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Chapter Text

It was a tired and defeated Lucy Carlyle who flagged down a Night Cab as her first day in London wound down to an end. The colour was leeching out of the street as the sun sank away, the face of the driver, blurred by the rain pattering against his windshield, the only living thing she could see.

He pulled to the curb and Lucy hurried through the back side door. The rucksack holding all of her belongings was placed on the floorboard and her rapier case across her lap. Leaning back against the seat she soaked up the cab’s warmth and the nearly overpowering scent of lavender.

“Where to, miss?”

“Night-watch,” she said. She was tired of her voice. She’d had to listen to it be overly chipper, imploring, and forceful all day long.

“Which night-watch?”

The dismal remains of Lucy’s funds were jammed into her front trouser pocket. She’d never taken a London cab before, but she had little hope she could cover much distance with what she had. “The nearest, please.”

They pulled onto the street. Lucy let her head lull to the side, forehead coming to rest on the cool window. The light quickly died as they travelled. London’s dead were well and truly active now; she heard three Visitors and saw one from her vigil out the window, the other-light rendered as pale streaks by their speed, the rain-spattered window, and her lesser Sight.

“Out of luck with the Agencies, then?” The driver asked.

Lucy opened her eyes. She hadn’t meant to let them close. “Yes. Is it obvious?”

“There aren’t many reasons someone with their own rapier would be headed to the night-watch after curfew.” The vehicle eased around a curve and up another windy street. “No uniform, so you aren’t on a job.”

She tightened her hold on the weapon case and moved her head enough to see him through the rearview mirror. He was looking back at her, heavily wrinkled brow drawn together over watery eyes.

“Look at you, so glum,” he said. “Night-watch isn’t near as low as you could go. Spent all my years with Talent on the night-watch, thought myself the sorriest sort there was. I’m fond of those days now if you believe it. They were a right bit better than what came after.”

“What came after?”

“Drink. Destitution. Crime,” he listed wryly. “Prison. Couldn’t get anything but night jobs after that, with not a whiff of Touch or Sight to see me through. Driving a Night Cab is a better shake than my last gig, if you believe it.”

“Cheery.” It was a sad story for sure, but far from a singular one. It was the same flavour of story she might tell if she lived that long. Best not to think about that too deeply; she was too occupied with surviving the now to worry about what came after.

 “Were you any good? Being an Agent, I mean.”

Lucy turned back to the window. “Not really.”

The cab slowed, the blinker clicking on. “Good enough to keep yourself alive, weren’t you?”

“But not good enough to do the same for anyone else.”

She didn’t know why she said it. The silence afterwards was unbearably awkward, like her words had plopped off her tongue and now sat in a foul-smelling heap in the footwell.

The scenery kept whipping by. The rain slowed and stopped. She caught another glow out of the corner of her eye, what looked like the smear of a  woman walking the pavement a few houses down a side street.

“You really want me to take you to Night-watch?” he asked. His tone had changed. “Not the most healing of environments.”

“Healing? Who has time for that?” Lucy joked. Her stomach pinched with hunger and her legs were sore from walking. What she really wanted was to go to sleep, and wake up to find the last few months had been nothing but a horrible dream.

They glided to a stop at an intersection. The narrow street was blessedly free of Visitors, the only light cascading from the flickering Ghost Lamp erected beside the curb. When the driver threw his thick arm behind the headrest on the front passenger street the green glow glinted off the iron rings littering his fingers. He twisted to face her. “You don’t have another option? Not even a bad option?”

“I thought being on night-watch was the highlight of your life.”

He laughed, a sharp barking thing. “It was. Doesn’t mean it was good.”

He leaned over, popped the glove box open and pulled something from its depths. He held it over his shoulder. “VYR. A safe place to sleep, and a good program for finding you non-psychical work.”

“I’m not looking for anything else.” Psychical work had benefits other occupations didn’t, such as full work hours and financial autonomy from parents and guardians. After an Agent obtained their grade 4 of course.

After a quick glance in the car mirrors and down the empty street, the driver reached back in the glove box and then bent over his lap. She heard the scratch of a pencil, a tearing noise, and then he was holding a corner of the flyer out to her. She took it just as the Ghost Lamp clicked off.

She squinted, but couldn’t see the writing through the sudden dark. “What is it?”

“A friend. You should call. If anyone knows how to help you find where you’re supposed to be it’s him.”

“Is this option of the ‘drink, destitution, and crime’ variety?”

He laughed again. “I’m not involved with anything like that anymore. I found my way, eventually.”

Maybe stubbornness made Lucy reach out and take the note from his hand. Maybe it was the weight of her promise to Norrie and her enduring hope that she might not have to give it up yet. Maybe it was simply that he seemed genuine, and she was too tired to be suspicious.

The night-watch building was squat and square, marked only by the small metal sign over the door and the kids stepping out into the night, solemn-faced, uniformed, and carrying iron-tipped spears.

“Thank you,” Lucy said as she stepped out.

“Good luck.”

She smiled as he drove off, the little piece of paper held firmly in one hand.

–

It turned out the paper held three things: a name, a number, and an address.

Lucy had called in the late morning, as soon as she’d awoken. She’d been up until the early hours. Unlike Agent work the night-watch didn’t ask many questions. They’d suited her up, gave her an iron-tipped spear, and sent her out on assignment not thirty minutes after she’d entered the place, no references, grade fours, or parental participation needed.

It had been a difficult night, even by Lucy’s standards. She’d spent the whole time fighting to stay awake and standing at her post. When she was finally released to return to the night-watch home base she’d promptly fallen into one of the dorm beds and slept the morning away. Turns out the beds were rented by the hour. Between her long sleep and a magnesium flare that hadn’t been accounted for, she’d awoken owing half her new paycheck.

And now she was standing before a tall dark brick house, having walked up the footpath through an overgrown front yard, knocking at a red-painted door with her CV in hand.

She stepped back, straightening her jacket and fixing a pleasant look on her face when she saw movement through the fogged diamond window in the centre.

“Who is it?” A man’s voice called out.

“Lucy Carlyle. We talked on the phone?”

Half a minute later, just long enough for Lucy’s smile to start sagging, the door swung open. Mr Carver, whom she’d talked to earlier in the day, was a dark-haired man with a prominent nose and a chin full of stubble. His eyes when they met Lucy’s were beady and sharp.

“Come in.”

“Oh! Thank you.”

“You can put your things there by the coat rack. The living room is to your right. I’ll be in with tea.”

Lucy sidled awkwardly into the living room. It was spacious but empty; there were no books on the bookcase or curtains over the window. The only items were an overstuffed red armchair, a matching loveseat, and an outlandishly large portrait of an imposing man staring down at her from the wallpapered wall.

Lucy sat on the loveseat, the window behind her, facing the chair and painting. Mr Carver came in with a tea tray which he held out for her. Lucy took a cup with murmured thanks, and he nodded as he moved to the chair. He sat, placing the tray on the floor, and scooped up his own cup.

“So. Tell me about yourself.”

“Yes, right. I worked as an agent up north. I got my first three grades at Jacobs Agency, with honours. Here’s my CV.”

Carver took the paper and scanned it briefly. “But not your fourth.”

That dreaded fourth grade. Lucy had lied about it at the last Agency she’d tried the day before and dared not do so again. One call to DEPRAC had her found out. She’d been kicked straight back out before she’d even started unpacking. This time she shook her head and prepared to plead her case.

There was no need– Mr Carver only nodded. “I made some calls,” he said. “Seems you made a bit of a splash in your hometown.”

The comment stunned her. No one the day before had gone as far as to call up north. Lucy rallied quickly, wrestling her expression back under her control. “It didn’t end well,” she allowed. “My last employment. But that says nothing about my Talents or my skills. I can do this job.”

The way Carver watched her was so direct it almost made her want to hide. “Listening to your Supervisor is part of doing the job,” he said. “Do you think you can do that?”

“As long as my supervisor isn’t about to get everyone killed, then yes.”

“And you truly believe that? That Jacobs was the one completely at fault for what happened to your team?”

Lucy’s throat cinched tight, locking up. Her hands went clammy and her breath short.

Mr Carver nodded like she’d answered him. He leaned forward in his chair, cup held in both hands. Remembering her own, Lucy lifted the rim to her lips and took a deep drink. The tea was strong and bitter, not how she preferred to drink it but welcomed nonetheless. Best savour any pleasantness she could. The tea at the night-watch had been rubbish, and there was very little chance she was getting this job.

“Just a few more questions, Ms Carlyle, I promise.”

“Alright.”

“How dedicated would you be to building a new life here?”

Lucy furrowed her brows. “I don’t understand.”

“You’re from far away,” he explained, “You’ve left everything behind after a deeply traumatic event. You may change your mind in a few months when all the huge emotions you’re feeling right now calm down a bit. You may want to go home. If I’m to hire you I’d like to be sure I won’t be out a Talent in less than half a year.”

“There is no home.” Lucy’s voice was sure.

“Really? You have no duty, no family?”

“My family is dead. Or ghost locked.” Norrie’s face, cloudy-eyed and fixed in horror, swam to the front of her mind. She took another mouthful of tea. “There’s nowhere for me to go but forward.”

Mr Carver smiled for the first time. It didn’t soften his eyes. “I must say, I’m rather impressed.”

Lucy blinked. “You are?”

“Everything you’ve done, from taking Jacobs to court to coming here shows a huge level of resolve. I like that in my team. I’d say you're well on your way to securing a spot here.”

Lucy was flooded with relief so great she felt tears at the corners of her eyes. “I’m so glad you think so, sir.”

“Come along then.” He stood, moving for the door quickly. “One more thing and then I believe it’s settled. Follow me; your bags can stay there, the interview isn’t quite done. I’ve someone you should meet before I decide.”

He led her up a narrow set of stairs. There were strange spots on the walls; rectangles and ovals of more saturated wood; places where photos and paintings had once hung, but no longer did.

“Is this your house, Mr Carver?”

“Oh no. You could say I work in real estate. I have houses repaired and made safe before they are sold, same for the items left inside.”

Ah, that was why the house was so barren, stripped of nearly everything. Also why Mr Carver, who’d said nothing of owning an agency, might seek out people with Talent to work for him.

“Right through here,” Carver motioned to the first room on the second floor. “Go on in, I’ll be with you in a moment.”

Lucy nodded and pushed the door open.

The room was small. There was no bed or desk, just a bare folding table in the centre of the room with two wooden chairs tucked beneath it. A dim light came from the fixture in the centre of the ceiling. Heavy curtains were blocking every bit of sun from the window. To the left of the window was a plush armchair, and in this chair, to her surprise, there was a boy.

He was striking to look at, around her age, dark in eyes and hair and gifted in the cheekbones. He was turned partly away with one leg hiked up over the elegant curve of the armrest, his other foot planted on the ground between the chair’s carved wooden feet. A magazine of some kind was open in his lap. He was carved out of warm artificial light and shadows. He looked very much as if he should be the one framed and hanging on the wall in the living room.

He turned his head towards her as she stepped inside, flipping the magazine closed. “Hello,” he said. His voice was polite, if not terribly interested. “We haven’t met before.”

She squared her shoulders and searched for her pleasant client voice. “We wouldn’t have. I’m new in London.”

He raised an eyebrow at her. “I see. Did your family want to be closer to the Sight?”

Lucy’s brow crumpled up. “Um. No? I came alone. What site are you talking about? Is it where this job is? I haven’t been told much about it, yet.”

The boy’s leg slipped off the armrest. He straightened, expression going from pleasantly distant to nearly stricken. “Don’t tell me they just pulled you off the street.”

The fascination Lucy had felt at the first sight of him dissipated quickly, replaced instead with irritation. The lines of him, which had at first seemed elegant and regal, now seemed arrogant and self-important. “Why should that matter? I have the Talent. Where I came from doesn’t factor in.”

“Too right,” Mr Carver said as he entered the room. He carried a bag with him, the kind Agents often used to lug around their kits. “Would you set this on the table, Ms Carlyle? Thank you.”

The bag wasn’t heavy enough to hold a full kit, but it did clank when she placed it down. Carver, having closed the door behind him, walked to the other side of the table. “Take a seat. That one right there, if you please.”

