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He hadn’t seen it right away. Or maybe he had, but the pure shock of seeing it again meant he failed to register it until moments later when Lucy was already walking away. She hadn’t been wearing it that afternoon, when he’d all but cornered her outside Portland Row and asked her to join the agency on behalf of Penelope Fittes herself.
But she wore it now, the necklace, and as it glinted in the soft light of the ballroom he didn’t understand how he hadn’t recognized it instantly. After all, he was the one who’d bought it in a dusty pawn shop six years ago. It hadn’t been expensive by most standards, but he still spent a good portion of his paycheck on the dainty silver chain, with its teardrop pendant of clear crystal. Every penny had been worth it.
He remembered how he’d stepped out into the London air that day with a spring in his step, grinning with anticipation. He recalled the look on Jessica’s face when she saw it for the first time by the water—the bright smile and the shadows where her dimples took shape, only when she was really pleased, and the crinkles around her dark, deep eyes. That moment was imprinted on his mind in such detail, as if it were a work of art he’d painted himself. It brought him joy and agony. It shouldn’t. It was a lifetime ago. It felt less and less real as time passed, like a half-remembered dream. But seeing the chain hang from Lucy’s neck had made it real again, and suddenly he couldn’t focus on finding Bickerstaff’s mirror or winning the bet or anything else but the necklace that was poised like a question.
What could have been?
It was shaping up to be a long night for Quill. Not because of the usual (an active haunting that his team was trying to snuff out) but because this place was overflowing with strange objects, and one could never guess which might be a source.
He had worked jobs like these many times before, usually for property transactions. It was necessary to ensure a building was ghost-free before finalizing a sale, so he and the rest of his team would perform inspections and sweep the entire place for sources. Even then, those jobs were almost always commercial. This time, they were at a house—one he’d been to just the night before.
A married couple had died in a tragic car accident when a truck hit them head-on in an underpass, Quill had been told. It ignited, and the spilled fuel had kept the fire burning for over an hour. Suffice it to say, any “personal organic remains” that were left behind were not likely to be sources after burning in a spontaneous furnace of the accident’s making. All the precautions laid out in the Fittes Manual were taken at the site of the incident, of course, but there were still the deceased’s possessions to consider.
Apparently they were psychical researchers. Their house was filled with objects from their travels, and upon learning this, DEPRAC officials had thought it prudent to make sure none of them had become sources. That’s how Quill’s team had ended up here, sifting through instruments, gourds, and boxes of junk in the middle of the night.
He wanted to finish this quickly. Selfishly, he wanted nothing more than to go home and not think about death for a few hours. But it felt wrong to hold these objects, the treasured things and the items of little consequence that had still made up a life, and treat them as nothing more than a job.
He often felt that way in his line of work. People worked with a sort of … not levity exactly, but something bordering on apathy while they tied up loose ends. Maybe they didn’t feel there was time to empathize when they constantly had to worry about the next crisis.
That wasn’t fair of him. They did what they had to do to avoid losing their minds as they stared death in the face, night after night.
But his frustrations were only magnified by the sight of the daughter sitting on a bench in the hallway, her long, dark hair hiding her face from his view. Dim moonlight spilled in through the fanlight, creating a soft halo around her head, while each radial bar of the window created long lines over the cold tile floor. She could have been a ghost, except he knew she wasn’t. He’d seen her from afar last night, while he stood out in the street and she barely managed to stay standing at the front door as the police explained the accident to her and the nanny.
Plus he’d already known she would be here tonight. DEPRAC had asked her to stay in case the Fittes agents had questions about the house or her parents’ things during the course of the inspection. Apparently, they weren’t so worried about her safety that they thought she shouldn’t be present during a case, but they still thought she should stay within a circle of chains and have an agent with her at all times. It was Quill’s turn in the rotation.
Seeing her there bothered him. Never mind that it could be dangerous. She should be at the hotel with her brother. She should be grieving, not doing their job for them. It was cruel.
