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“What the hell is that?”
Lockwood had just entered the kitchen and stopped dead, staring at Lucy as she knelt on the floor by the back door, gently petting a…
“It’s a cat, Lockwood,” she said matter of factly.
“I can see that,” he said, placing his hands on his hips. “What is it doing in my house?”
Lucy rolled her eyes. “It’s been coming to the back door for weeks. Poor thing is skin and bones.”
Well, that was certainly the truth, thought Lockwood. The cat was long and lean, somewhere between a kitten and an adult. Its black fur was sticking up in places and it looked like something had chewed on its ear.
“I finally coaxed it in with a saucer of milk,” said Lucy, scratching it behind the ears.
“You shouldn’t give cow’s milk to cats,” mumbled George from where he was scribbling notes on the Thinking Cloth.
“Should we get goat’s milk, do you think?” Lucy asked, looking up at him.
“We are not adopting a cat!” Lockwood said firmly.
Lucy scratched under the cat’s chin and it purred, a loud rumble filling the kitchen.
“That ship’s sailed,” muttered George.
“Lockwood, have you seen Cocoa?”
“Whose cocoa?”
“The cat!”
“Oh. No, should I have?”
Lockwood was in the library, trying to read a new Deprac handbook on containment procedures that had just been published. Well, it had been published eight months ago, but better late than never.
“He slept in my room yesterday, but now I can’t find him anywhere. I’m worried he’s gone out again, George keeps leaving the back door open.” Lucy seemed strangely anxious, her brows furrowed, eyes wide with concern.
“He’s a cat, Luce. My understanding is they do what they want, when they want, and don’t bother to ask anyone’s permission.”
“But what if he doesn’t come back?”
“Then we won’t have to buy any more bloody goat’s milk,” Lockwood said under his breath. To Lucy, he gave what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “I expect he’ll turn up when he’s hungry. You just need to be patient.”
“I’m going to check the attic again,” she said, turning to go.
Lockwood sighed and went back to his handbook. Girls could be funny about pets.
“Fascinating.”
“George Karim, what are you doing to the cat?”
“I’m not doing anything. I wanted to see how the skull would respond to it so I put it by the cat’s litter box and…”
“George!” Lucy shouted.
Lockwood was passing the bathroom and stopped to make sure he wasn’t going to need to break up a fight between Lucy and George. Mostly they figured it out on their own these days, but Lockwood was always a little wary of Lucy’s more violent tendencies.
“I don’t think the skull likes it much,” George said from inside. Lockwood could hear hissing and spitting from the cat, so the feeling seemed to be mutual.
“Please take the skull back to the vault and let Cocoa do his business in peace,” said Lucy authoritatively. “How would you like having a moldy old skull watching you pee?”
“Yeah, Lockwood didn’t appreciate it when I left him in the bath that time.”
Lockwood rolled his eyes and continued downstairs. That had sure been a surprising thing to see first thing in the morning. George liked to joke it had scared the piss out of him. Lockwood liked to imagine George with his head stuck in a bucket, so fair was fair.
“Lucy, what happened to you?” Lockwood asked as she sat down with a mug of tea.
“It’s nothing. Just a scratch,” she said wearily.
“I can see blood seeping through your plaster.”
“Cats have sharp claws.”
“The cat did that? I thought it liked you.”
“So did I!” Lucy burst out, seemingly on the verge of tears. “He even curled up on my bed last night. But then this morning he was hiding under the bed and I was trying to coax him to come out for breakfast and he just…” Lucy sniffled discreetly into her tea.
Lockwood didn’t know what to do in situations like this. For some reason none of the manuals produced by Fittes or DEPRAC contained advice on how to soothe a crying teenage girl who was your employee but also your friend and someone you quite liked and admired and didn’t want to see hurt.
“Luce, I’m sure he didn’t mean it. Maybe you just touched him somewhere sensitive. A stray cat like that, he probably doesn’t like feeling vulnerable.”
Lucy nodded.
“He certainly likes you more than anyone else. He hisses when anyone else gets too close to you. And look at the way he lets you pet him and take care of him!”
Lockwood patted her shoulder and she gave him a grateful look that made him feel warm and fuzzy inside. He’d done a good job navigating this situation, professional guidance or no. Not for nothing was he the youngest agency head in London.
He looked up and saw George at the other end of the table, staring at them. Lockwood quickly pulled his hand back from Lucy’s shoulder, returning it to his tea mug.
George shook his head, muttering something under his breath.
“What was that?” Lockwood asked.
“I said, yes, the cat does seem quite partial to Lucy.”
“Quite right,” Lockwood said, clearing his throat.
And well, who could blame it, really?
“Luce? Are you in here?”
Lockwood popped his head into the dimly lit library and sure enough, Lucy was sitting on the sofa, her head listing tiredly to one side. She looked up at him and gave a half hearted wave.
“I thought you were going to bed soon,” he said. “You look knackered.”
“I am. Or I was,” she said wearily. “But I sat down to drink my cocoa and, well…” she gestured at her lap and Lockwood realized that the dark shadow there was in fact a cat, curled up and asleep.
Lockwood chuckled. Ever since she’d returned after the Black Winter, Cocoa the cat had been positively effusive in his affection for her. He slept on her bed, wound himself between her legs in the kitchen and napped in her lap at every opportunity.
Lockwood approached, kneeling in front of the sofa and scratching the cat behind the ears.
“Come on, wake up,” he said, “You get to sleep all day. Lucy needs her sleep too.”
Cocoa yawned, then curled even tighter into Lucy’s lap. She laughed helplessly, her tired eyes dancing with joy.
“He missed you,” Lockwood said quietly, looking surreptitiously up at Lucy. “He kept going up to your room to look for you. I think he could smell you up there still. He’d always come down looking so sad.”
There was a beat as Lucy looked up at him, her eyes shining in the dim light.
“Lockwood, I’m really…” Lucy began, but she was caught by a wide yawn.
“Sorry,” she said, covering her mouth.
“Right, that’s it,” he said to the cat. “I’m sorry, but as the head of this agency sometimes I need to make the tough decisions and frankly, Lucy’s sleep is more important than yours. Up you get!”
Lockwood slid both hands under the ball of fur and scooped him up, dumping him indecorously on the sofa.
Cocoa shook himself, his ears twitching with irritation, then he yawned and stretched and began grooming his fur where it was sticking up from Lockwood’s ill treatment of him.
“Your turn,” Lockwood said, turning to Lucy and offering his hands.
She took them and he pulled her to her feet. He might have been a little over enthusiastic, because she staggered slightly, bumping into his chest. He steadied her by placing his hands on her shoulders and she smiled gratefully up at him.
“Thanks,” she said softly.
Lockwood swallowed, then turned her toward the stairs and gave her a gentle push.
“Go on,” he said. “Get some sleep.”
“Coming, Cocoa?” she asked the cat. He seemed to consider it for a moment, then bounded off the sofa, heading up the stairs with his tail in the air.
“So dramatic,” Lockwood laughed.
Lucy smiled that secret smile she had that always made Lockwood think she was enjoying a private joke.
“Good night, Lockwood,” she said, waving and heading up the stairs after the cat.
“Good night, Luce.”