spare jacket, when she had noticed the book on a shelf near the door. It was a battered copy of Frankenstein, clearly read a hundred times. Lucy picked it up, turning it slowly. She thought of Lockwood, of his own well-loved copy. His had probably been brought new. Lucy wondered by who. Lockwood didn’t seem like the sort of person who brought himself books but the love of it seemed to run too deep for the copy to have been given to him by George.
Perhaps his uncle, giving the book to Lockwood when he became old enough to understand the concepts.
She flicked through, reading snatches thoughtfully. She knew, if she asked, Lockwood would willingly lend her his copy. His eyes would glisten at the prospect of being able to share one of his interests with her. But she’d probably take a while to read it and she didn’t want to have to let him down when she inevitably turned it over to him without reading past the first chapter.
Still, thoughts of them having long discussions about the book drew her in. They’d have tea set out before them, smiles brightening their faces as they said which bits were their favourites. Maybe there was an old black and white Frankenstein film that Lockwood adored. They could curl up somewhere and watch it, Lockwood’s arm resting around her shoulders.
There is something at work in my soul, which I do not understand .
The words caught Lucy’s attention. She felt like the thoughts of her and Lockwood hung frozen in her mind.
She bought the book.
Despite her fears, Lucy had read the book within three days. She kept it in her room, secretly reading it at any chance she got. She wasn’t sure why she hid it from the boys, why she’d gone as far as to hide it beneath her bedcovers when Lockwood had come by her room unexpectedly. She weakly devised a lame excuse about how she wanted to be sure she really liked the book before letting Lockwood know she had begun to read it but she’d still not told him before she started to read it a second time.
She felt infected by Mary Shelley’s words, specific quotes standing out to her. Her second read was the hunt down the ones she couldn’t quite remember, marking the pages. She told herself she was storing them up in preparation for her big reveal, so she could start quoting the novel back at Lockwood.
Two weeks flew past and Lucy still had not found the perfect time to quote the book at Lockwood. They’d been busy with a case after all. Not dying was generally a top priority for her.
But after that case had been wrapped up, things had relaxed a bit. That day George and Lucy were in the kitchen. Lucy was drawing, relishing in the smells of the batches of biscuits George was baking. George, waiting for his biscuits to finish in the oven, had settled opposite Lucy, reading the latest addition of his comic. Lockwood had gone out, offering them a vague explanation as to where. It was dusk by the time he came back in, immediately joining them in the kitchen.
"Been out with Flo again?" Lucy asked.
It wasn’t an astounding leap of deductive reasoning. Lockwood had come back grubby, smelling of the Thames. Both promised time spent with Flo Bones.
" The companions of our childhood always possess a certain power over our minds ," Lockwood beamed as if in confirmation.
Recognising the quote, Lucy decided the time had come to let Lockwood know of her 'additional reading'.
"Don't need to be rude about it, Lockwood," Lucy said.
"Rude?"
Lockwood arched an eyebrow at her in genuine confusion. George peered over the top of his comic at them, curious to see what was about to play out. His eyes glinted mischievous at the thought Lockwood might be about to get a scolding.
"Saying that we're never going to mean as much to you as Flo does. That's how the quote finishes, right? The companions of our childhood always possess a certain power over our minds which hardly any later friend can obtain. "
It had the desired effect. Lockwood was taken aback. George chuckled into his comic.
“You’ve read Frankenstein?” Lockwood asked.
“Is it really such a shock?” Lucy teased.
Lockwood shook his head, saying he supposed not.
“I did always mean to lend you my copy,” he admitted.
Lucy thanked him for the offer, saying she didn’t need to borrow one when she had her own. She watched as dozens of emotions settled across Lockwood’s face until he could reposition the charming, flippant mask he wore whenever he wasn’t sure he felt up to facing people.
“You know I never meant to offend with my quote. I was only saying how well me and Flo get on,” Lockwood said. “You have control of my mind, I can assure you of that.”
He held Lucy’s gaze for a long, long moment.
Then he cleared his throat.
“You both do. After all, the quote only said hardly. And even if it said it was impossible, you and George would be more than capable of doing it."
George scoffed, "If I had any sort of control over your mind, Lockwood, things would be very different."
Two days later they were back doing research for a new case. The three of them occupied a table in the archive, George pouring over notes and feeding his new discoveries to Lockwood and Lucy for them to try to make sense of. Lucy was often in awe of George. Things that took her and Lockwood several minutes to fully comprehend were links George made in mere seconds.
“Here we go,” George said, coming over to their table with an enormous book.