Quill wondered how DEPRAC’s conversation with her had gone. Yes, Miss Lockwood, very sorry for your loss. But since you’re the only surviving family member besides your 6-year-old brother (and your uncle whom we cannot reach) would you mind sitting in your dead parents’ house all night while strangers sort through their things so we can do our due diligence and appease the authorities and make sure your mother and father are gone for good? The agents might not end up needing your help or have any questions that couldn’t be answered over the telephone, but on the off chance that they do, would you please put yourself through a potentially dangerous and intensely emotional ordeal? And really, we’re not asking. We’ll see you at 6 p.m.
She sniffled and then saw him staring at her from the foot of the stairs. “Sorry, did you need something?”
He tried not to look taken aback at her sincerity. After what she’d been through—no, what she was going through—he wouldn’t have blamed her if she had been curt with him. Then he realized she probably wasn’t feeling anything other than sorrow and he must be projecting his own anger about her current situation. “No, no I don’t need … I mean, I should be asking you that.”
She stared at him for a moment before turning away. “I’m fine, thanks.”
Silence settled over the hallway. A few excruciating minutes passed, but they felt like hours. The echoes of shuffling footsteps above and the ticking of a clock were the only evidence that time wasn’t standing still.
“We should be finished here fairly soon if no one has any more questions for you,” he said, not knowing what else to say or do.
He cringed internally at himself. He was no better than DEPRAC and the rest of them. At least he hadn’t said something truly stupid, like Are you okay?
The silence stretched on.
Then, gently, he whispered, “I’m sorry. About what happened.”
She nodded. Maybe he shouldn’t have said anything, because there was nothing he could say that would comfort her. If anything, they were words to comfort himself, to tell himself at least he’d said something. But they felt pathetic and inadequate. She probably just wanted him to leave her alone.
She sucked in a breath. “I just keep waiting for all this to end, you know? Like at any moment they’re going to walk through that door and say this was all a misunderstanding. It wasn’t them in that tunnel. They were just on another one of their trips, but they’re home now and I needn’t have worried.” She wiped her eyes on the back of her hand.
He felt a twinge in his chest because he knew exactly what she meant. Slowly, he walked closer to her and stopped, briefly contemplating putting a hand on her shoulder but then thinking better of it. He cleared his throat softly and gestured at the empty spot next to her, letting the unspoken question hang in the air. In answer, she scooted over to make room for him.
They sat quietly for a moment, and then Quill swallowed and said, “I’ve lost people too. Kids I trained with at Fittes. There’s no avoiding it when you do this job.”
She waited for him to say more. When he didn’t, she asked, “What were their names?”
“Archie. And Heather. He had Touch; she had Sight. We lost her to a Changer at a museum. And Archie—” he didn’t want to get into the gruesome details about that one. It was the last thing she needed to hear right now anyway. “He was killed about a year later.”
“Tell me about them. What were they like?”
He told her. She stared ahead the whole time, keeping her eyes trained on some detail in the wallpaper. But she was listening to his words intently, as if the sound of his voice was the only thing keeping her rooted to that bench and reality.
“Sometimes I still expect to see them in the Archives or the cafeteria even though I haven’t forgotten they’re gone,” he added.
She turned toward him slightly. With tears shining in her eyes, she studied his face and whispered, “Does it get better?”
He could see in her eyes that she already knew the answer. Still, he said, “Yes.”
Satisfied with the lie, she stared ahead again and placed her hand over his where it rested on the bench between them. Under different circumstances he might have thought it was strange, but it was the anchor she needed, and if he could provide that for her then he’d let her hold his hand as long as she wanted.
He saw her again eight months later. He was walking home from Fittes House, as he often did when the weather was like this: warm with hardly a cloud in the sky. He liked going this way because it took him through a park with a vast green pond. It was there that he spotted her through the trees, crouching over the water’s edge.
She was with a small boy. Her younger brother, he assumed. They were feeding the geese, and the boy squealed when one of the aggressive birds snatched the bread right out of his hand. She admonished him firmly but kindly and reminded him not to get too close.
