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1. Shedding
Quill ground his teeth as he filled out the forms on his desk. He had waited one month, then two, before filing to transfer Kat Godwin and Bobby Vernon off his team. Despite his promotion after their work on the Chelsea Outbreak, Quill could see the writing on the wall: the cases they were assigned were less and less prestigious, a waste of the two agents’ respective talents. The Dagenham slaughterhouse case had been a bloody joke, but it was the Rotherhithe sewage works that was really the final straw. It was a shame. They worked well together. But Bobby would be fine wherever he went, and his research skills needed to be put to use on real cases. He worried more about Kat, who was getting older and needed a supervisor who could shepherd her through the transition. But she still had some time left. She deserved cases that actually utilised her Listening.
Running a hand through his hair, he sighed and leaned back in his chair. He knew he was being disciplined, and why; Fittes didn’t take kindly to those who didn’t fall in line. But after Ned’s death, after the deaths of so many agents, it wasn’t even a choice to follow Lockwood & Co. into Aickmere’s. He was grateful that Carlyle had stuck her neck out for them, cajoled Tony into teaming up again. There’s no way either team would have survived alone. And they did more than survive—they succeeded. They found the source and stopped the Outbreak. He had done his job and done it well. He’d do it again. But it didn’t mean that Kat and Bobby had to go down with him. He did the right thing then and he was doing the right thing now, letting them move on without him.
So why did it all feel like shit?
2. Resignation
When Ms. Fittes called him into her office and assigned him to supervise the Guppy case—to supervise Lockwood—he knew this was meant as yet another punishment. Still, Quill had always worn his uniform proudly, and he was actually relieved to be on an interesting case again, with agents who had real Talent. There were worse ways to spend an evening.
He wasn’t surprised to see Carlyle there, despite hearing through the grapevine that she had supposedly left Tony and his company. She was the Big Talent, anyone could see it, and she was uniquely well-suited to this particular case. If anything, he was surprised that the appearance of Holly Munro at the ragtag agency had been enough to drive her away in the first place. He didn’t understand Carlyle’s fascination with the young agency head, but it was clear as day.
Tony, on the other hand, seemed willfully oblivious both to the Listener’s feelings and his own peacocking for her throughout the evening. If Quill hadn’t been so preoccupied with sheer terror as they scrambled to find Guppy’s source, he would have taken Tony by the collar and told him to redirect his bravery toward getting Carlyle back onside.
After all was said and done, the case itself went extremely well—well enough, even, that maybe he could return to Ms. Fittes’s good graces. But as he made his way home after dropping off the jar of teeth at the furnaces, a realisation dawned on him: he was exhausted. Over the past two years, his Talent had faded; first his Listening, then his Sight, until finally he could no longer feel them. Even a mere four months ago, he could still sense the Visitors enough to guide a team. Now there was nothing. He had been all but useless in Ealing and, finally, he understood Tony’s disdain for adult supervisors. At least Quill could see his Talent in the rear view mirror well enough to know that it was best for him to stay out of the way. They were annoying as hell, but he trusted Tony and Carlyle’s Talents plenty, and was fine following their lead. He had a feeling other supervisors weren’t so generous. On more than one occasion, he’d overheard an adult from one of the agencies that had sought Carlyle’s services bemoaning her insubordinance. It had taken everything in him not to lash out—at least she gets the bloody job done.
So now, he was finished. He couldn’t keep sending children to the front line while he stood by, less useful than a fence post. Walking out of Penelope Fittes’s office for the last time into the bleak Black Winter, there was relief mixed in with his shame and the mild underlying panic that wondered what the hell he was supposed to do next. He had stayed so long because he was good at his job and because Fittes was home. But he had also stayed in honour of his mother and grandmother who had been so proud of him when he received his Grade Three; in memory of the faces he knew in the Hall of Fallen Heroes. But he didn’t want to know any more faces in that hall.
Resigning was the right thing to do. He knew it in his bones. Still, it felt like he had just cut off his own hand.
3. Ballast
He was surprised to look up from his afternoon tea to see Lockwood towering over him.
“Tony.”
“Kipps.” Lockwood sat down across from him and made himself comfortable.