Lucy sat. Mr Carver didn’t, choosing to stand behind the second chair instead.

“You’ve met Lockwood, then.”

“I- yes, I suppose so.”

“He’s been with us a while.” Carver sent an amused look Lockwood’s way. “Quite a Talented Seer.”

“Oh, I see.” Lucy glanced to the side. Unlike Mr Carver, who seemed completely at ease, Lockwood was tense and drawn, watching the man closely from his seat, half twisted towards them.

Lucy was, she realised, still holding her tea cup. She drank the last of it and set it carefully on the table.

“Us?” she asked. “You aren’t the sole owner?”

“Oh no, think of me as more of a... supervisor. For a very special team. Your employer, and mine I suppose, is a man most call Doctor Timothy Blackburn. He’s quite the philanthropist. Helping people is his mission. Did you see that portrait in the living room? That was him.”

Lucy thought back to the painting, the shine to the flaxen hair, the stare down a long nose, and the twist of the mouth, hanging low on the man’s face.

“Was this his house?”

“They’re all his houses, technically, but no he hasn’t lived here.”

Lucy had assumed the portrait to be of some long-dead figure, left by the previous owners. The post-problem world had a peculiar relationship with art, being both disinclined to collect or create pieces that might turn into Sources and unwilling to move or destroy something already present for fear of disturbing a previously dormant Visitor. The fact that it was of the business owner, brought into the house and hung above the seats future interviewees would sit in, felt strange and ridiculous.

“You’ve really just gone and grabbed someone, haven’t you, Carver?” Lockwood said, drawing Lucy’s gaze once more. He was on the edge of the chair now, leaning towards them, gaze intense and fixed on the man. One of his arms was thrown awkwardly behind his back. “She has no idea what’s happening.”

“That’s a bit harsh, don’t you think? By all accounts, Ms Carlyle is a gifted Listener, exactly the type of person we’re looking for. She brought an impressive CV.”

Lockwood scoffed. “A CV can’t tell you anything real.”

“Which is why I’ve decided to follow one of your many meandering suggestions and present her with a test.”

“A test?” Lucy asked, alarmed. “You never said anything about a test.”

“None of the others were given a test,” Lockwood added.

“None of the others got this far in the interview process. If this goes well we could be done with this entire search.” Mr Carver turned back to her. “Just something to gauge your Talent, I’m sure you understand why. Lockwood here will judge how well you’re doing.”

Lockwood was glowering.

Carver reached into the bag.

“Stop.” Lockwood’s voice snapped in the air, commanding, immovable. And then, just as forcefully, “Please.”

“Why do you think begging will work? I’ve given you several options over the last few weeks.” Carver’s voice had gone cold. “You shot them all down. This is going to happen, Lockwood. If it isn’t her, it will be someone else.”

“Someone else then. One of the others, the ones whose parents put them up to it, or already think Blackburn is their bloody salvation. Not. Her.”

Carver smiled again, wider than he had so far in Lucy’s presence. It wasn’t very nice looking; it showed too many teeth. “To be frank, Lockwood, your reaction only makes me think she’s exactly who I should pick.”

Lockwood’s mouth, already shaping around his next argument, snapped shut. His jaw twitched. Lucy felt a bit bad for him. She wondered if he was the team leader. She wondered who the other kid had been, whose spot she was campaigning to fill, if they’d been close. It wasn’t her first choice to be on a team that didn’t want her there, but she’d entered Jacobs similarly, filling in a newly empty seat and wearing a dead kid's uniform. She’d won them over, in time.

Carver took three things from the bag and laid them down in front of her; a pocket knife, a book, and a wooden figurine.

“Alright then, down to business. You’re a Listener?”

“Yes. I’ve got all three, but that’s the strongest one.”

“Tell me what you can glean.” 

Lucy took the watch in her hands, closed her eyes, and focused on her inner ear. After a bit of time, the psychical residue came into focus.

“Gunshots.”

“Ah. More violent than I was expecting.”

“It’s not. Violent I mean.” There was the bark of a dog, a peal of laughter. “And not sad either. This person was happy. Gentle.”

Carver raised his brow at Lockwood. “Does that sound about right?”

“No,” Lockwood said. “My uncle was a stodgy, unsociable man. The last thing I’d call him is gentle.”

“Don’t be difficult,” Carver sneered. “Next one, please.”

Lucy placed the pocket knife down. The object itself was pleasant, permeated with a sense of contentment, but the thought of holding something Lockwood was connected to when he was so adamantly against her being here twisted her stomach. Using it in the test was cruel. Carver shouldn't have done it. 

The book was heavy in her hands, and thick with psychical charge, nearly before she focused on it. Her stomach clenched. Laughter rang in her ears, warped and distorted. A woman’s scream, and a sense of sick satisfaction. “I can hear clothes tearing,” she said, placing the book quickly back. “There’s malice to that.”

“Rightly so. The diary of a Victorian cutpurse. Targeted young women all up and down Fleet Street. He seemed to get more satisfaction from scaring them than making off with their coin.”

Lucy was liking Carver less and less by the minute. “No one should be touching that for a job interview.”

He waved her off. “This isn’t just a test of your Talent, it’s a test of your mettle. Tell me about the next one.”

The figurine was wooden, a rough carving of a bird. Lucy cradled it in her hands and frowned. “I don’t sense anything.”

“Really? Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.” She sat it back on the table. “There’s nothing.”

“She’s good,” Lockwood spoke up, “But you could find better. Someone with finesse.”

Carver’s mouth twitched. “Is that what you think?”

“She got the cutpurse right, but that thing is oozing malice, I can almost feel it from here. But my Uncle’s knife and the figurine require deftness, and she missed both of them.”

“Except the judgement of your Uncle’s knife is based solely on your word, and you switched out the wooden bird when we were in storage.”

The silence after that statement was loaded, and dangerous.

“Did you think I didn’t see, Lockwood?”

“I didn’t switch it. Why would I? You haven't tested any of the others, I had no idea what your plans for the thing were.”

“Because you live,” Carver hissed out with sudden and bold contempt, “to make my life harder. Every opportunity you have to cast me as the fool, you take.”

“I wonder why,” Lockwood said, equally as acidic.

That was quite enough of that. “Excuse me,” Lucy said, “I did not come here to be fought over, I came here about a job.”

“It isn’t a job interview.” Lockwood stood. Lucy hadn’t quite registered that she hadn’t seen his left hand until now, but as he took a step towards them the heavy chair was dragged forward by the pair of glinting handcuffs locking his wrist to the armrest. Her blood went cold. “It’s a trap, Ms Carlyle. Run.”

Carver said something dismissive, but Lucy had spent three years learning to listen. To her own Talents yes, but also to Norrie, Paul, and the other kids who Saw and felt and knew things she didn’t. She could see the desperate need to be believed in Lockwood’s eyes, the very same desperation she’d felt knocking around her rib cage during Jacob’s hearing.

Lucy ran.

She lunged for the door, her chair capsizing, the force of her hip against the table causing her tea cup to tip and roll. Her hands were around the knob and twisting when she heard it thud against the floor.

The knob turned, but the door didn’t budge. The top deadbolt, accessible only by a tiny keyhole, was locked. She’d missed it happening when Carver had entered the room.

“Sit down, girl.” Carver’s voice hadn’t changed, but now Lucy could recognise what had always been hidden in it.

She darted away, hugging the wall as he began to move around the table and raced for the window. It brought her close to Lockwood. She threw the curtain back to find it boarded up. She yanked at a wooden plank but it did not give.

“The key will be in his left trouser pocket,” Lockwood said lowly, his eyes on the man behind her. “That’s his dominant hand. Ready?”

She turned, bringing them shoulder to shoulder. “Ready.”

“This is all unnecessary.” Carver stalked closer. “Are you really planning to fight your way out of the employment you came here all but begging for? At the word of Lockwood? You can’t trust him, Ms Carlyle.”

“Now!” Lockwood shouted. He whipped his arm forward, sending something flying in Carver’s face. It was the magazine he’d been reading when she entered; the pages flapped wildly, and Carver had to bat it away. It would have been a completely useless move except that Carver had taken a step back as he parried, and the heel of his boot had landed on Lucy’s teacup, which rolled just enough before it shattered under his weight to send him off balance. He grabbed for the table to steady himself, but Lucy’s overturned chair tripped him up enough that his hand missed. He fell, and his head met the edge of the table instead.

Then he lay there on the floor, still, blood welling up at his hairline.

“Is he...” Lockwood’s voice was hushed.

Carver groaned.

Lockwood shook his head quickly and strained forward, dragging the chair with him. “The key, you need to--”

Lucy stepped forward and crouched over the man. She found a key ring where Lockwood had said it would be, the left trouser pocket. She pulled it free and stepped back.

“Which of these are for your cuffs?”

“What? There’s no time for that, the door--”

Lucy dug through the keys, looking for the smallest one. “You can’t think I’m going to leave you here. Is this it?”

Lockwood wasn’t looking at the key she was holding out, but at her instead. Something had gone soft and strange about his face. It was a fleeting expression, doused quickly by remorse. “Ms Carlyle, I can’t.”

Carver groaned again and began to roll over. Lockwood snatched the keys from her, managing to sort through them with one hand before holding them back out, one key extended. “It’s this one. Go, you have no time.”

“We’ll go.”

“Ms Carlyle!”

“It’s Lucy.”

“I can’t come with you. You need to run now before you lose your chance.”

Lucy swooped around him. “Hold the chair steady.”

“What?” Lockwood asked, startled, but he did as she said, pinning it to the floor with his hands and a knee. Lucy kicked out with everything she had. The chair skittered back under the assault, but the top of the armrest snapped off under her first kick, and the bottom followed after her second.

Lockwood lifted his wrist, staring at the freely hanging piece of wood he was now cuffed to with befuddlement.

“You,” Carver growled. He’d righted himself on the table. He seemed to have grown in size due to fury alone, one eye clenched closed under a thick stream of blood racing for his chin. “Are going to hurt for that.”

Lockwood grabbed Lucy’s hand and leapt for the door. He let her go when they reached it and slotted the key in as she slipped the length of armrest out of his cuff, swinging the chunk of wood at Carver to keep him from lunging for them.

The lock clicked. Lockwood took her hand again, and they were running out of the room and down the stairs.

They did not talk, full attention on their feet. Lucy focused on descending with quick small steps, whereas Lockwood occasionally took several in one stride.

They raced through the foyer, crashing into the front door, which once again wouldn’t open. Lockwood hissed out a breath, and Lucy went for her rucksack which was still lying by the coat rack. He managed the lock, and when he twisted the knob it opened for him. Carver appeared on the landing. Lucy found the magnesium flare she’d kept from her night-watch assignment the night before and as Lockwood’s hand found her jacket she stood, lighting it with cool efficiency, and lobbing it up the stairs.

Carver shouted as it hit several steps below him, exploding into white sparks which quickly became orange flames.

They wasted a second, staring as the stairway lit up like kindling. When Lucy looked back to him Lockwood was grinning a madcap smile right at her. She felt herself light up inside.

“After you.” He gestured with a flourish, and Lucy smiled back as she jogged through out onto the street.

There was still a hint of daylight. Lucy ran to the house across the street and began to knock on the door. “Help! Help me!”

No one came.

She banged harder. “Please! Help us! There’s a fire, call emergency services! Lockwood tell them-”

But when she looked back she didn’t find Lockwood right behind her. Instead, he was still across the street. He hadn’t crossed the threshold of Carver’s house, and he was watching her from that doorway, backlit by a growing orange glow.

“Lockwood!” she yelled. “What are you doing, come on!”

“I can’t!” he yelled back. “You go! I have to stay.”

And she could tell he believed it. He would not come.

But she would not leave him here.

The Lucy of a few months ago would have chanced it, gone for help, came back for him. But Lucy as she was now knew the truth. She knew there was no help coming. There was only her.

She took a step towards him and felt a sudden growing pressure. Gasping, she wavering on her feet. That was psychical, the kind of presence that flattened a person’s real emotions, leaving only apathy and despair. It took everything she was to keep walking.