Quill thought she looked well, or at least far better than the last time he’d seen her, and his next thought was that he should say hello. But he didn’t want to intrude. Besides, he didn’t even remember her first name. She might think he was weird for coming over and acting like they knew each other after spending one vulnerable hour together almost a year before.
So he passed by without a word or another glance.
She saw him first the next time they were both in the park. Which happened to be within the same week. He probably would have missed her, except he heard a voice call, “Quill!” from somewhere behind him.
He turned and she sped up a bit to catch up with him. “It’s you,” he said, feigning surprise. It was a bit cold that day, and it would have been more convenient to take the Tube to his destination, but he’d decided to walk in hopes of seeing her again. “How have you been …?” He searched for a name and came up with nothing.
“Jessica,” she said, offering him a warm smile.
“Jessica.”
“I’m doing all right, I suppose, all things considered.”
“I’m glad to hear it. And I’m glad to run into you, actually. I’ve wondered about you since last time. And your brother.”
“He’s been better recently too. Hey, do you come through this park a lot? I saw you the other day. I think you saw me too, but you didn’t stop to say hello.”
“I do sometimes, yeah. I think I did see you, but I wasn’t sure. And I wouldn’t have wanted to bother you.”
“You wouldn’t have bothered us. It’s always nice to see a friendly face, especially since there are fewer of them in our lives these days. Come say hi next time.”
It felt a little strange making small talk like this given their last meeting. She seemed to be thinking the same thing, but she also wasn’t one to give the awkwardness any undue attention.
“Next time?” he asked.
“Yeah. I come here pretty often too, so we’re bound to see each other again.”
“All right, I will.”
“Good.”
And he did. He didn’t go out of his way to see her there though. Okay that was a lie. After the first couple weeks when he realized she was usually there on Tuesdays and Thursdays, he stopped going there every day and only went when he knew she’d be there. He could have just asked her when she usually came to the park, but he didn’t want her to think he was only walking that way for her, even if it was the truth.
He liked talking to her. Over the next few months he learned she was smart, honest, and had a good sense of humor. And even though they had both been affected by the Problem profoundly, in ways that not everyone could understand, that all largely fell away when he was with her. In the park by the green pond that was surrounded by ducks and geese, Quill and Jessica were just two kids who didn’t have to be the adults they were forced to be the rest of the time.
They talked about home and school and all kinds of random things. Jessica told him about whatever book she was currently reading and Quill listened to her explain the genius of Virginia Woolf or Toni Morrison or the Lake Poets. She wanted to be a writer someday, she’d told him, and he admired her ambition.
He wished he could envision his own future as clearly as she saw hers. In the past, he’d figured he might end up becoming a supervisor at Fittes or doing some kind of clerical job within the agency since he didn’t know anything outside of it. That was if he even lived that long. Now he recognized how futile it was to plan. He could die tomorrow. That was true for everyone, he supposed, but it was truer for an agent than it was for anyone else. The chances of dying on the job were extremely high, so what was the point? And Quill didn’t much care to think about how the only thing he could count on if he lived to adulthood was that he would lose his Sight.
He never mentioned any of this to Jessica until one day when they were discussing names as they sat on a tiny hill overlooking the pond. She was giving him a hard time for forgetting her name all those months ago, to which he replied it was unreasonable to expect him to remember the name of someone he’d met briefly once and never spoken to again. Then he asked her how she’d remembered his name since he couldn’t recall telling it to her.
“You didn’t. I happened to see your team in the paper a while back and it was right there under your photo. But Quill is an easy name to remember anyway.”
“Because it’s weird.”
“I didn’t say that.” She finished the sentence she was writing in her notebook. She was always writing something. “It’s unique. I like your name actually. Did you know it’s an anglicized version of an Irish surname? It means ‘wood’ or ‘forest’. So does my name. Funny coincidence, isn’t it?
“Jessica means forest?”
“No, Lockwood does. Jessica means ‘sight’ or ‘vision.’ That’s funny too. My parents calling me that when my brother is the one who ended up having Sight.” She let out a small laugh, and then her expression turned solemn, the way it usually did whenever Jessica mentioned her parents.