Quill raised his eyebrows. He suddenly felt naked in his black jeans and turtleneck. “Can I help you?”
“I heard you quit.” There was no malice in his voice, his face expressionless.
“Did you now?” He tried to sound bored. He didn’t want to give Tony the satisfaction of knowing how much the shame smarted, how impotent he felt. He turned his gaze back to his book. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Tony lean forward, hands clasped. He looked so much like his sister. Quill pushed the painful memory of his friend down. Tony wasn’t the only one who had lost everyone. Maybe one day he’d tell him, but today was definitely not that day.
“Well, if you’re free, I actually have a bit of a job for you.”
Quill snapped his eyes back to Lockwood’s in surprise. “Doing what, exactly?”
“Out of town gig. Lodging, food, and transport all covered. You interested?”
“But why?” He was useless. What could Tony possibly want with him?
Lockwood shrugged across from him. “We’ve worked well together before. Could use an extra hand. Apparently, this whole village is overrun.” There was a look in his eye that bordered on pity. It almost made Quill say no.
Instead, he sighed and swallowed the last few drops of his pride. What was another dumb decision this week? “I suppose I have nothing better to do. Tell me more.”
4. Recompense
Quill was getting restless; for the first time in a long time, he was looking forward to sundown. The goggles in his hands made him feel electric. There were questions that tickled the back of his brain, of course—why weren’t these available to supervisors, for starters—and he was a little uncomfortable with the realisation that he was now indebted to Karim for this lifeline. But mostly, he felt giddy. He had never dreamed that he would see Visitors again. Maybe he could finally be useful.
His nervous energy rivalled Danny Skinner’s, the punchable ten-year-old who had taken them around Aldbury Castle that afternoon, and he was in desperate need of something to do. Holly was reading a book, while Karim and Tony were reviewing the data they had collected in the village. Only the Listener was unoccupied, staring blankly at the empty fireplace. Every now and then, he noticed Tony throwing her looks, his expression wavering between heartbreak and hope. She didn’t seem to notice.
“Thing is, Kipps, I prefer the freedom it gives me—working wherever I want, with whomever I want. Not being tied down. It’s a better life somehow—nobler, simpler….”
He hadn’t bought Lucy Carlyle’s spiel at the Guppy house for a minute, but the words came back to him in the dying light at the Old Sun Inn. She had made another comment on the train the day before too, something about him resigning being…admirable? Had she really used that word? It seemed like a long time ago when he had read her file. Fittes wanted to recruit her after Combe Carey, and he remembered reading about her shitty old agency in a northern town just a few miles over from where he’d spent his short childhood.
He had asked her out, once. Quill cringed at the memory. He hadn't meant to; it had fallen out of his mouth when he'd been trying to poach her, and he’d known immediately that he had swung for the fences and missed. She never brought it up again, and he was grateful. It was one of many small kindnesses she had offered him over the past couple of years. Maybe he could return the favour.
He made his way to sit next to her. “Something on your mind?”
“Mmm?” was her only acknowledgement that he was there.
“Is this about Tony?” He kept his voice low, shooting a furtive glance at the boys hunched over the table.
Her expression darkened, but she still didn’t look at him. “What are you talking about, Kipps?”
Quill suppressed a smile. “I don’t know what happened or why you left, and if you insist that leaving Lockwood & Co. had nothing to do with Holly, I believe you. But cut the bullshit about the noble life of freelancing, Carlyle. I’ve been around for a long time. Flying solo isn’t admirable or easy. I know why I’m here, why are you?”
Lucy was quiet for so long that he wasn’t sure she heard him. When she finally spoke, it was barely a whisper. “I owe them.”
Huh. He wasn’t expecting that. He angled his head so that the others wouldn’t hear. “Not the way I see it, Lucy. Every time I’ve worked with you lot, it’s been your Talent that’s gotten us out of a jam. I know it’s not my business, but you should put Lockwood out of his misery.” He glanced at Tony again. This time, Lockwood caught his eye before quickly turning back to the map.
“How do you mean?” When she finally turned to look at Quill, he noticed that Lucy looked very sad.
“I mean that I don’t think that you freelancing suits either of you,” he tried to say kindly.
Her mouth drew a thin line and she didn’t reply. Just as well: it was finally dark.