Lockwood’s face twisted in alarm, and he took a few running steps towards her, yelling something she couldn’t quite make out past the pressure behind her ears.

And then something solid slammed into her side. Her world narrowed to the sting as she hit the ground.

The rest she knew in flashes. The moving of a curtain in the house that wouldn’t answer her pleas, a face peering out. The tire, askew and stationary not nearly far enough from her head. The fuzzy form of the Night Cab driver, bald and tall and wearing very familiar iron rings. Lockwood’s face hovering close above hers, drained of colour, his hand on her shoulder. His voice was startlingly clear.

“Stay away from her! You need to stay awake. No, don’t move, you could have broken something-- I said stay back! You need to call an ambulance! No, don’t close your eyes. Lucy? Lucy!”

A man stepped out of the cab. He didn’t approach. He was wearing a brown suit. She’d seen his face in a painting.

Lucy hadn’t thought she’d hit her head on the way down but she must have, as the last voice she heard seemed to be coming from the leather bag the man from the painting held at his side.

“Why did she go back? That was a grave mistake. Grave mistake. Because she’s going to die now. Get it? Ha!”

When the dark closed in she didn’t fight it.

Chapter Text

George Karim had an interesting relationship with change. It wasn’t that he hated it, a stance he’d often been accused of, but more that when things changed he couldn’t help but want to know why. This could be frustrating when there were no satisfying answers to find. Sometimes things change just because that’s what life did.

You’d think after his imprisonment the changes he experienced would be easier to trace; after all, his life was now subject to the whims of a few people, not the universe at large. But no, George found just as much arbitrariness to be confused by. Blackburn (or The Sight, or whatever else he was calling himself currently) thrived when those around him were disoriented and though Lockwood and George weren’t willing followers of the man, they weren’t spared his fickle games and tricks.

Still, sometimes George could line up the clues, pick up enough of a pattern to guess what was coming next. Which was why he’d thought himself adequately warned. 

Carver had pulled Lockwood upstairs four times over the last weeks. It was always to meet a girl. They had all been under seventeen, in possession of Talent, and very brainwashed. It was easy enough to form a theory; Blackburn wanted to expand their clandestine psychical operation. Someone new was going to find themselves trapped under the man’s floorboards.

Lockwood was throwing up every bit of resistance he could during the twisted playdates Carver kept setting up for him, but they both knew that would only be allowed for so long. They’d prepared as best they could; They had cleared the books and research materials off the top mattress, placing them on the floor along the wall instead. Anything they weren’t supposed to have downstairs hidden away, everything overtly antagonistic scrubbed off the white plastered wall he and Lockwood liked to write on. 

He’d known it would happen, but he hadn’t thought it would happen like this.

He didn’t even look up when he heard the door open, hunched up at his desk over a twenty-year-old art history book. It took him two full paragraphs to realise the silence. Why wasn’t Lockwood rattling around the kitchen, or leaning over the back of George’s chair bombarding him with questions?

“Lockwood? Are you there?”

There was no answer.

George smacked the book shut and stood swiftly. Even knowing all the current threats were of the living variety his hands itched for a rapier or an iron chain. He crept to the entrance of the coal cellar that functioned as their bedroom cautiously, like he was on a job. The kitchen was as he left it, lining the wall straight across from the coal cellar entrance. Which left the gap where the toilet was and the space in front of the heavy metal door that blocked the stairwell as the only part of the basement he couldn’t see. Slowly he stepped out and to his left.

There was a body on the floor.

It wasn’t Lockwood. It was a girl, face down and crumpled in on herself. Her tawny shoulder-length hair covered most of her face. There was a mess of scrapes cascading from under her t-shirt sleeve down to the meat of her hand. She wore the same clothes he and Lockwood were allowed when locked up here; a white t-shirt, cloth trousers, white socks.

He went up on his toes, trying to see more without moving closer. “Hello?”

She didn’t move.

“Hello? Wake up! Hey!”

Nothing.

Time for drastic action.

The kettle which lived beside the stove was cool to the touch. George took it by the handle and moved back to the girl.

“Last chance,” he warned as he stood over her. “You should wake up now.”

She stayed still.

He tipped the kettle, letting a thin stream of water fall on her head.

He was expecting her to jerk up and sputter, but there was nothing, not a single twitch.

George went to his knees beside her with sudden urgency. He brushed her hair from her face, exhaling in relief when he found her eyes closed instead of open and milky-white. Not ghost-locked then. She wasn’t dead, surely. She didn’t look dead. But maybe he didn’t know what most deaths looked like right after it happened. All the corpses he’d seen were either at least several weeks old or bloated and burned out by Ghost-Touch.

He pressed two fingers under her jaw, over her carotid artery. She was warm to the touch and he could feel a steady pulse. 

“Why won’t you wake up then?”

He felt around her head for bumps or blood, grimacing at the feeling of a stranger’s hair and skin against his, but found nothing obvious.

Good. That was good. Was that good? What- why was- where was-

George had thought of a lot of possibilities while trying to understand why Blackburn was adding a girl. She could be meant to help them on cases, or to provide him more leverage over Lockwood, or as a spy. And, of course, George had wondered if he’d reached the end of his usefulness. If he was being replaced.

One possibility he’d never considered was that she might replace Lockwood.

 It wasn’t possible, it didn’t make sense. If Carver had his way, maybe, but it was Blackburn who decided what was done with them, and Lockwood was his favourite. There was no way he was gone forever. There was no way they’d killed him.

It took some time, but George eventually stopped concocting the worst scenarios he possibly could and regained his practicality, trading in useless actions like pacing and hair-pulling for more proactive endeavours, like using up half their box of first aid supplies patching up the girl’s visible injuries, dragging her into the cellar, and wrestling her into the bottom bunk.

The wait was awful.

Staying busy was difficult in such a small space. He scrubbed the kitchen down with a rag and some vinegar, made notes on all their low supplies, and read some of the case files he’d gotten last time he was topside. He even pulled a pair of cloth trousers out, and on. George had never been one to stand on ceremony, but he didn’t meet many new people these days. Might as well shoot for a good impression.

It took hours for her to wake.

He was on the top bunk dozing. She was already lurching out of the room by the time he was alert enough to understand what was happening. George jumped down and followed.

She immediately went for the door. George peeked around the corner as she tested it, running her fingers over the gaps, prying at the metal plate fixed where a knob should be, and driving her uninjured shoulder into its face. After a few minutes she gave up and made her way to the kitchen, hoisting herself up onto the counter beside the stove and balancing on her knees so she could stretch her hand up to the window above. George walked into the room as she tested the iron shutter, fingers pulling, searching, pushing.

“It’s no use.”

She startled at his voice. Her arms flew out as she fought for balance, and George had the sudden and horrible fear that she’d fall, conk her head, and sleep for several more hours. She didn’t, managing to brace against the wall and hop down before she whirled around to face him.

He motioned behind her. “The shutters are welded shut. You won’t be able to pry them open with your hands.”

She looked back at the window, then at him. He lifted a hand and gave her a small hello wave. Her face seemed to relax, but it stayed neutral.

“Where am I?”

“Timothy Blackburn’s illegal prison for the psychically inclined. Where’s Lockwood? You met him, didn’t you?”

Her face fell. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know where he is, or if you met him?”

“Where he is. I met him, I think he was there when I passed out.”

“You think?”

“It’s hard to remember.”

George’s stomach turned unpleasantly. “Please tell me you don’t have amnesia.” 

“I don’t have amnesia. Everything is just jumbled up. I need a minute to sort it out.”

 “Are you concussed?”

“I don’t think so.”

“How many fingers am I holding up?”

“Three.”

“Do you remember the year?”

She nodded and relayed it.

Your name?”

She huffed, something close to a smile crossing her lips. “How would you check that? You don’t know my name.”

That was a good point. “Does Lockwood know it? Pre-injury?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’ll compare notes with him when he comes back.” If he comes back. No, when he comes back.

“Lockwood lives here.” She said it like she was sounding the words out.

“Yes.”

“He’s a prisoner. You both are.”

George shrugged uncomfortably. They didn’t put this kind of thing into words very often. Most of the time they just got on with it. “I suppose. Your name?”

“It’s Lucy. Lucy Carlyle. What’s yours?”

“My name doesn’t help prove if you’re concussed or not.”

“I’m not! I’m an Agent, or, I was. I know what concussions feel like.”

George squinted at her. "You can't have been an agent long if you're one of Blackburn's. He forbids that kind of thing, doesn’t he?"

"I'm not one of Blackburn’s."

"What? Then how did you end up here?”

“I went to a bloody job interview.” She sighed deeply, leaning back on the counter behind her. “Will you tell me your name now?”

“Oh. George Karim.”

“You’re pants at giving someone a minute, George Karim.”

She had asked for that, hadn’t she? “We’ll start now then.” He began to count in his head, just in case she wasn’t being metaphorical.

“No, it’s alright. I think I’m more interested in answers now.”

That he could understand. “You still haven’t told me what happened to Lockwood.”

“You’re worried.”

Always. “Would you like some tea?”

A strange look passed over her face. “I’ll pass, thank you.”

He was pretty sure fluids were important for someone in her condition. “Are you hungry?”

“I- yes, actually.”

“If you clear the desk I’ll bring you soup.”

The task gave him a quiet moment to process their conversation. She could still be a spy. This entire situation could be concocted, a lie to push them into trusting her faster. But she could be innocent, even more innocent than he had been. How was he supposed to comfort a stranger? How could he possibly make this less scary for her? 

Lockwood should be here.

He placed the bowl in front of her and sat on the edge of the bottom bunk with his cuppa. He sipped as he watched her eat with quick enthusiasm.

“This is really good!”

“I seared the bottom, you’re just really hungry. When did you lose consciousness?”

“I don’t know exactly. The sun was almost gone."

"And Lockwood was there?"

She nodded, frowning. "I think it makes more sense if I start at the beginning. I thought it was a job interview, like I said. I didn’t notice anything was wrong at first, but then we moved upstairs, and Lockwood was there. He was cuffed to the chair, but I didn’t know that until later.”

George’s free hand curled into a fist. He'd seen the rings darkening around Lockwood's wrist, but he hadn't asked. Lockwood wouldn't have wanted to talk about it.

“There was a test for my Talent. Lockwood really didn’t want me to pass. I thought he just didn’t want me on his team.” Her brows pulled together. “It's harder to keep straight after that. We fought with Carver. The house caught fire.”

What. “The house caught fire? What do you mean the house caught fire!?”

“I meant exactly that. What else could I mean?”

“How!?”

“I threw a flare at Carver."

“You... threw a flare at Carver.”

“Are you going to let me explain or keep repeating me every time I say something?”

“That depends, how many of your explanations are as comparably upsetting as I set the house Lockwood was in on fire?”

“But he wasn’t inside it by then. He was right next to me, we were running. But then I’d turned back and... and he’d stopped.”

Oh.

“I don’t know why,” she said. “And then the car hit me.”

“The what -”

“Oh don’t start yelling again, my head hurts. That’s not the important part anyhow.”

Mad. She was absolutely mad.

“There has to be something I don’t remember.” Her head was tilted down, stirring her soup in endless circles. “There had to be a reason he stopped.”

George sighed. This answer he knew. He hated it, but he knew. “Lockwood won't leave Blackburn.”

"Why not?"

"Several reasons. Threats, blackmail. Me.”

She turned her head his way, waiting for him to continue. 

This was another thing they didn’t mention often, another thing he wasn’t sure how to explain. “That’s how the system works. They let us out one at a time, almost always. All it would take is a phone call, by the time one of us got help the other could be dead. It just isn't worth the risk."

“So he stayed because he won’t leave you here,” She said softly.

"He won't leave me," George agreed. "And I won't leave him."

Her head had tilted slightly. George felt pinned by her gaze. He ducked his head and focused on his tea for a while.

“George, what’s...” She stopped, swallowing hard. “What’s going to happen to me?”

What a huge question. How was he supposed to answer it? "What we're here to do isn't too far off from normal agency work," he settled on. "Deal with hauntings. Find and secure the Source. Just with fewer resources, and a lot more secrecy. And no paycheck."