She went back to her notebook, her jaw set and brow knitted. She was pretty when she was concentrating, he thought. Maybe it wasn’t the most appropriate thought for him to have at that particular moment. But there it was.
As Quill watched her write, all he really wanted was to see her smile again. He wanted to distract her from the grief tugging at her heart.
“Why do you know so much about names?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. They’re interesting. Maybe it’s a writer thing.”
“So you know the meanings of all your friends’ names off the top of your head or am I just special?” he teased.
She rolled her eyes, but he could see a hint of blushing going on. “Come off it.”
“That seems like a yes. Jessica Lockwood, you must really be obsessed with me.”
Jessica ripped out a sheet from her notebook, crumpled it, and threw it at his head. It hit him right between the eyes.
“Ow!”
Satisfied, she said, “Names are interesting. They can tell you a lot about people, and people are interesting.” Finally, she smiled. Emboldened by his teasing, she added, “You’re interesting.”
That piqued his curiosity. “Oh?”
“Yeah. I can’t really figure you out.”
“That makes two of us.”
“I mean, you know about my family and the things I’ve been through and what my dreams are. But I don’t really know those things about you.”
“There isn’t much to know.”
“I don’t believe that.”
“It’s true. I’ll tell you all of it right now. I live with my nan, but I don’t see her as often as I’d like since new cases are coming in all the time. I don’t have any siblings. The rest of it you pretty much know already. I started training with Fittes when I was eight and that’s been my life from then on. And I dream of getting enough sleep one day. No really, you laugh but I’ve literally had dreams about being sleep deprived.”
She grimaced at the last part. “That’s depressing. You ought to talk to a professional about that or something.” She continued, “The simple dreams are important too though. Maybe you don’t know the bigger ones yet, but you will someday. Tell me more.”
He shifted in the grass. “Why don’t you tell me? If names are so revealing. What does my name tell you about me, Jessica?”
“Hmm. I don’t know.” She took a moment to think. “I was reading about this thing called nominative determinism. Have you heard of it?”
“Can’t say I have, no.”
“It’s basically this theory that says a person’s name can play a role in determining what career they’ll go into or what kind of person they’ll be. It’s like, psychologically your name pushes you into making choices that reflect it, if that makes sense.”
“Okay.”
“Maybe being called Quill means you’ll be a writer like me.” She gave him a friendly nudge with her elbow. “And we can go to university together, take the same classes, and eventually form our own literary circle. Like the Bloomsbury Group.”
He smiled. “I don’t know about that. I’m not all that good at writing.”
“I’m kidding. You’ll do whatever it is that you want to do. And you’ll be great at it.”
“Yeah. Maybe one day, once my Sight is gone. I guess we’ll see if I survive that long.” He didn’t mean to say it; it just slipped out.
Her smile dropped. “Quill don’t say things like that.”
“Sorry.” She frowned at him, and it made his stomach hurt. He tried to change the subject. “What fate has your name chosen for you then? If your name means sight. Not agency work, obviously.”
Jessica scrunched up her nose. “Even if I had Talent, it’s not the life I would want for myself. I don’t want that for Anthony either. No offense.”
“None taken.”
She stared out at the sunlight reflecting off the surface of the pond. “Jessica can also mean ‘foresight.’ Who knows? If writing doesn’t work out for me maybe I can pursue fortune telling,” she joked. “Go on, ask me to predict your future.”
“Okay. What do you see in my future?”
“Give me your hands.” She took them in hers and clamped her eyes shut, as if trying really hard to focus on something just out of reach. “Your ability to remember people’s names doesn’t get any better.” He scoffed and she grinned. “You might not be a writer. But you’ll discover what your dreams are, and you’ll live them. You’ll have a long and fulfilling life. And no matter what, you’ll always matter.” She opened her eyes. “Okay that’s all I’ve got.”
He laughed, and at the time, he didn’t know how important the words she said to him that day would become to him.