5. Satellite
Munching on Karim’s kippers and poached eggs, Quill felt a twinge of envy. He had never actually been to Lockwood’s home before, and was surprised at its warmth, its cosiness. He had his flat of course, a modern, iron affair. But this, this was a proper home.
And now, he had been invited in.
At first, he couldn’t quite swallow what little pride he had left to join Lockwood & Co. as a full-fledged member. However, after Penelope Fittes’ and Sir Rupert Gale’s surprise visit at their breakfast that morning, the maths were simple: he had no pension, no reputation. He was surprisingly touched by how fiercely Tony had defended him.
Their little adventure to Aldbury Castle had been…illuminating, in more than one regard. He still couldn’t quite believe what he’d seen at the Rotwell Institute. He certainly wouldn’t have believed it if he hadn’t witnessed it with his own eyes. But more than that, he couldn’t quite believe what he had done. For once, he had been all for listening to Lockwood and high-tailing it back to the inn, but Karim was a stubborn git and Munro seemed inclined to follow. He wasn’t going to be the only one to chicken out, so he took one of the ghost-bomb guns on the rack, and then another, and then started piling the other agents’ arms with as much as they could carry. Then they had blown up the facility.
He had a feeling there was no turning back now.
Which was unfortunate, given that Lucy had just turned around from the dishes at the sink, exclaiming that the ratty skull on the counter had proclaimed that Penelope was, in fact, Marissa Fittes. His head swam. What the hell was she talking about?
“It’s a Type Three?!” Quill whispered to Holly as soon as the others went downstairs. He had offered to help finish cleaning up, like any polite guest, and they seemed only too happy to let him. He was a little miffed, but the real reason he wanted to stay in the kitchen was to talk to Holly. She was Rotwell-trained; surely, this woman had some sense. “Where the hell did they even get that thing?!”
Holly grimaced. “George stole it when he was fired from Fittes.”
Quill gaped. He had done many stupid things in his short life, many of those things in the past week alone, but never anything this dumb.
“I don’t like it either. Lucy told me it actually encouraged her to murder me once or twice. Something about a coat hanger…But where the skull goes, Lucy goes, and where Lucy goes, Lockwood…”
Quill ran a hand over his face. So this was non-negotiable then. “And now this thing is supposedly telling us that my boss—my former boss—is actually Marissa Fittes?”
Holly shot him a sympathetic look. “In fairness, I just watched my former boss nearly kill my new boss, and then my new boss had to get his arse saved by someone I almost got killed five months ago.” She gave a delicate shudder. “It’s a lot to process, I get it.”
He groaned. “It’s a wonder you put up with them.”
“They’re onto something real here, Quill. And look, we don’t take anything the skull says at face value. You saw Lockwood and George just now, they’ll figure out a way to verify it first.” She held his gaze. “Remember how George figured out the source of the Chelsea Outbreak last fall? You gave him the data he needed to put it all together. This, whatever this is, is even bigger. Don’t you want to be a part of it?”
“I think want is a strong word.”
Holly paused, weighing her words carefully. “I thought I was done with being an agent, Quill. I wanted to be done with fieldwork. Maybe you already understand this, but Lockwood & Co. has a way of drawing you into their orbit and holding fast. Look at Lucy.” She offered a small smile. “You can do a lot of good here, Quill, I know you can. They need you. We need you.”
He had to admit, it was nice, feeling needed. He let out a long exhale. “I’m not moving in though, I won’t do it.”
Holly let out an uncharacteristic guffaw. “You couldn’t pay me to.”
6. Grace
“Again,” Lockwood said, his exasperation rising. “We can’t afford to dawdle once we’re down there. Let’s try it with a couple more lavender candles this time.”
“We’re not holding a seance, Tony. Any more open flames and we’re going to set the living room on fire.”
“Well, excuse me for trying to implement satisfactory measures for when we open the coffin,” he retorted.
“Lockwood, we’ve gone over this a dozen times in the past hour. At the very least, why don’t we break for some tea. George still needs to show us the specs on the actual coffin. Can’t exactly practise opening the sofa,” Lucy said. She brushed a shock of white hair behind her ear, a souvenir from their time at Aldbury Castle five months prior.