“Keeping Agents in your basement can’t cost less than actually hiring someone.”

“It isn’t about the cost. Blackburn has convinced a bunch of people that the world works a certain way, and hiring Agents would be admitting he's lying. Instead, he uses us to maintain the charade."

"It's a... are you telling me Blackburn leads a cult? A Ghost Cult."

"Exactly that. They call themselves the Visionaries. A lot of interesting beliefs about Ghosts, but even more about Talents and the people who have them."

Before George could explain further there were footsteps above. Lucy looked up, wide-eyed and tense.

"If it's Carver, don’t say anything."

She scowled at him. "Why?"

"Because he's the one who brings the food and controls the lights and you threw a flare at him."

There were two distinct sets of footsteps on the stairs. George recognized the rhythm of them. The weight that had been bearing down since Lucy's arrival lifted so quickly it was almost dizzying. “It's Lockwood." 

When he rushed out of the room she followed.

Sure enough, when the door swung open it was Lockwood's face George saw. His hair was in disarray and his eyes looked a bit dead, but when he looked over George's shoulder his posture loosened and he sparked to life.

"Lucy," he said.

So she did remember her name. Another check on the no concussion side of the list.

George peered past the bars Lockwood was leaning against, up the stairs. Carver was already gone. No new supplies then. "Come on, get in here."

Lucy grabbed the door before it could close behind them, bracing it with her foot and reaching out to shake at the bars.

"It won't-" George started, but Lockwood's hand landed gently on his shoulder.

"Let her try." He patted at George and made for the cellar, leaving Lucy to her inspection of the lock. "It smells great in here."

"Sit down on the bed there, I'll bring you some.”

George tried not to look at Lucy when he was scooping soup into another bowl. It felt mean somehow, watching her fight for an escape he knew wasn’t possible. He returned to the cellar as quickly as he could. When he pressed the bowl into his friend’s hands Lockwood smiled crookedly up at him, eyes pinched at the corners. He hummed appreciatively around his first spoonful and George felt that familiar happy glow start up in his chest.

But then Lockwood frowned. "Lucy," he said, quietly enough that George could barely hear him. "How's she doing?"

George sat at his side, close enough they could have a private conversation, close enough their shoulders brushed. "A bit banged up. She slept forever.”

“And since she’s been awake?”

“She’s taking this as well as anyone could. Better than I did."

“Well, she had you here to walk her through it. I wasn’t much help when you were in her place.”

Carver had left the lights off for a few days before George showed up. The first hour Lockwood had refused to acknowledge him on grounds of thinking he was a hallucination.

Lockwood tapped his spoon on the bowl, frowning slightly. "Did she tell you what happened?"

"Yes."

"I wasn't sure she'd be here," he whispered. "Carver took her away, and I wasn't sure..."

“If Carver had her, where were you?”

"In the Children’s House."

George screwed up his nose. 

His friend snorted.

“It’s not funny Lockwood, that woman’s a witch.”

“Catherine wasn’t there. And it could have been worse. I could have been with Blackburn.”

Well. There was no arguing that.

Lockwood’s momentary amusement eased. "We need to get her out of here."

"We need to be careful," George countered. "If we let her in on our secrets and she turns out to be a spy–"

"She's not a spy." Lockwood sounded confident about what he was saying, but he always did. "She's one of us, George."

"Are you sure?"

Lockwood's eyebrows furrowed. "I thought she told you what happened."

"She did. But it could still be a setup–”

“A set up where Blackburn orchestrated the burning of his own property? You didn’t see Carver, he was furious.”

The room felt colder, suddenly. George found himself hoping Lucy would shut the door soon. What a silly thought; as if closed doors would protect them from the men with the keys.

"She came back for me. Twice, really; she wouldn't leave the room until I could come with her, and then when she got out of the house she-" Lockwood paused, mouth set in a thin line as he chose his words. "She was out. She could have kept running. She wouldn't be here if she'd just left me."

George sighed.

He usually trusted Lockwood's read on people, but not when he was blaming himself for someone else's misfortune. It was a blaring weakness in his friend’s social abilities, and Blackburn knew that. Whatever his purpose was, they were playing right into it, George could tell.

"Listen, don't tell her anything yet."

"George..."

"Just give me some time to dig around. She might not be a spy, but that doesn’t mean she’s on our side. We can't afford to be found out."

"Alright," Lockwood patted George’s knee. "I'll give you some time."

 The lights clicked off, sending them into complete darkness.

"What just happened?" Lucy called out.

Lockwood raised his voice to answer. "Carver can tell when the door’s still open. There’s a sensor. He’ll switch the lights back on when it closes."

There was silence, and then the squeak of hinges, the clang of the lock engaging. The lights came back on. Lockwood left the room, leaving his bowl on the desk beside Lucy’s, and George followed. 

She had backed away from the door. Her arms were crossed and her face screwed up. For a moment George thought she'd cry, but then she was squaring her shoulders and turning to look at Lockwood.

"I'm glad you're okay,”

Lockwood smiled. "I believe that’s my line. How are you feeling?"

"Like I got hit by a car and kidnapped by a cult."

Lockwood sent George a look over his shoulder. "I see you dropped that bomb straight away."

"It's pertinent information and she wanted to know."

"No, I'm glad he told me. I'd rather know what's happening."

Lockwood swayed towards her like a tree in the wind, like he couldn’t help it. "You're going to be alright," he said. "We'll look after you."

"That sounds nice, but you don't seem like you've any more power than I have right now."

"We don't," Lockwood allowed, "but we have experience. We know the dangers, these people, and we've survived this long."

She turned fully towards them. "How long is that, Lockwood? How long have you been here?"

His face went from earnest to pleasantly neutral as he leaned back. "A while," he said airily. "George, is the kettle hot? I think I’ll make myself some tea."

Then he was flouncing around the kitchen, leaving George to handle Lucy's concern.

"Did I upset him?" She whispered. A lot more whispering going on, with three people.

"No. He just doesn't like to talk about it."

She nodded slowly. "What about you? Do you talk about it?"

"I haven't much, because my conversational partner is Lockwood, but I don't care if you ask questions."

"How long have you been here, then?"

"Fourteen months."

She sagged, arms falling to her sides. "That's a long time. And he's been here longer?"

"Yes. Your food is getting cold."

"Maybe I like it that way," she retorted, but she went back into the cellar anyway.

Lockwood joined her with a cup in hand, leaving George to lean against the wall and watch. "I've had a thought."

"Oh, the horror."

"Shush George, you'll like this. The two of us have quite exhausted the kinds of card games played between two people, but now that you're here…"

Everything was going to be different. George tried not to hate the changes he could already see; the conversation pitched too low for him to hear, the Lockwood smiles that weren’t pointed his way. But hating change didn’t do anyone any good. And there were worse things that could have happened to them than Lucy Carlyle. Lockwood was still here. They were still alive. And as long as that was true, well. George could deal with everything else. 

-

Lucy didn’t remember her nightmare. The one she’d had when asleep, anyway. The nightmare she was living in came back to her immediately. She reached up, the tips of her fingers skimming the rough bricks of the coal cellar ceiling.

Lockwood had offered her the top bunk once their bowls were empty.

“Where will you sleep then?” She’d asked.

"That isn't where I usually sleep."

She had frowned, sneaking a glance at Karim, who was stacking their bowls and seemingly ignoring the conversation. "I don't think you should be giving someone else's bed away."

"It's not where I sleep either," George said as he retreated to the kitchen. "We mostly used it for storage before this."

She tilted her head, heaviness lifting a bit to make way for her curiosity. "You share the same bed?"

“Well,” Lockwood started. He seemed to get stuck, mouth moving without words following. “Yes, and no,” he said finally. “Or, more or less, I suppose.”

“What he's trying to say is we take turns,” George said, walking past her to sit on the bottom bunk. “Lockwood couldn't sleep through a night to save a life, so I use it when he's being restless and he uses it when I'm busy with research. We double up when it's cold."

So she’s taken the top bunk. It had been nice to lay flat, her body both ached and stung from her smack on the asphalt, but she hadn’t thought she’d sleep.

Turning her head, she could see a pair of socked feet jutting out from underneath her, ankles crossed, heels resting on the desk. She leaned over the side, revealing long legs, the upper corners of a newspaper, and the slender hands that held it.

“What are you reading?”

Lockwood leaned forward, blinking up at her when their eyes met. “Hello,” he said softly. “Newspaper. It’s old, five months at least. But it’s one of my favourites.”

“You have favourite newspaper issues?”

The small smile on Lockwood’s face dimmed a bit. “No one usually cares that we have them, which means they’re rarely taken away. So, yes, I do.”

Lucy could have kicked herself. She hadn’t thought before she’d spoken and stumbled into something painful. She had the sinking feeling this was going to happen for a while.

“That’s nice. Why’s it your favourite?” She asked.

Lockwood lobbed a sudden, shining grin at her. “Here,” he said excitedly. “Read this.”

The paper was thrust upwards. Lucy took it carefully and rolled onto her back.

Lucy squinted at the headline. “Troubling trend of vigilante Psychical investigations continues,” she read.

“That’s us,” Lockwood said, bright and satisfied. “Well, not only us obviously, but the largest contributors are George and I. They list some reported hauntings that were resolved before an Agency arrived right here, see? We handled most of them.”

“That’s…” she struggled for the right word, trying to match Lockwood’s obvious pride. “That’s impressive.”

“It is, isn’t it?” His head popped up over the edge of the mattress. “We’re a good match. If things were different we’d be one of the most well-respected teams in London. We’ll be even more effective with a Listener of your calibre.”

Lucy’s stomach turned with the implications, even as her cheeks flushed at the compliment. She focused hard on reading the rest of the article. It held no sympathy for the ‘vigilantes’, claiming them to be reckless amateurs with no regard for the public’s safety. Readers were warned of the dangers of turning to such miscreants.

“It says DEPRAC is taking this seriously, and won’t quit until the perpetrators are stopped.” Lucy looked up. “Do you think they’ll figure it out? Do you think they’ll find us?”

“I suppose it’s a possibility. I’d like a glass of water, how about you?”

“What? No, thank you.”

Lockwood left. She watched as he rummaged around the kitchen, and as he returned with his water, sitting at the desk and propping his ankle on his knee.

“It’s no use. DEPRAC. Not for George and I.”

“Why not?”

Lockwood waved a hand towards the paper she held. “We’d most likely end up in prison for unlicenced Psycical Investigations or caught up in court until we can prove duress. Either way, the rest of our years with Talent would be completely wasted. At least in this cage, we can still do some good.”

“Oh.” Lucy didn’t know why she was disappointed. There was some logic to his words. Her own experience with court hearings hadn’t turned out well for her at all.

Lockwood leaned forward and caught her eye. “It isn’t that complicated for you, not yet. But it will be soon. Blackburn will find something to hold over your head.”

She felt chilled, shivering slightly. “What does he hold over you?”

Lockwood huffed, amused. “You’re a bit like George, I think. Decisive. Always after secrets.”

Lucy frowned. “I don’t know why you wouldn’t tell me. We’re on the same side, right?”

“Of course we are.”

“Well, it’s just that I don’t feel like I really understand who you are.”

Lockwood tilted his head. She wished she could understand what emotion he was keeping trapped in his eyes.

His mouth ticked up, smiling but not actually amused. “If you’re lucky, it won’t matter. And if you're not, well. Then we’ll have plenty of time to get to know each other.”

A scrape and a thump, from the wall by her feet where the stairs were. Her breath caught. How had she not realised- “Where’s George?”

“George is fine.”

“Is he upstairs?”

“He was, but he’s come back now. He’s taking some time over by the toilet.”

“Why did they take him?”

“Try not to think about it. How about this, you want to know me, right? Ask a question.”

Lucy’s head swivelled towards him. “Really?”

“I won’t answer everything,” he warned.

“Maybe you can ask some too, so it’s fair.”

“With pleasure. Would you like to start?”

Lucy frowned, considering. She shouldn’t ask anything he’d already changed the subject on, it would just waste time and she didn’t know how long he’d humour her. So nothing about how long he’d been here, or how he was caught.

“No questions after all?” Lockwood teased.

