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Lockwood knew that it had objectively gone well. Lucy agreed to work with them. The thought warmed him in the winter cold as he walked up the steps to 35 Portland Row. They had one shot to bring her home. This case for Fittes had to go well. It hadn’t surprised him, how much cajoling she needed, but for a minute there, he really thought she might say no.
It was the bloody tea that unnerved him. How many hundreds of times had he watched her make tea? He had never seen her hands shake like that, even on a case. More than once, she missed the mug with the tea bag and threw it across the tiny counter which, even for Lucy, was a shocking lack of dexterity. He should have called ahead, he had woken her up—but no, she would have refused him outright.
But then she’d asked if he now took sugar in his tea.
It was an absurd question, one that made his stomach flip. Had she really forgotten him already? Did he really mean so little to her? He still knew how she took her tea of course, the exact caramel shade from the splash of milk and heaping of sugar. His tea was the least amount of fuss, straightforward and brewed just a few more minutes than the Pitkin’s box recommended. A small squirt of honey, if he was feeling peaky, which was rare.
He opened the door, smells and sounds from the kitchen wafting through the hallway. Hanging his coat, he plastered his biggest smile on and popped his head in to see George at the stove, Holly putting fixings on the tea.
“She’s in,” he grinned.
His researcher didn’t turn around, just gave a short nod and grunted. George had taken her leaving pretty hard, but he knew that was in no small part due to his own behavior in the weeks that followed their Listener’s abrupt departure. While no one would know from the papers—thank god for Holly, really—he had been nothing short of a disaster. He prided himself on keeping a cool head, but time and time again he felt his temper slipping. Holly was stretched thin, walking on eggshells around him. He was rushing George on research, and on more than one occasion he could feel his deputy fuming at his recklessness on the cab ride home. Even Barnes had been treating him with slightly less contempt than normal, like he pitied him because he could see the Lucy-shaped hole in his heart. Was it that obvious?
“That’s wonderful news, Lockwood,” Holly said gently. “How is she?”
Guilt settled into his stomach. They had managed to keep tabs on her work with every other agency in London through Holly’s connections and his own talent for unearthing gossip (”Honestly Lockwood, if you put half of that energy into actual research, I wouldn’t need so much time,” George had once moaned), and they heard nothing but good things. Still, even as he walked up the stairs in her building with questionable security, even as he picked up her bag of laundry at her doorstep, nothing had prepared him for the cramped entropic flat. If he hadn’t known Lucy so well, he would have thought she’d been robbed. She didn’t belong there.
“Good, good,” he said. “Freelance life suits her well, the independence and all that. Is that tea?”
Holly handed him perfectly teak-colored liquid swirling in Lucy’s favorite mug.
The case of the Ealing Cannibal had gone well. Just as he suspected, they worked seamlessly together, just like old times. Normally, he would have been thrilled. Penelope Fittes was happy with their work and Lockwood and Co. could certainly expect higher profile cases sent their way in the near future. But the following night, he still couldn’t shake the hollow feeling in his chest, that it wasn’t enough to bring Lucy home. He really missed Lucy.
It was late, and he was startled to hear the clapper rattling on the ground floor. Ten seconds later, it was still clanging against the door. Pulling a bathrobe over his dark blue pajamas—a gift from Lucy that he’d been wearing all winter—he made his way downstairs. He took the spare rapier from the umbrella stand and undid the lock, swinging the door open.
Lucy.
She looked so small, as if she’d collapse in on herself at the slightest breeze. Her teeth were chattering and her clothes were torn, new bruises blooming on her face that were not from the night before.
“Lucy, what’s happened? You’re shaking. Come on. Come on inside.”
“Sorry to disturb you so late,” her voice was barely a whisper and he strained to hear her.
“Don’t give it a thought! But you’re exhausted, I can barely hear you. Let’s get you to the kitchen.” Don’t panic, Lockwood thought as he bolted the door. She’s safe, she’s home, get her warm. He tightened his grip around her as he led her down the hall, pulled out a chair at the kitchen table. He bit the inside of his cheek as he saw the mist in her eyes, the tacky blood on her arm. This wasn’t a case gone wrong. Someone had done this. Who had done this? Who hurt her?