Quill sighed in relief. Lockwood was acting even more manic than normal in preparation for their trip to the Fittes Mausoleum the next evening. Lucy was their only hope in keeping the agency head in check, and she did not disappoint.
Lockwood gave her a winning smile. “Great idea, Luce. Hol, could you pop the kettle on? Kipps, help George out with the schematics, will you? We’ll look over all of that in the kitchen. Lucy and I will clean up down here.”
Quill followed George up the stairs. “Ooh, great idea, Luce,” he mimicked, rolling his eyes. “You’re lucky you don’t live here, Kipps, honestly.”
“That bad, huh?”
“Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad she’s back. But I’ve walked in on them canoodling in the library one too many times. All I can say is, give Lockwood’s armchair a wide berth.”
“Ugh, I did not need that mental image, Karim.”
“I’ve suffered alone long enough.”
Quill waited outside of George’s room—one of many biohazards in this house, apparently—as he gathered the rolled papers scattered amongst various experiments. Not for the first time, he saw exactly why George had been hired (and fired) from Fittes. George was driven by one thing alone, and that was insatiable curiosity. His talent for research was undeniable, his penchant for digging in places no one else bothered to look extraordinary. It was that last bit that had gotten him sacked. Too much independent initiative. A year ago, he had scoffed at it. Now, he appreciated George’s talent for the marvel it was.
He himself was getting used to the independence that working for Lockwood afforded. There was much less paperwork, more time actually doing things. He had to be careful, of course. They only had the one pair of goggles, and they couldn’t risk them falling into the hands of DEPRAC during one of the all-too-frequent house checks at Portland Row, or worse, one of Gale’s thugs picking them off him on the street. But out of his Fittes uniform, without a rapier on his hip, he found himself moving with ease through spaces he hadn’t before, picking up whispers and connecting dots that the others, unfamiliar as they were with bureaucracy, couldn’t.
George shoved some papers into his arms and waved a hand in his face. “You with me?”
Quill blinked. “Yeah, sorry, I was just thinking…”
“Oh, well now I’m worried.”
“Sod off.” He sighed, trying to articulate everything swirling in his head. “I mean, this thing at the Fittes Mausoleum. I know we’re prepared and all, or as prepared as we can be. It just feels, I don’t know, surreal.”
It was rare, seeing George’s face soften the way it did just then. “Growing up, all I wanted was to work at Fittes. And then I did. And then, just as quickly, it was over. I was just a junior researcher, but they were still worried about me poking my nose around. I think I knew then that something was off.
“But Kipps, you worked there for years. You rose through the ranks, you actually had access to Penelope, or Marissa, or whoever the hell she is. And no one suspects anything amiss. I’m not saying you should have seen it coming or whatever, but if you’re feeling…conflicted, it would make sense. No one would blame you.”
Quill looked at the bundle of papers in his arms. Five months of work. Even if he wanted out, he’d blown past several exit ramps already. He looked back at George. “I think I’ve seen too much to go back at this point.”
George nodded. “I thought so.”
They turned to go downstairs toward the kitchen, George leading the way. Before they reached the landing, Quill cleared his throat. “I don’t think I ever really thanked you for the goggles.”
George paused, but didn’t look back. “You still haven’t.”
“Thank you, George.”
The researcher gave a single nod before continuing down the steps.
That night, from the comfort of his own bed, Quill closed his eyes and repeated the litany of his dead. As always, his mother and grandmother came first. He hoped they’d be proud of him now. Then he ran through a too-long list of agents—half of his first team hadn’t seen eighteen—until he ended with Ned Shaw. Lastly, he remembered Jessica Lockwood, his sweet friend from the Archives who helped him research so many of his early cases. Just a few months prior, he had finally seen the room where she’d passed, finally told Tony about how he’d worn a black armband for weeks, even though she wasn’t an agent. She would have been amused that he was working for her younger brother now. The thought made him smile.
That brought him to the living. Lockwood, Lucy, Holly, George. Hell, he was even beginning to become fond of Flo. At the last moment, he thought to add Kat and Bobby to the list. He hoped they were doing alright. But his mind drifted back to the residents of 35 Portland Row. They were lunatics, every last one of them.
And he was going to do everything he could to help them.