“Oh leave off, I’m trying to think of good ones. What is Blackburn like?”

Lockwood nodded. “That is a good one. Magnetic. Dangerous. He believes right is whatever gets him something he wants and wrong is anything that stands in his way. There’s no logic to how he thinks, but if you listen to him long enough, you’ll start to forget that. My turn then?”

She nodded.

“Why did you come to London?”

Her fingers twitched, creasing the newspaper. She could nearly feel a pen in her hand, so strong was her memory of signing her name beside Norries in her Fittes manual. “I made someone a promise. I wanted to keep it.”

Lockwood nodded, thoughtful.

“Which Agency were you part of, before this?”

“You wouldn’t know it, it closed years ago. I wouldn’t have stayed anyway, I had plans. I thought…” He stopped himself.

Lucy folded the paper carefully beside her and raised up on an elbow. She barely had room, her hair brushing the ceiling. “You thought what?”

Another noise, closer now. Before Lucy could mention it Lockwood was speaking, words tumbling out of him too fast. “I thought I’d start my own Agency. I wasn’t ready, and I hadn’t met anyone I’d want to hire, but it seemed the natural next step.”

“Natural, of course,” Lucy scoffed. “If you can’t get hired just start a business, why hadn’t I thought of that.”

“I could get hired anywhere I wanted,” Lockwood argued, “I just… wasn’t a fan of being told what to do. I could have figured it out,” he insisted. “I had a house. It had room enough to run a business out of.”

Lucy found herself fascinated. “What happened to it? Your house?”

And just like that, her peek into the boy ended, hidden again by playful politeness. “Hold on, it’s my question, isn’t it? Not trying to trick me, are you Lucy?”

“What do you want to know?”

“Why didn’t you leave me?”

“What?”

“When you slipped Carver, set the house aflame. Why didn’t you just leave me there?”

“Really? That’s your question?”

“That’s my question.”

Her chest hurt. “Because it was the right thing to do.”

He huffed. “Oh, I see.”

“You don’t believe me.”

“I don’t believe that’s the whole of it. I think there’s something more.”

“Because that isn’t who I want to be.” She said, realising it only as she said the words. “Someone who only leaves people behind.”

“But you’d be safe.”

“Being safe isn’t worth much if it means you’re alone.”

“Well,” Lockwood smiled, crooked, wry, and for the first time completely genuine. “I can’t argue with that.”

Chapter Text

One of the most important lessons Lockwood had learned about life was that one got used to things. Death, if you were an Agent. Being alone, if you were an orphan. Helplessness, if you were trapped. George Karim, if you were lucky.

The possibility that he might one day get used to Lucy Carlyle boggled the mind. He felt both drawn to that eventuality and repulsed by it. It would be best if it never happened, best that she escaped to a life far beyond their capsule world. He hoped for that. But he also had a nasty selfish flaw. He wanted to know her. He wanted her to like him.

The toilet was tucked between the coal cellar and the stairs. Lockwood had to twist his shoulders to move between them, old painted brick on one side and rough grey cinder block on the other. One hand brushed aside the sheet they’d strung up for privacy purposes, and the other knocked gently on the cinder blocks.

He didn’t wait, sliding back out of the narrow space. He peeked around the corner into the cellar. Lucy was as he’d left her, a lump beneath the dark blue comforter.

 A few thankfully quiet minutes later, the sheet was swatted to the side, George ducking under and heading Lockwood’s way.

“What?” he asked as they came toe to toe.

“You’ve concrete dust in your hair, and she heard you moving blocks.”

“Oh. That’s alright, we should show her anyway.”

Lockwood’s brows ticked up. “She’s won you over already?”

"Her bag is in the overflow room. She has a CV, a genuine ticket into London, a Fittes Manual with her name printed on it, and photographs of her in an Agent uniform from when she was younger. She's real."

"Did you-"

"Hide her things? Of course. I should tell her they're safe."

“In a bit. I think she needs a bit of time alone. Might make her feel better.”

"Just because it works for me doesn't mean it will work for her," George warned.

Lockwood felt one of those smiles that occasionally appeared without his say-so spring into existence. "As singular as I consider you, George, I do think the urge to hide under the covers after an awful day is a relatively universal one."

The lights clicked off. Lockwood felt his eyes blow wide and his breath stop as his mind bridled against the sudden blindness, adrift in nothing.

But then George’s hand was on his chest, pushing steadily, steering him backwards and to the right until his shoulders met the plaster wall where they left their notes and thoughts. Lockwood exhaled. It was steadying to know he was leaning on their inked conversations. There was the briefest brush of curls against his cheek, and then George’s touch was gone.

“It was more than just an awful day,” his friend said, picking the conversation back up as if nothing had happened. "I don't think I was very helpful when she arrived. She only started to calm down once you were back."

"You patched her up, didn't you? Explained things, fed her?"

George scoffed. "That's barely anything."

Lockwood was always baffled by how unspectacular George found his own kindness. "You did enough. None of us are going to know how to handle this, not at the beginning. How’s Carver, is he still coughing up smoke every five words?”

“He’s spitting mad. Don’t tell me you’re laughing about it.”

He might be. Lockwood planned to treasure the memory of Carver wild-eyed and covered in soot. George would find the humour too if they managed to skirt the consequences. 

“Did he try anything while you were up there?”

“I’m fine. I didn’t burn anything down. All I had to do was bad mouth you a bit and he was happy to leave me be.”

“Splendid.”

“He isn’t going to let it go. He’s petty. ”

“We might have to go over his head.”

“No.”

“If we can’t reason with Carver, taking it to Blackburn is our best play. I’ll make a deal with him or something.”

George sighed, moving to lean against the wall at Lockwood’s side. He sounded so tired. Lockwood’s fingers buzzed with the common urge to reach for him. 

“I don’t like when you talk with Blackburn,” he said. “He messes with your head.”

“It isn’t that bad. I’ve got you to straighten me out, don’t I?”

“There’s got to be something else.”

“Last resort,” Lockwood agreed. “But if Carver tries anything…”

George gave him no immediate reply. When he spoke again his words were hushed. “She shouldn’t be stuck here. It isn’t fair.”

“I know.”

“They can’t keep getting away with this.”

“They won’t.” Lockwood’s mood shifted. “George. When we get her out, you could-”

“No. We’ve talked about this.”

They had. They’d had everything from quiet talks to screaming rows about it. George wouldn’t go. The guilt hit like it usually did, sudden and intense. He could feel his friend next to him, solid and real and so horribly needed. George, who had a family, who was brilliant and vast and wasted in this pit. George, who saw so much so deeply, so clearly, but still refused to realise that Lockwood was a poison, an anchor, a coffin.

“There has to be a solution,” George said, as unshakeable as always. “A way out for us both. I’ll find it.” They were encased in darkness, but Lockwood squeezed his eyes closed anyway. He should push, should find a way to make George follow Lucy back to freedom. Instead, he tipped sideways, pressing into the constant of him, a flower to the sun, the tide to the moon, perpetually straining closer.

He needed to get Lucy out, to convince her to leave. Lockwood had already stolen one bright good person from the world. He refused to steal another.

-

He didn’t sleep much after that. Instead, he made plans, thought up arguments, and dug out George’s inventory list to make sure they could handle a week or two blockaded in without running out of food.

He was ready when he heard the first door open. They’d finished breakfast when the sound rang out, freezing them each in place.

“It won’t be for me,” George said. “Two days of research in a row? No chance.”

“Do you think it’s for me?” Lucy asked, hushed, her eyes large.

Lockwood stood. "Wait here."

He heard the second door swing open. With a little wave to Lucy and the knock of his knuckles against George’s desk as he walked out.

"Carver," he called. "How can I help you?"

But Carver wasn't there, glowering at him from behind the bars. No one was there, and the bars themselves were open. Lockwood stepped carefully forward. The shoes came into view first, nearing the top of the staircase, brown and well-polished.

His blood ran cold. 

"Anthony," Blackburn said. "Close the doors behind you."

The shoes moved out of sight.

George darted out of the cellar. "Was that-"

"Everything is fine. I'll see you in a bit."

“Lockwood.”

“Show Lucy the secret secure storage room, I’m sure she’ll love it.”

Lucy’s head popped around the corner. “What secret room?”

George froze, stuck between two conversations. Lockwood took the opportunity to start up the stairs. It should have felt awful, locking George and Lucy in with his own hands, but it didn't. The basement seemed a far safer place for them to be.

The foyer of the house they were buried under was always cold, and always dark. Lockwood stepped into it boldly and calmly, as if passing the threshold of a haunted place. There was no psychical reason; the closest thing to a manifestation within these walls was the old and faded death-glow of a dog in front of the fireplace in the sitting room.

Blackburn didn't walk into the sitting room, or up the stairs, going instead into the kitchen of all places. He gritted his teeth and followed.

Cold hit him when he pushed into the kitchen. The back door was hanging open. Beside it leaned a shovel. Lockwood picked it up cautiously and stepped out into the garden. It was tangled and unkept, with high walls and looming trees which blocked the sky. Most of what was meant to be green had turned brown or black for lack of sun.

Blackburn was partly blocked by low-hanging tree limbs. “Here,” He said. “I’ll tell you when to stop.”

Lockwood walked slowly forward, taking a deep breath and letting it out. There was a stake to mark where Blackburn wanted him digging. He got to work.

He liked having something to do. It helped him think, thinned the fog of unrelated thoughts which sometimes swamped him and kept him locked in the present. Even if the act of digging, Blackburn standing out of sight just behind his shoulder, was uncomfortably close to common nightmares.

“That was quite a spectacle last night,” Blackburn said mildly. “Carver was not amused.”

“Carver shouldn’t have underestimated her,” Lockwood tried. “It only happened because she had the option.”

“Do you like her?"

Everything seemed to slow and sharpen at the same time. “She’s Talented. She did well on his test.”

“That isn’t what I asked you.”

“ You like her. If you didn’t, you wouldn’t have brought her here.”

“I like the way you looked with her.”

Lockwood didn’t know what that was supposed to mean. That Blackburn liked seeing him on his knees, terrified someone was dead because of him? Again? He slammed the spade into the ground and levered up a dark chunk of soil.

Blackburn hummed. “Here is an easier question. Can you keep her under control?”

Lockwood darted a glance at the man. “Forgive me if I’m being thick,” he said slowly, “But I was under the impression that was Carver’s job.”

“That has been the case,” Blackburn allowed. He walked sedately behind Lockwood, forcing him to choose between keeping an eye on him or continuing his task. Lockwood kept digging. “But Carver won’t look after her, not the way he looks after you and your boy. He feels quite strongly, I’m afraid. He wants me to… let her go.”

Lockwood knows exactly what Blackburn meant by go. It didn’t mean freedom, not with what Lucy already knew. It meant death.

He stopped, the shovel poised above the ground, the task twisting into something sinister in his mind. Blackburn had stopped just inside his sight, but Lockwood didn’t look at him, catching his features only through periphery and memory. Light hair, keen eyes, a twisting mouth. 

“So you do like her. Would you like her to stay, Anthony?”

His hands tightened on the handle.

“Carver made a compelling argument. But if you want her you only need to ask.” 

Just say the words. Make them convincing. Save her life. “I do, sir.”

“Keep digging.”

He didn’t want to. He did.

“How old are you now?”

Lockwood kept his head ducked as he worked, in case his expression wasn’t as controlled as he’d like. “Seventeen.”

“You’re not a boy anymore, I can see it. You’re feeling the growing pains, aching to spread your wings a bit. I hear you’ve been arguing with Carver, testing your boundaries. You were quite demanding, last night. You didn’t want anyone else to touch her.”

There was nothing he could think of to say. Lockwood nodded and hoped it was enough.

“What if no one did? What if the only one who could was you? What if George and Lucy were all yours?”

Lockwood’s insides crawled. He hated when Blackburn talked about George like he was Lockwood’s thing. It felt just as rancid when applied to Lucy. He tipped the blade and watched earth tumble off onto the growing pile. “I don’t understand.”

“I’m relieving Carver. He won’t be looking after you anymore.”

He almost dropped the shovel. “What?”

“Change is coming. I need people who can adapt.”