Despite the care and reverence with which he put the book on their desk, its sheer size meant it still made something of a thump as it landed.
“Joseph Dixon’s masterpiece. He was writing all about ghosts pre-Problem. He’ll definitely have something on the girl in the library if she’s been around as long as they say.”
George sat down, opening the book wide. He continued to talk as he flicked through the pages.
“Of course, Fittes agents aren’t meant to use any of Joseph Dixon’s work,” George said. “They say he is too much of a free thinker, that his thoughts and theories are unfounded. They’re perfectly founded. In fact, I’d say most of them would probably turn out to be true if someone actually did the experiments he suggested but everyone who has the resources to do them is too scared.”
George focused his attention onto the book, his words dying away as he scanned down pages. Lockwood met Lucy’s eye, grinning mischievously.
" With how many things are we on the brink of becoming acquainted… "
Lockwood let his words die away, looking to Lucy expectantly.
"... if cowardice or carelessness did not restrain our enquiries, ” Lucy finished, beaming triumphantly.
George glowered at them.
"Please tell me this isn't about to become a thing."
"What do you mean?" Lockwood asked.
George's irritate expression only grew more intense.
"Tag-teaming me with Frankenstein quotes."
"How can you be sure it is a Frankenstein quote?" Lucy questioned. "Have you read it?"
George shook his head, saying that even he could read the smug expressions on their faces whenever they found a clever way to quote the book at each other.
"You're insufferable. Both of you."
Their case had not gone well. Lucy knew it was no one’s fault. Sometimes things just went wrong in their job. Ghosts were unpredictable and relying on information from adults was always risky.
But as things had been spiralling out of control, Lockwood had responded by being reckless, by facing the ghost himself so Lucy and George could get to safety. They had all survived but it had been close and Lucy had rounded on him the moment they had gotten the source contained. She’d snapped insults at him, saying he had agreed to be less reckless, not giving him time to work his magic and charm her into letting it slide.
She wanted to be angry with him. She wanted to be able to cling to it because it was far easier than thinking of how scared she had been.
She’d not spoken to him since.
They’d been checked over and made their way home. Lucy had stormed up into her room. George had taken care of their equipment. Lockwood had spent some time in the kitchen before disappearing up to his own room.
Lucy made sure she could no longer hear the boys below before she emerged from her room. She made her way downstairs, wanting something to drink and eat. She was still furious with Lockwood and wasn’t prepared to see what George had to say to calm her down.
Lockwood could have been killed. The night could have so easily ended with her and George signing the paperwork to get his remains released to some funeral home. It could have ended with sobbed goodbyes rather than slammed bedroom doors.
The quiet kitchen almost seemed to echo with those sobs as Lucy stood there. She moved across it, going for the sink. Instead, her attention fell onto notes they had written earlier that day, the plan they had created that had fallen apart almost instantly.
And then Lucy saw it. A new quote, written in Lockwood’s hand. She knew it was meant for her, not him just setting out musings upon the table cloth as he occasionally did. An explanation for his actions, conveyed in words that were not his own.
For a moment Lucy guessed he thought it was more honest to use borrowed words. She supposed he feared, as practised a liar as he was, he might chicken out at the last second, let a few chosen untruths blunten the things he really wanted to say.
But Lucy told herself not to be so cynical. Lockwood was trying his best to be honest and open, had the bravery to backtrack when he realised he wasn’t speaking the truth.
He was using the quote because he didn’t have the words himself.
It startled her to think of Lockwood, so gifted with his words, might feel himself at a loss for them. But she supposed he was trying to convey the sort of concepts he had spent so long shutting out. He was trying to tell her about his deepest vulnerabilities. He’d be able to do it, she knew he would, but it wouldn’t be so succinct. He’d have been forced to write page after page - all of which Lucy would willingly read - and why put himself through that when he could borrow the words of someone else, words that perfectly captured how he felt.
Life, although it may only be an accumulation of anguish, is dear to me, and I will defend it.
Lucy sat down, her eyes playing over the quote.
It was the first time she had realised an obvious fact, truly let herself bask in it. Lockwood valued life. So many people in their world did not. Life was cheap and short and messy. The lives of agents were some of the cheapest, shortest and messiest.
But Lockwood, for all his self-loathing, all his suicidal thoughts, valued life. He would risk suffering to protect others, to win them even precious seconds more. He laboured day in and day out to ensure complete strangers got to have their lives safe from harm.
Lucy guessed it was because he knew how much it hurt. He knew what it felt like to be the one left behind. He’d known loss intimately and come to recognise that it hurt so much because life was worth so much.