The explanation would have to wait. Pulling himself together, he kept his voice smooth. “I’ll get George; we can clean this, fix you up. You don’t have to worry anymore; you’re safe here.” Why did you leave, Lucy, why would you go where we couldn’t protect you? He ran upstairs to get George.
Once they bandaged her up, he put the kettle on, ignoring the pang he felt when remembering his bitterness over tea just a few days prior. Had it only been a couple of days? He shook his head. Lucy forgetting how he took his tea didn’t seem all that important anymore. He spooned an extra lump of sugar into her mug.
“I was hoping, maybe, tonight I could crash here…?” her voice had regained some strength. His heart swelled at the request. “Just till morning,” she continued. “Then tomorrow—”
“Oh, not just tonight.” Absolutely not. She was never going back there. He told her so.
It was nearly dawn. They might as well eat breakfast. He pulled out some glasses and some orange juice. “You want some orange juice, Lucy? It’s your favorite: the kind with pulp.” He smiled at her. Even if she didn’t remember, he did.
“Lucy doesn’t like orange juice with pulp, remember?” George was giving him a weird look.
Ah, shit. He actually had forgotten. “Personally, I’ve always thought straining it through your teeth is part of the fun, you can pretend you’re a blue whale.” There, he had recovered. But Lucy was also now staring daggers at him. Bloody hell. “What?”
“Holly. She’s staying over now?”
Fuck me, here we go. There was a nasty part of him that wanted to make her jealous. Pull yourself together man, she’s been through an ordeal, he told himself. Plus, she was home, and wasn’t that all that really mattered? He parried her questions about Holly away. Now was not the time.
At some point, George made waffles, and the three of them were sitting around the Thinking Cloth as if the past four months hadn’t happened. Who was he kidding, as if the past six months hadn’t happened. He thought of the blissful summer after closing the Bickerstaff case. Well, maybe not so blissful—the Winkman trial had taken up a fair amount of their time—but still. Him, George, and Lucy at Portland Row. Where had everything gone wrong?
Lucy now was talking: “The skull is different, and I—I don’t want to lose that connection. If possible, I’d like to find a way….I could try it on my own of course, but if Lockwood and Company would be prepared to help me, I’d be very grateful….”
Of course it was about the bloody skull. Still, her words gave him hope. If they could uncover the Winkmans’ underground ring…and now she wanted to work with them. This was completely in their favor. She would be their client. They would be working together again. He looked at George and back at Lucy. Any tension from the Ealing case seemed to have dissolved. They had a deal.
It was time to finally, finally get some sleep, but he couldn’t help but throw in one last gibe. “Now, if you can remember your way upstairs, we all need to get to bed.” Lucy’s nose twitched. Why was he such an arse?
The sun streamed through the gap in his bedroom curtains. It was their first morning back from Aldbury Castle. Despite the fatigue that had settled in his bones after his and Lucy’s journey to the Other Side, there was a lightness in his chest that he hadn’t felt in a long time. This morning they were going to celebrate—a job well done, and Lucy’s official return to the company. She was home. Finally.
Lucy was alone in the kitchen when he came down, boiling water for tea. The skull bobbed in the jar on the window sill. They must have been talking, because she turned around before he announced himself.
“Good morning,” she smiled and he melted. The soft light made her flyaways look like a halo. God, he would never let her go again.
Lucy handed him his mug, the teabag bobbing in the oversteeped water, just how he liked it.
“You…you remember,” he said softly.
She blinked at him, a look of puzzlement on her face. “Remember what?”
“How I take my tea,” he mumbled.
“Of course I do, silly,” she gave him a look that said he was the one being weird.
“It’s just…it’s just at your flat last week…” he swallowed. The kitchen was too bright.
A look of realization dawned on her face. “Oh, I was just nervous,” she chuckled, blushing. “Of course I remember how you take your tea, Lockwood.” She patted him on the arm and he felt the heat rise under his collar. He grinned, setting the full mug down and turning to leave the kitchen.
“I’m going out,” he called over his shoulder, throwing his jacket on. ”I won’t be long, just grabbing some stuff from Arif’s.” They needed doughnuts. And some pulpless orange juice.