“Who will be in charge of us?”

“I’d like you to be.”

Thought slammed to a standstill. There was a nasty taste in Lockwood’s mouth. “You want me to be their jailer.”

“Oh, Anthony,” Blackburn said, voice heavy with sympathy. “You already are, aren’t you?”

“I’m not.” He could hear the conviction in his voice. He clung to it. “Not like that.”

“That’s deep enough. Make it a bit wider.”

Lockwood sliced the blade down with gusto, wishing for a dark moment that he was cutting into something much different than earth.

“Does it scare you, how much you need?”

Shovel. Earth. Keep moving, keep breathing.

“It scared me when I was your age. I was afraid I’d either spend my whole life deprived or be seen as a monster for taking what I wanted. You feel that too. You want what you’re owed. That’s wide enough.”

The shovel slipped from Lockwood’s hands. He watched it hit the ground, bouncing once and then lying still. Blackburn stepped close, too close, close enough Lockwood could smell him, a nearly overbearing scent of spice. He was tall. His smile was honest, and chilling for it. Lockwood’s heart beat a rabbit’s staccato. 

“I see so much of myself in you. That’s the reason for the locks, the jailer, all that pageantry. It’s all for you. I gave you the excuse you needed, so you can have what you truly want, without the pain of having to take it yourself. But I can’t coddle you forever. It’s time to take some responsibility.”

“I don’t want this.”

“Really? Do you want to be alone?”

Lockwood’s voice caught, died in his throat.

“If I wasn’t here to make them stay, you’d be alone. That’s what you were before me. Is that what you really want? Answer me.”

“No.”

Blackburn moved away. Lockwood struggled not to exhale too quickly, or let his expression slip. They weren’t done yet. There was a plant in a plastic pot, a few metres away from the new hole. Lockwood hadn’t noticed it before. Blackburn stood beside it now, in his brown suit and shiny shoes. He didn’t have a speck of dirt on him.

“Go on. You’ll need to tap the sides first to loosen up the earth. Now hold there– yes, there are thorns, pay better attention next time– shake as you lift and… exactly. In it goes. Pack the dirt back around.”

Blessed silence as Lockwood knelt, scooping soil and packing it snuggly around the roots with stinging hands. He sat back on his heels when he was done, and looked up into wide dark leaves and twisting thorns to find pale petals.

“David Austen roses. Quite lovely.”

“Will they survive out here?”

“Live or die, it couldn’t stay in the pot forever. So what will it be? Would you rather step up, or dig a larger hole? It’s time to make a choice.”

So Lockwood chose.

-

Lucy was beginning to hate the sound of descending footsteps.

They’d left the secret room, which was little more than the crawl space beneath the stairs. George told her Lockwood had tunnelled through the wall before he’d arrived, and had used it to squirrel away non-perishables.

There was more to it, now. Alongside the cardboard box of cans were papers and notebooks, tiny objects, batteries, and quite a few torches.

“I transcribe everything I see up there,” He’d told her, grinning with his eyes alight. “Bank statements, wills, property deeds, blueprints, anything we might be able to use against them.”

They hadn’t stayed long. George had cautioned her that they could be heard by anyone on the stairs.

He was at his desk and Lucy was on the bunk bed when the steps came. George snapped his book closed, head tilted slightly as he listened.

"Lockwood," he assured her. He didn't rush to meet him, so she didn’t either.

The door opened and closed. Lockwood swung into the cellar, grinning. His cheeks were a bit pink, and the hair around his forehead was damp. Lucy felt subtly embarrassed and didn’t know why. "I told you, I can handle him."

"Carver, sure," George said. "Blackburn's different."

"Such negativity! And after I got you a whole night of research for the Dalton job."

George straightened. "You what? How!?"

"He’s not as smart as he thinks he is."

"And you're not nearly as slick. What's the catch? There's got to be one."

Lockwood faltered, the corners of his mouth dipping and his hand twitching at his sides.

"I knew it." George shoved his chair back, twisting so he was facing Lockwood straight on. "What is it, Lockwood? What deal did you make?"

"It isn't like that, I didn’t make a deal. It's just, he wants you to take Lucy along."

"Why?" George shot a look over his shoulder at her. "I'd think he'd want her locked up until he was sure she wouldn't run."

"It's a show of power, most likely. You're just going to St. Felicitas, well within his reach."

"I don't like it," George said. "It's too soon."

"Oh cheer up, it's a whole night of research! You turn up with gold when they've given you scraps, think of how smoothly this is going to go after you've spent a whole night with access to actual records!"

"That is a bit exciting.”

 "Will you be okay here?" Lucy asked.

Lockwood’s eyes warmed. "I'll be fine. The threat only works if the one left behind isn’t harmed. They give us more power than they realise.”

"What happened to your hands?" George asked. “Let me see.”

“It’s nothing,” Lockwood protested, but he held his hands out for inspection anyway. “Just an accident.”

“Right.” George’s voice rang with disbelief.

“Really George, it's barely a scratch. I’d think you’d have lists to make before tonight."

“I do like lists.”

Lucy wasn’t given much space to worry. Lockwood was fantastic at distractions, spinning tales of cases they’d worked, carjolling her into teaching him card games he didn't know, getting George to tell them his best theories about the cause of the Problem.

He was enthusiastic and captivating. It unnerved her. Lucy didn't know how someone could be so buoyant in a situation like this. George made more sense, closed off, anxious, and pessimistic. Lockwood seemed perfectly adjusted, which convinced Lucy he was anything but.

Night came. Lucy found strange comfort in how even without a clock or a window that opened she would always know how many days had passed. She always felt it, the moment the sun dropped away and the boundary between the living and the dead thinned. There was always a charge to the night air.

Eventually, they heard Carver coming.

"Be careful," Lockwood warned them as they stood waiting. "Look after each other."

George made a show of scoffing, but he stepped closer. "You're acting like we're being sent into an active haunting. It's just research, hardly a hazardous environment."

"I thought knowledge was a weapon."

"Metaphorically," George said, exasperated. Lockwood was just watching him. The small smile on his face seemed genuine, but Lucy couldn't read his eyes.

Footsteps. The door opened.

Seeing Carver again was a shock she hadn't expected. Her heart sped up in her chest, and she rubbed her hands on her thighs to dispel the sudden dampness.

Carver slipped the key into the lock. He looked at Lockwood dead in the eye. “You can’t handle it. He’ll see.”

George’s head whipped towards Lockwood, but he wasn’t looking at them, staring straight ahead. 

Carver’s face twitched towards either humour or contempt. “Fine. You want enough rope to hang yourself with? Be my guest.”

The bars swung open, and he started back up the stairs, his back to them like he didn't think they'd act, like he thought they were weak. Lucy's hands curled into fists.

Just before she made a run for him, a hand covered hers. She looked to the side, at Lockwood.

"You'll do fine." He squeezed once and let go. "You'll be great."

Carver was gone when she looked back, and George was already on the stairs. She started after him. A few steps up she turned, ready to convince Lockwood to come with them, that they'd find a way to fight their way out, but he had already pulled on the bars. They clicked into place. He stayed there, hands fisted around the metal. 

The image stayed with her as she stepped out into the house; Lockwood, face cut in sections by iron bars, staring up at her. Lockwood, when he wasn’t smiling anymore.

Lucy was quick to take in the room they exited into. To her right was a staircase and several closed doors, and to her left sat the entrance. There was a leather bag, two pairs of shoes, and a pile of clothing placed just inside the threshold. This was what George moved towards.

He tilted his head to the side and tried the knob. It turned for him.

“Definitely a test,” he said. He backed away, stooping to grab the clothes, thrusting a lump of blue and grey Lucy’s way. “Here, put this on.”

She unfurled it to find heavy trousers and an overcoat. She threw the coat over her shoulders; the hem hung past her knees. “Not very practical."

"Lockwood had to have picked it,” George said, picking up a puffer jacket that would probably reach his calves. “He has a lot of thoughts about coats."

“Where did these come from?”

“The overflow room. It’s mostly stuff from the Children’s House. We aren't the only ones required to wear a uniform, everything they came to Blackburn with ends up sold or in a room like this. Some of the adult’s things, too."

The shirt she was wearing felt suddenly scratchy and uncomfortable. Neither of the boys had mentioned where the shirt and trousers came from, and Lucy hadn’t asked. She was trying not to think about it.

She shook her head, pushing her unease down. "The Children's House?"

"They call it a school, but in reality, it's just to keep kids from their parents."

Without further preamble George shucked off his trousers, right there in the foyer, doubling the amount of warm brown skin on display. He had an Agent’s well-defined calves. Lucy followed them up the arch of his back and neck to the pile of black curly hair on his head. He kept his shirt on, and in short order was stepping into and buttoning up the thicker trousers. He glanced in her direction and then away as he began untying laces on a pair of trainers. "Go on," he said.

That was when Lucy realised she'd been staring. She quickly ducked her head. Really, she was acting like she'd never stepped into an agent's locker room before! She turned her back and took a glance at George, but he seemed fully preoccupied with tying his shoes and not her undressing behind him. The trousers were a bit tight at her hips but would do well enough.

George waited for her to tie up her own boots (which were the very same she’d arrived with) and grabbed the bag. "Alright, then. Time to go."

He put his hand on the knob again and hesitated. "You're going to be tempted to run, as soon as this opens. It's a bad plan."

"How do you know, have you tried it?"

George shot her a look, narrow-eyed and nearly scornful. "The entire street is Blackburn's. Everyone who can see you, hear you, is one of his. If you want to get run down by a cab again be my guest, but the smart move is to wait. Just because we can't see anyone watching doesn't mean we aren't being watched."

Lucy mulled it over. She hadn't made any conscious plans to make a break for it, but her instant disappointment told her she hadn’t ruled it out. She nodded, reluctantly. "There will be a better time," she said, promising herself.

George turned the knob and pushed the door open.

It was surreal to step out into the night. It looked like a typical London street, nothing about the houses particularly ominous or strange.

"The church is this way." George went down the steps and took to the pavement. He kept his head bent as he walked, eyes on the ground in front of him.

"How did he get the whole street?"

"Giant cluster case, about a decade ago. Lots of people got evacuated, and by the time the Agencies got the ghosts under control most of them had settled into more permanent arrangements elsewhere. Basically, the whole neighbourhood went up for sale, but no one wanted to buy on a street which had been extremely haunted for a good year. So Blackburn and his lot swept in, buying up everything. Watch your step here. See that spire? That's where we're going."

When they got closer Lucy could see that it was a beautiful church, composed of light rough stone, dark wood, and stained glass. They didn’t go up the front steps. George went right past where the main walkway met the street and turned at an empty house instead, windows boarded and flagstones overtaken with weeds. They went through a squeaky gate, an overgrown garden, over the back wall, and followed a narrow alley which spit them out in an equally narrow street. The back of the church appeared as if from nowhere, and it was this door, newer and much less impressive, that George stopped.

"There are only a few of Blackburn's people past the church,” he said. “You might make it if you keep to the alleys. Risky, but it's possible."

"Who was the first to stay?" She asked. "Lockwood for you, or you for Lockwood?"

George shifted on his feet. "It's more complicated than that. Lockwood was already pretty twisted up, and Blackburn has leverage on me. We both have more to lose than each other."

"What do you mean, twisted up? What leverage?"

He pushed the door open and stepped inside. 

The interior seemed more modern than the exterior, drywalled and painted a stark white. They were in the more administrative area of the church, moving down a hallway full of small professional signs which told you what was the break room and what was the secretary’s office.

George walked like he knew where they were going. As they passed into the more communal area of the church things became more grand, hardwood, rafters, stone. Lucy barely had time to catch more than impressions before they took another turn or entered another room.

George stopped abruptly, nearly causing Lucy to run into him. They were in front of a door; sturdy, metal painted white.

George went up on his toes, searching the top of the jam. He dropped down with a key and a hint of humour on his face.

The record room was claustrophobic, metal shelving units arranged so that there were only small walkways in between and crammed full of books, files, and boxes. Lucy hadn’t realised how tense George had been on the street until the last of it left him. He moved with easy grace through the shelves, fingers tracing over book spines.