Mostly, they met in the park. Sometimes on the hill, and sometimes on a wooden bench beneath an old willow, which grew up against the bank of the pond. When the weather got to be too cold, Jessica invited him to her house.
The first time he came, which he supposed was really the third time if he were to count the night of the accident and the night he met Jessica, he realized how much had changed since the last time he’d been there. Not tangibly. The house stood tall the way it did over a year ago on that fateful night. The tree on the corner didn’t look any larger than it had been, and even the neighbor’s car was parked in the exact same spot. But when Quill stepped foot into 35 Portland Row, it felt different. Maybe it was the tiniest bit warmer, and there was a faint spark in the air that said, in this place, there’s life. It wasn’t the empty shell it had been.
And much had changed between him and Jessica since then too. Two strangers burdened by death who had become… well, he didn’t know exactly. Friends, but that felt like an oversimplification. Was there a word for friends who only felt like they were truly themselves when they were together, while they could escape the world and responsibilities that no one their age should even have to take on?
“Do you want tea?” asked Jessica. “I’ve got a fresh pot.”
“Please.”
She led him into the kitchen, where her younger brother was eating biscuits—plural, because he was holding about four of them and had taken a bite out of each. “Anthony,” Jessica said. “What did I say? One biscuit at a time.”
Anthony didn’t look the least bit guilty. Mischief was clear on his face, until he finally gave Quill a proper once-over as Jessica poured some tea, and then the look was replaced with curiosity. “Who are you?”
“Quill Kipps. I’m Jessica’s friend. You must be Anthony.”
“You’re an agent,” he said with a hint of concern, but also fascination. He eyed Quill’s dark gray uniform.
“Yep. But I’m not on duty right now.”
“I invited him,” Jessica said. “He’s here to hang out for a bit.”
That seemed to quell whatever uneasiness Anthony seemed to feel about his presence. Quill couldn’t blame him. The last time the boy had seen an agent in his house had to have been the night his parents died. He didn’t say much else to Quill, but he passed him the Jammie Dodgers as Jessica set down a cup of tea on the table. He saw her smile at the interaction.
Quill was made Team Leader not long after, which meant he became much busier. Even when he came to Portland Row a handful of times in the following months, he never could stay very long. It wasn't until the summer that he had a rare day off, and he decided to drop in at the house unannounced.
Jessica was a sight to behold when she answered the door, with her cheeks flushed from surprise and her fingers combing through the ends of her dark, tangled hair. She had a crown of lavender on her head and dirt on her dungarees. When she’d asked what he was doing there Quill simply said he had the day off and he wanted to see her. Then she’d smiled in a way that made him miss her, even as she stood there in front of him.
They walked side by side to the garden, where she and Anthony had been making flower garlands. It was a stroke of luck that she’d even heard Quill knock on the door because she just so happened to come inside for a glass of water at the time, she told him. And then the two siblings had insisted Quill make a garland too, which was how he ended up with a flimsy circle of daisies on his head.
As Jessica got up once more to go get something from the house, Quill thought about how content he was just being there. He could almost forget about the harrowing cases he’d worked on lately, and the many close calls. Almost. But that’s how it always was when he was around her.
It never ceased to amaze him that he immediately felt better in her presence, and he thought about how ever since she’d walked back into his life a year ago, his dreams had been haunted by her and not the ghosts he fought every night.
He would tell her how he felt if only he knew that himself. He knew Jessica was important to him. She was the only person he wanted to confide in, and she was the one person in his life who believed in him, who thought he was more than just another disposable agent. He believed in her too, and in her dreams. He wanted to comfort her in her darkest moments, laugh at all her jokes—even the bad ones (there were many). He wanted to protect her.
But did he really want to go as far as to say he was falling for her? They were still just kids, and surely he would know it if he loved her.
But maybe he didn’t need to tell her precisely what it was he felt, and maybe he didn’t need to know it yet either. There were other ways he could show her she meant something to him. And when Anthony brought up Jessica’s upcoming birthday, Quill knew what he was going to do.