So if he was reckless, if he willingly laid down his life for such a cause, it was because he placed an intrinsic value into being alive. After all, any steps he had taken to deliberately snuff out his own light had been because he felt it would be better for others, because he felt like he got people killed.
Lucy stood, moving from the room, to collect her copy of Frankenstein.
An hour passed with Lucy finding no response on the pages of her book. She’d looked through every one she had marked, every quote that had made her think of Lockwood but nothing conveyed the new understanding she wanted him to know she had.
She almost gave up as she continued looking through the pages, searching for new quotes that hadn’t sprung out at her at first. She considered going up to Lockwood’s room, speaking to him directly.
But she wasn’t sure she was capable of collecting together the words in that moment. And she knew Lockwood. If he had felt ready to talk to her face to face, he would have done so.
They’d find the words eventually, find the strength to talk when their argument was not so fresh. She’d tell Lockwood she understood, that she had never doubted that life was precious to him, that she just wished he would realise his own life was equally precious to her.
She stared at the quote. It looked so beautiful in Lockwood’s hand, spoke so many things that had needed to be said and yet it was the words of someone else. It didn’t quite fit.
Lucy grabbed a pen and began to work.
Lockwood was the first one up that morning. He moved through the house silently, feeling like a visitor in his own house. Which type of visitor, Lockwood didn’t know. It didn’t seem like it mattered.
He made his way to the kitchen, hoping a freshly brewed cup of tea might help him feel less like some half-dead creature. His eyes caught on the new additions to the thinking cloth. Lucy had seen his quote. She had edited it, in fact.
Lockwood found himself dropping into the seat before it, eyes lingering over it.
Your Life, although it may only be more than an accumulation of anguish, is dear to me, and I will defend it!
Lockwood felt tears springing into his eyes. He heard the door creaking open. Turning, he prayed for Lucy to be the one standing there. Instead, he saw George. Drawing in a breath to steady himself, Lockwood dragged a forgotten folder over Lucy’s quote. He chewed on his lip, blinking back the tears that threatened to fall.
“Has the kettle been boiled?” George asked.
“No. I was just… Uh… Trying to get some thoughts down,” Lockwood replied.
“Well, don’t stop on my account,” George told him as he moved toward the kettle. “I love seeing the insanity that spills out of you before you’ve had your first tea of the day.”
Lockwood glanced down at the folder covering Lucy’s quote.
“I just lost my train of thought I’m afraid,” Lockwood said.
George sighed disappointedly. Lockwood got to his feet.
“Actually, I think I left something in my room,” Lockwood told him.
" Nothing is so painful to the human mind as a great and sudden change. "
Lockwood’s voice made Lucy jump. She turned sharply, seeing Lockwood was standing in the doorway to his room, leaning against the frame. He was holding his copy of Frankenstein.
Lucy realised he had likely already seen her note. She had prepared herself to walk into the kitchen to see him staring at it. Not be ambushed on her way there.
"Being… just reckless enough is a big change for me. A pretty sudden halt to a tightening downwards spiral."
"A needed one," Lucy said.
She took a deep breath, held out her hand for the book.
"I wasn’t angry at you… Well, I was but…"
Her own copy would have fallen open to the page she was searching for it was a quote she had so frequently turned to, taunted herself with. Lockwood's copy had the page marked with a corner turned down.
" I have love in me the likes of which you can scarcely imagine and rage the likes of which you would not believe. If I cannot satisfy one, I will indulge the other. When you push me away, Lockwood, when you… stop me from loving you, I get angry. Because loving you is all I want to do.”
Lockwood held her gaze.
“I love you too, Lucy. You and George. You mean the world to me.”
Lucy shook her head, staring at him. She could think of no quote to correct him, nor could she summon the words herself to explain. Instead, she passed him the book. He was distracted for a moment, taking it back. Lucy used that moment to pull him close. She kissed him nervously, feeling almost frozen as she tried to work out how Lockwood would react. She didn’t hold him in place, ready to let him recoil in horror. But then she felt his hands press on her waist, the book resting against her spine.
And Lockwood repaid the kiss, pulling Lucy ever closer until she felt like the world hardly mattered.
“Now tell me...”
The words came out of Lockwood in a breathy chuckle. He pulled back only far enough to speak, his forehead still resting against Lucy’s, eyes shut.
“Was that us satisfying or us indulging?”
Lucy managed her own laugh, pressing a teasingly chaste kiss to the corner of Lockwood’s mouth.
“Both.”