She walked around, trying to stay out of his way as he began to yank books and papers from their places and relocate them to a low desk at the very back of the room. She felt a type of melancholy seep in; she'd been outside, and she hadn't run. She'd been outside and she hadn't even taken it in, really. She hadn’t noticed if the trees had lost all their leaves yet, or if anyone’s lights were on, or how the lavender in front yards and window boxes was doing. And now she was stuck in another room.

It hadn’t quite reached an hour when Lucy gave in and approached George.

“What are you looking for?”

He glanced in her direction but not quite at her, then back at the records he was sifting through with quick, well-practised fingers. “I didn’t get the impression you’re interested in research.”

Lucy settled herself against the desk. “Does it matter why I’m asking?”

“Yes.” George extracted a loose piece of paper from the leather-bound tome he was perusing, shaking it out with a flick of the wrist before holding it right under his nose, squinting. “If you actually want to understand I’ll make it understandable. If you just want noise I won’t spend the energy censoring myself.”

“That naturally incomprehensible, are you?”

“So I’m told. Hold this.”

Another book, hardback but newer, was deposited in her hands. Lucy let it fall open. The pages were handwritten, neat lines of black ink, names and dates. “Birth records?”

“Hmm? No, baptisms.”

“We’re looking for someone who was baptised here?”

“I’m looking for someone who was baptised here, you’re performing a bad impersonation of a convenient flat surface.”

Lucy pursed her lips, a bit stung. “If you want me to shut up you could just say so.”

George thumbed through the book for a few seconds before sighing. “Alright, you can ask things for five minutes, then I need to focus. Go.”

“Don’t strain yourself.”

“So you don’t want to know what this is about then.”

“I want to know you!” Lucy smacked the book she was holding onto the table beside her and crossed her arms.

"Why?"

"What?"

"Why do you want to know me? You should be plotting how to make a run for it now and never see me again."

"Maybe I would see you. Maybe I'd bring help."

George snorted. "They'd never find us. The second someone with a badge arrives we’d be moved, and they can’t search every house on the street."

"Well, guess I'm not leaving then."

George was looking at her straight on for the first time since they’d left Lockwood. He looked down and, after deliberating, used a piece of scrap paper to mark the page he was looking at and closed the book, setting it gently down. "Why not? You've barely known us a day."

She shook her head. "That doesn’t matter. I've been the only one to make it out, before. I won't be that again."

He stood up and turned, mirroring her position against the table.

"Is that why you were looking for a job?"

She nodded. "And why I came to London. I couldn't stay there. I wanted to find a place where I actually mattered. And instead-" her throat became tight. She shook her head and didn’t finish the sentence.

"I know this isn't what you mean," George said, "But what we do is worth something. Blackburn is insane and evil and his inner circle is just as bad, but there are good, horribly misguided people stuck in this mess. Most of the kids never decided to join a cult at all. And what we do protects them." He shifted again, eyes drifting up to look towards the ceiling. "And about wanting to matter, well. Misery acquaints a man with strange bedfellows, as Shakespeare says. Lockwood matters to me in a way no one else ever has. And I know I matter to him, more than I ever did to anyone at Fittes."

Lucy turned to him sharply. "You worked at Fittes!?"

George laughed a little. Smiles were enchanting on him. "I did! Got fired of course. Stuck my nose somewhere above my pay grade one too many times.”

"George Karim, I am shocked!"

"Stole a ghost-jar on my way out. Which is what got me in this mess actually, a Visionary stole it off me when I was boarding the tube, and I couldn’t leave it be. I tracked them down, got myself caught climbing through his window."

"And then you met Lockwood?"

"And then I met Lockwood."

They lapsed into silence. It felt warmer, the beginnings of an understanding tempering the awkwardness.

George cleared his throat. “Well. A Visionary just inherited a house from an estranged uncle.”

“Okay?” Lucy said, a bit thrown.

“which means she's selling everything and pledging the money to Blackburn. Can't come back as a visitor if you've given up your material possessions, that's the idea.”

“That’s horrible.”

George shrugged. “It’s Blackburn. So Dalton, the uncle, is actually a pretty interesting guy. He was a sculptor, he made cast iron statues. The thing is, he made a series of eight that never got sold due to the subject matter.”

“What subject matter?”

“Visitors. It was right at the beginning of the Problem, he was one of the first to try and depict them in art. Lots of talk in art books about how brave and bold he was, but no one who actually wanted a giant metal Raw Bones in their garden. Blackburn wants them all, obviously.”

“And he can't just take them?”

“There's a stipulation in Dalton’s will that the statues can't be sold without a psychical investigation. This means us, clearing out any problems before a Sensitive is hired to check. it was quite tightly worded. Most wills I've seen are pretty easy to circumvent.”

“Do you see a lot of wills?”

“They bring me up to do filing sometimes.”

Lucy blinked. “They… trust you with that?”

“More than they’d trust anyone with access to a working phone line to call authorities with.”

“Ah.”

“So there's still the question of how he made statues of something he'd never seen. He was well into his thirties at the time, and estranged from his birth family. He had no children himself.”

“How did he know?”

“People have theories, some believe he was a Talent as great as Marrissa Fittes, just focused elsewhere. I think there’s a simpler answer. That’s why I wanted to come here, this was his church. I want to know if he was anyone's godfather.” 

George was looking at her again, searching.

“What?”

“I didn’t expect you to let me talk that long without derailing the conversation.”

“Well, I didn’t expect you to be this interesting to listen to.”

George stared at her, then looked away. If Lucy hadn’t known better she would have said he was flustered.

“Research,” he said, a bit loud. “Back to the research. You can help, now that you know what we’re looking for.” He sunk his hands in his pockets and froze.

“What? What is it?”

He pulled his hand out slowly. “It was definitely Lockwood who picked everything out. The coats. Plus, Carver never gives me the right-sized shoes,” he said. In his hand was a note. He opened it.

“What does it say?”

“You should leave now if you’re going to.” His voice was flat, unreadable. “I’m going back.”

“George–”

He shoved the paper at her and made to leave the room.

She held it, squinting at the words.

If it's morning I’m already dead. Run. -LW

Chapter Text

By the time George was scaling the steps in front of that awful house, a stitch in his side and no air left in his lungs, he’d transitioned from fear to blinding anger and then to asking why. Which, while more constructive than anger, didn’t offer much immediate catharsis.

“When is morning?” Lucy asked him when they reached it. “After midnight? Six? When the sun comes up?”

George banged his fist against the door with force. “Carver! Let us in!”

It swung open, but it wasn’t Carver standing there.

“George,” Catherine said warmly. “It’s been so long since I saw you last!”

She had a rounded chin, a long nose, and a nice smile. She was very high on the list of people George disliked immensely. Very high.

“Hello,” he ground out.

“Come in then! How about a bath? It’s been a while since you had one, I can tell.”

George could see one of the kids from the Children’s House through the open kitchen door, a girl with light hair and a broom in her hands. He pulled the uniform off quickly. Their things had been tidied and sat folded by the entrance. Lucy hadn’t followed his lead this time, watching Catherine warily instead. 

“There’s an empty closet under the stairs, for more privacy,” George told her.

Catherine gave a light laugh. “Oh, it’s nothing I haven’t seen. Who do you think got her tidied up after the housefire? She was in quite a state.”

Lucy’s face blanched. George’s patience snapped.

“We need to go downstairs.”

”Why? Are you in a hurry?”

Oh, he was not going to play games with this woman.

“If you don’t open the door I will piss on the floor. Right here. You’re going to have to explain the smell to Carver, and write it in your report to Blackburn.”

 Lucy’s head turned slowly towards George. The girl in the kitchen hid a smile. Catherine had gone quite stiff. She seemed out of things to say for once. She rustled up the key while Lucy slipped into the closet.

By the time she led them down, she was back to tossing small talk their way. George nearly bowled her over, following too closely as they descended. The second the bottom door swung open he was rushing in, taking stock of the place quickly.

The kettle was on the stove, the burner on. A single biscuit sat on a plate. Lockwood was sitting on the bottom bunk, elbows on his knees, his head hanging.

George turned back around, taking a step towards the sink. The counter was cool and hard under his hands, the corner biting into his palms as he squeezed. It took a moment for the rush of feeling to sort itself into distinct bits with names, like upset and exhaustion and relief.

“Lockwood,” he heard Lucy say.

He looked over his shoulder. His friend had raised his head, expression torn between elation and sorrow as his eyes darted from Lucy to George.

The kettle began to whistle. George popped the top and flicked the burner off on automatic. There was a cup sitting ready, a tea bag and a spoonful of sugar waiting inside.

“How was the research?” Lockwood asked.

“Is a cup of Pitkins and a biscuit your version of a last meal?”

“George…”

“Don’t George me, you-” Oh look, the anger was back. He took the kettle’s handle, tipping the water into the waiting cup and setting it back down on the stove with a satisfyingly loud clunk.

The steam had fogged up his glasses, so he whipped them off, rubbing at the lenses vigorously with the hem of his shirt. They were a bit scratched, one of the temples loose and held in place with a wad of tape. George turned as he slipped them back on. Lockwood was approaching him, his steps light and careful, like he thought the floor was booby-trapped.

“You said you trusted me.” The words came out accusing instead of wounded. “I said I’d get us both out. You said you believed me! Were you lying?”

“No! I wasn’t! Listen, it’s going to get worse. What Blackburn is planning-”

“Blackburn,” George snarled. “Every time you’re with him you come back so-” he cut himself off, marching towards Lockwood who backed away in response. George didn’t know what he was going to do when he caught him; if he would yank him closer or shove him back.

“No,” he said. “Not like that. Do you understand me?”

Lockwood’s mouth pinched. “I didn’t mean-”

“Promise me.”

“If I can save you by–”

“No. I made a choice. I decided I would leave with you, or not at all. You can’t just force me to do what you want, that’s not how we treat each other. We are better than them.”

Lockwood stopped backing up, his face falling. Finally, something had sunk in. “I’m sorry,” he said.

George stopped right in front of him. “Promise me.”

“I promise. Together.”

 Good. That was good. He sighed, shoulders sagging. “Explain it to me,” he said. “Tell me why.”

Lockwood rocked forward on his toes. “I will, let me just-” he darted past, to the kitchen. Two more cups came out of the cupboard. “Lucy, how do you take your tea?”

Lucy sent George a questioning look he didn’t know her well enough to discern the reason for. He shrugged at her.

“Cream,” she said. “After a night like this, lots of sugar.”

“We don’t have cream at the moment,” Lockwood said, quite formally, like he was a waiter at a fancy restaurant. “Could I interest you in a biscuit instead?”

“Ah, sure.”

“She needs to know about the biscuit rule.” George pulled his desk chair around, trying to get his thoughts in order as Lockwood busied himself. 

Lucy squinted. “The biscuit rule?”

Lockwood grinned as he turned, a cup in each hand. “Biscuits, and other nice things we happen to secure, are shared in strict rotation in the interest of fairness, and also to reduce war and bloodshed. Here you are, the one on the left…”

They made a neat little triangle, Lucy and George seated on the bed and Lockwood in the chair in front of them.

“You said it was going to get worse,” George prompted, taking the cup Lockwood offered him. “What do you mean by that?”

Lockwood’s jaw jumped and he looked down. “Carver isn’t going to be our jailer anymore. Blackburn has decided on a change of the guard.”

Literally, in this case. George’s stomach sank. “Please tell me the new one isn’t Catherine.”

Lockwood let out a single bark of startled laughter. “No, it’s not Catherine, I’d think she’s busy enough with the Children’s House. Where’d you come up with that?”
“She’s upstairs. Pestering the grandfather clock about the weather, most likely.”

“I will never understand the depths of your loathing for that woman.”

“So if not her, who?” Lucy asked.

Lockwood sobered. He opened his mouth but shut it without saying anything, looking away from them in what looked uncomfortably like shame.

George leaned forward. “What is it?”

“You’ll hate me.” The words came as quickly to Lockwood as George’s reply did to him; as if he’d been rolling them around in his head so long they couldn’t help but tumble out.

“Never.”