He was all nerves as he sat on their bench under the willow. The breeze flitted through the branches, and a shiver ran through him despite the fact that it was spring. And then he saw her in the distance, wearing her favorite green jumper—the one that brought out the flecks of gold in her eyes—and it did nothing for his nerves. Still, he managed to school his expression into one of calmness.
“Are you all right?” Jessica asked him as she took a seat on the bench. “You look a bit pale.”
“Oh! No, I'm fine,” he squeaked. “Didn’t sleep well, probably.” After she nodded, he said, “Happy Birthday, by the way.”
She grinned. “Thanks. ”
“How’s it been so far?”
“Not bad, actually. Even better now that I’ve seen you.”
That gave him courage, and even though he’d wanted to wait a bit longer, he found himself saying, “I got you a gift,” to which she replied he really didn’t have to. But he pulled the silver necklace out of his pocket. He should have put it in a little box or something, but it didn’t come with one and he hadn’t thought to get one. And maybe that would have made it seem a bit more official than he intended anyway. Or maybe he was majorly overthinking it.
The necklace dangled from his fingertips, and he placed it in her hand.
“Wow! It’s beautiful,” she said. “Like, really beautiful. Where’d you get it?”
“Pawn shop. We had a case there a while back, and the owner remembered me from it so he gave me a good price.”
“I love it.” Her smile was wide, its brightness rivaling the golden reflections of sunlight that danced on the pond. He could count on one hand the number of times he’d seen her that happy, and this time it was because of something he did.
“Can I…?” He didn’t finish his question, but she understood. She handed the necklace back to him and he leaned over, placing it around her neck. He fastened the clasp while she held her hair out of the way. As he did, his fingers brushed lightly over her skin, and he must have imagined that she held her breath.
He leaned back and was struck by the memory of the night he’d met her. She’d looked like she was barely there, sitting on a hallway bench inside a circle of chains. But now she sat on another bench, present and solid before him. And this time she was encircled by a small silver chain on her neck, its pendant resting over her heart.
“It suits you,” Quill said, and realized she was staring at him with a soft expression. “What?”
“Hmm?”
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
She shook her head. “I’m not.”
He chuckled. “Okay.”
But she kept looking at him as if she wanted to memorize the contours of his face and how the shadows of the willow branches dappled his cheeks. And then she said, very seriously, “Will you promise me something?”
“What is it?” he asked, as if there was anything he wouldn’t do for her. She was the best friend he’d ever had.
“You have to agree first. It’s my birthday, after all.”
“I promise.”
“Promise me we’ll always be close. That we’ll stay together, just like this.”
He grinned at her. “I think I can manage that.”
He’d like to say he’d gone years without thinking about Jessica until the night of the Fittes Ball. He’d certainly tried not to think of her.
His memories of the day he’d found out about her death were hazy at best. He hadn’t been able to process anything. Quill vaguely remembered rushing toward Portland Row to prove to himself that none of it was real, but the DEPRAC vans outside confirmed what he already knew deep down: that Jessica Lockwood was gone, and he’d broken his promise to her.
He did his best to keep those fractured memories buried, but he couldn’t stop traces of them from bleeding out.
He lost her again each time an operative died under his watch, an acute reminder of how he’d dedicated his life to protecting people, but he would always fail to protect the people who were most important to him. And now that he was losing his Sight, that truth was becoming clearer and clearer. How could he protect anyone against something he couldn’t see?
Losing his Sight felt like losing her all over again too, but painfully, gradually. As if Jessica had been fading away for months instead of dying in an instant all because of a broken pot.
Quill thought he knew death well. His whole life revolved around it. He knew he would likely die before reaching 18, and he’d been prepared for it. Now he was 21, and for the life of him, he still couldn’t understand why Jessica was the one to leave. Why had she died at 15 when she had an extraordinary life ahead of her? She had university to go to, books to write, lavender garlands to make, a brother who needed her. Why hadn’t Quill’s time run out instead?
He’d been thinking of her more recently, since seeing the necklace. And more still after Ned Shaw was killed and Quill’s Sight had finally vanished completely. And one day, in the dead of winter, he found himself traversing an abandoned graveyard. Thorns and brambles caught on his clothes as he stumbled toward the headstone. The one that read JESSICA LOCKWOOD.
But someone else was already there sitting on an overturned stone. Lockwood. Panicked, Quill turned to go, and because nothing could be more cliche, he stepped on a twig that cracked like lightning under his weight.
Lockwood turned, hand on his rapier, and then realized it wasn’t a relic-man. “Kipps?”
He grimaced. “Lockwood.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I… uh…” He didn’t know what to say. He’d been coming to this graveyard for a few months after finding out through the Fittes database where Jessica had been buried. But he really didn’t want to say any of that to Lockwood since he would likely think it an invasion of privacy. Quill had no right to be there, and he felt a prick of shame.
Lockwood didn’t seem concerned about it. His mind was clearly elsewhere. “You know what? I’m not even in the mood to question you.”
“I’ll leave.”
“Why bother? You’re already here. Just stay.”
So Quill stood a little ways off, letting the silence wash over him as he looked at the name engraved on the headstone. And for some reason he said, “I heard about Carlyle.”
Lockwood’s jaw clenched. “On second thought, you can leave.”
“Come on, Lockwood. I’ve seen you two. There’s no way you’ll be apart for long.”
“She made her position pretty clear.”
“Which was?”
Lockwood shrugged. “She didn’t know if she could control her Talent. She didn’t want to be a liability to the agency. So she left.”
“Well that’s bullshit.”
“I know that. I don’t really want to talk about this with you.”
“You know she’s lying, and you’re just going to give up?” he cried.
“That’s not what I’m doing.”
“It looks like that’s what you’re doing.”
Lockwood glowered at him. “Look Kipps, I won’t stop you from coming here, but I would appreciate it if you wouldn’t berate me over something that’s out of my control while you’re here.”
“Don’t be thick, Lockwood. She’s not gone forever. You can get her back.” Then his voice took on a softer tone. “Because if you don’t try and something happens… I know how much she means to you.” He paused and added, “I know you even gave her Jessica’s necklace.”
Lockwood’s head shot up. “You… how…?” His mouth hung open slightly, and then it dawned on him. “You were the one who gave Jess her necklace.”
Quill cast his eyes downward and softly nodded.
“I didn’t realize… I mean, I knew you were friends.”
“We were.” And maybe could have been more. If we’d had the time. “I would do anything to bring her back,” he sighed. “Even just for a moment. I know you would do the same, because you know exactly what it’s like.” Quill sat beside him on the stone. “You won’t lose Lucy too, Lockwood. I know it. But you have to do something while there’s time.”
Lockwood searched his eyes, and then he nodded in agreement.
Lockwood did get Lucy back, and Quill would eventually watch them create a life together, living out the kind of future he might have had with Jessica had things been different. Sometimes he contemplated how extraordinary it was that a necklace passed from one owner to the next could carry on an unfinished story.
Quill learned not to dwell so much on the could-have-beens—at least, not with sadness or resentment. They didn’t matter so much as what actually was anyway. Quill and Jessica had been something, and they’d both known it. That was enough.
By some miracle (a pair of special goggles), Quill also got his Sight back, which was useful for a time as he helped Lockwood & Co. with their expeditions to the Other Side. But he’d decided before it was all over that he was ready to move on from agent life and start discovering and chasing the dreams that Jessica said he would have one day.
That was the trigger—giving up his Sight, that is—that allowed him to see more clearly than he ever had before.
Now, he started to recognize his worth. He saw himself the way she had, and he saw a future for himself—one that she wouldn’t be part of in the flesh, but she’d be there in spirit as an old friend. Sometimes he still had nights when he dreamed about losing her, and he knew she wasn’t ever coming back. But other times he could see her, in the reflection of the pond’s ripples, in a line of poetry, in the crushed lavender scattered like constellations on the windowsill.
He hadn’t lost her. Not really. She was woven into the fabric of his life forever.