Lockwood leaned back, away from them, head and eyes still turned. “It’s me. Blackburn wants me to do it.”

It wasn’t the answer George had been anticipating, though now that it was said he didn’t know why he’d missed the possibility. A lattice of implications and opportunities sprung to being in his mind.

“Well that’s stupid,” Lucy said. “That just means no guard, right?”

Lockwood shifted in the chair. “It’s more complicated than that.”

She crossed her arms in front of her and jutted her chin out. “So I keep being told. But no one’s let me in on what that means.”

“Lockwood’s legally dead,” George said. “And if he wasn’t, he’d be wanted for murder.”

Lucy stared at him, eyes a touch too wide. “What.”

Lockwood sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“He’s technically in hiding, he can’t just waltz over to the precinct without some proof he didn’t do it.”

“I didn’t,” Lockwood interjected. “Do it, I mean. But I did write a confession before faking my death.”

“You were forced to write a confession before Blackburn faked your death.”

“So, for me, it’s this or prison.”

“And in this cage, you can do some good,” Lucy said.

Lockwood nodded to her. “As we said. Complicated.”

“So we get out but stay in hiding,” Lucy proposed. “Until we can get you cleared.”

That was a mighty quick we. “That’s where my ‘complicated’ comes in,” George said. “I’ve family in London, a whole bunch of it. Blackburn knows who they are, where they live, where they work, my sister’s boss was on his payroll at one point. If I do as I’m told he won’t touch them, and if I make a break for it there’s too many targets, I wouldn’t be able to warm all of them in time.”

“Lucy,” Lockwood said gently. “You should prepare yourself. If there’s a secret you’re keeping, someone you care about, Blackburn will try to use them against you.”

Lucy swallowed thickly. Her eyes became just a bit wetter than they should be, and George moved his knee over to meet hers without thinking it through. It’s what he’d do with Lockwood. He made to pull away immediately, but she pressed back with surprising force.

“This cult, how powerful are they?” She asked.

“Decently so. Enough to get away with things, but they don’t own the police or anything like that.”

“And they can act outside of London?”

George snorted. “If you’re asking if they're capable of taking a train ride, then, yes.”

“So if I had. Family. Up north. Ghost-locked. He. He could.”

“Oh.” George’s chest ached for the pain on her face. “Yes, he could.”

Lockwood reached out and took her hand. “We can talk about something else,” he offered quietly. His finger carefully traced the edge of one of the plasters George had wrapped around her wrist. 

She cleared her throat sharply. “I still don’t get how he thinks just letting you take charge helps him.”

“Well, he isn’t quite putting me in charge,” Lockwood said. “Not all at once. We’ve made a bet.”

“A bet?”

“The house that burned down was worth 60,000 pounds. Carver and I can both use this team to try and recoup the money. The one who does so first gets to decide what is done with it; within Blackburn’s strict limitations, of course.”

George’s eyes narrowed. “What happens if Carver wins?”

“We lose Lucy.”

And there it was, the stake high enough to make Lockwood throw himself to the wolves.

Lucy frowned. “That doesn’t mean I walk away, does it?”

“I’m not going to let that happen,” Lockwood promised.

George stood, beginning to pace as he thought. “Explain what letting Lucy and I out tonight was about. A test?”

“A test. To see if I was a strong enough leash to hold both of you at once.”

“So despite your intentions we passed it. Or completed it in the way Blackburn wanted, anyhow.”

“Yes.”

“What’s the next test?”

“The three of us on a case together.”

George paused, eyebrows raising. “That’s new.”

“I think he’s looking to expand. He wants more people, more money, more everything. Which means encountering more of the kind of Visitors one person just can’t handle alone.”

“And the test after that?”

“After that I get to pick a case.”

George whistled low. “That’s amazing.”

Lockwood let go of Lucy’s hand, leaning back and crossing his arms. “Is it?”

“Yes, it is, obviously,” George said. “He’s giving you freedom. ”

“Just a taste. Only because he knows that he can control how I use it.”

“He can’t though,” George pointed out. “You’ve always found ways to get around him. This will just be another secret storage room.”

Lockwood shook his head. “I don’t see how it helps us.”

“I can. If we’re choosing our own cases we can control the danger, the timeline, and maybe even the legality. And it gives us opportunities to  make moves in a way we haven’t had yet.”

“What kind of moves?” Lucy asked.

“Gaining more visibility in the cult, for one.”

Lockwood snorted. “That doesn’t sound ideal.”

“How aren’t you seeing this?” George sat down again, excited. “We’re hidden from most of his followers, only Blackburn’s inner circle knows we exist because we’re his Achilles heel, hard proof he’s lying. Lockwood, if you do this we can make them see us. We can pull the linchpin and blow this whole thing up. Metaphorically. This could be our way out.”

Lockwood was sitting straight now, intent, lit up.

“I like it,” Lucy said. She looked like she was imagining glorious vengeance as she snapped her biscuit in half with her teeth.

“Well?” George asked Lockwood. “What do you think?”

Lockwood looked between them, the smallest smile sneaking onto his face. “You definitely have my attention.”

-

Sliding into the back seat of Carver’s large black car at dusk the next day wasn’t as harrowing as Lucy had expected. She wondered if it was because the boys were here, keeping her between them. That, or it was because they were now actively talking about escape. Having the bare bones of a plan in place felt like finding a life raft in the sea of emotions Lucy had been drowning in since she woke up in the basement. 

The sun was setting by the time Carver pulled to a stop in front of a tall brick house. He turned in his seat, fingers twisting in Lockwood’s shirt collar and yanking him forward. 

“Keep them in check.” There was a threat in his tone.

“We’ll be on our best behaviour, I assure you,” Lockwood said with mockery in his eyes.

They’d gone through the overflow room, a congested accumulation of a great variety of objects, and picked out the most case-appropriate apparel they could manage. George had found a large coat that sat well on his shoulders but needed the cuffs rolled up, Lucy had dug out a dark green jumper, jacket, and a pair of fingerless gloves, and Lockwood had settled on black slacks and a button-up shirt, for some reason.

“We need a communication system,” he said as he slipped the key Carver had handed him into the keyhole. “So we can work together succinctly.”

“If I say ‘move’ I mean you should move,” George said. “And ‘behind you’ means there’s something behind you.”

Lockwood sent him a look as the door swung open. They very professionally stepped over the threshold, with no hesitation in sight.

“No need to be facetious. I was thinking more like this; plan A means lavender water, plan B is salt bombs…”

“But we don’t have any of that,” Lucy pointed out. They had been provided two rapiers, belts, one large silver net, and two iron chains. They didn’t have flares, salt bombs, or any other piece of kit.

“That’s our first objective. We’ll scrounge about and see what we can find to better our chances before the sun’s fully gone.”

“Great, slapdash is exactly how I want to approach a manifestation.”

It’s how Marissa Fittes and Tom Rotwell did it, at the beginning. It’ll have to do for Lockwood & Co.``

George snorted. “This again?”

“We’re a proper team now,” Lockwood called over his shoulder as he leapt up the stairs. “We should have a name!”

“I suppose it’s slightly less ridiculous when there’s three of us,” George muttered. “I’ll take the kitchen.”

Lucy busied herself making a protective circle with one of their two iron chains in the hall in front of the stairs. The links were a bit stiff as no one had oiled them lately, but she didn’t see any rust spots. As long as the ghost wasn’t something spectacular it would hold.

George came out of the kitchen cradling a sack of salt like it was an infant. “Nothing’s been cleared out. I found a bag of crisps if you’d like.”

“Right now?”

“Impending peril makes me hungry.”

“How’s this?” Lockwood was back, a long grey coat swishing around him as he walked down the stairs.

Lucy squinted at him. “Is that a dead guy’s coat? Why are you wearing it?”

“Well he’s certainly not going to use it, is he.”

“What if it’s a Source?”

“Well then, we’ll have it close at hand! Save us a fair bit of searching,” Lockwood did a tight spin, so it flared out around him. “It's a bit heavy. And I’d like it darker.”

“Did you look around at all or head straight for the closet?” George asked.

“Three rooms. Bedroom; lived in, death glow in the sitting chair. The second is a guest room. Third is an office.”

“That’s where I’ll be then. Maybe there will be some information we can use.”

Lucy caught George’s sleeve with her fingers as he made for the stairs. “Take the second chain.” They’d drawn straws to decide who got the rapiers, so George had nothing hanging from his belt.

“I will.”

Lockwood had entered the kitchen. “Crisps!”

“Don’t eat them without me!” George called his way. He passed Lucy the bag of salt before picking up the second chain and starting his trek upwards.

She set herself up at the kitchen table with the salt and a stack of cloth napkins she pulled from a drawer. “There doesn’t happen to be some string handy, is there?”

“I’ll check.” Lockwood began opening drawers.

Unfolding the napkin Lucy laid it out and poured a neat pile of salt in its centre. They wouldn’t be proper salt bombs, but the salt would still react to ectoplasm.

Lockwood dumped a handful of rubber bands at her elbow. “These should work.”

They easily fell into a groove. Lucy poured salt and took up the napkin corners, and Lockwood twisted the rubber band around. Soon they had a nice little stack of bundles. The last bits of light leaking through the kitchen window faded away.

Lucy paused. “There is psychical energy here. Can you feel it?”

“I can.” Lockwood’s face had gone serious. “Would you fetch George? I’ll meet you both at the foot of the stairs.”

Lucy left most of the salt bundles in their circle and carried a few with her. She went up as Lockwood went outside.

The study was a small room with boxy blonde furniture and green wallpaper. George was sitting on the floor in the centre of his circled chain, papers fanned out around him.

“George? It’s starting.”

“I haven’t found anything yet, I need to keep looking.”

“Then bring it with you, we’re meeting downstairs.”

He looked up. “Are those salt bombs?”

“No, I can't make those, unless you have some silver fulminate lying around.”

“Left it in my other trousers, sorry. Just salt then? That’s still smart.”

Lucy’s ears burned a bit. She held one out. “Here.”

George tucked a file under his arm, took the bundle, and followed her down the steps. Lockwood was waiting below, giant fistfuls of lavender in hand.

“Where’d you get all that?” George asked. “I didn’t see any out front.”

“Neighbour’s garden. For you,” he offered Lucy a bunch like he was bestowing a bouquet. The scent wafted through the air, lessening the subtle sense of dread. After she took it he did the same with George, presenting the flowers with a flourish and a proud grin.

Lucy’s head jerked up. “Do you hear that?”

George, who was staring at the salt bundle and bunch of lavender in his hands like they were going to bite him, briefly closed his eyes. “Not me, but my Hearing isn’t very strong.”

“What are you getting, Lucy?” Lockwood asked, voice hushed.

She stepped out of the circle so her Talent could work more clearly. One of the boys took hold of the back of her jacket.

It was a rhythmic sound, strangely squelchy. “I’d say footsteps, but…”

“But what?” Lockwood asked.

“They sound too wet for that.”

“Great,” George said, disgusted. “Wet. Exactly the descriptor I like used for ghosts.”

Lucy stepped back into the circle, Lockwood’s hold on her disappearing.

“Could you tell where it was coming from?”

“Not sure. Some place upstairs.”

Lockwood nodded. “Best to just go room to room.” He pulled his rapier free. He looked comfortable with it in hand, shoulders relaxed and posture straight. “Shall we?”

The kitchen was still silent. They gave it a cursory once over before moving on. The sitting room was gloomy, but it didn't feel hostile.

“Does it feel cold in here to you?” George whispered.

Lockwood used his rapier to point. One of the window panes was broken, a transparent maw of jagged glass teeth. “Someone must have chucked a rock through.”

They didn’t dawdle long. The deeper the night got the more apparent it became that the sense of psychical pressure was seeping down from above them.

“I’ll go first,” Lockwood decided as they stood once more at the foot of the stairs. “Be ready.”

The silence took on a more malevolent nature. Lucy gripped the bannister with one hand and the rapier in her other, salt bundles and lavender shoved into her belt. She paused when they reached the second floor. “It knows we’re here.”

“Why are there four doors?” George asked, voice tense.

Lucy raised her rapier higher. “I thought you said there were three rooms.”

“There were.” Lockwood stalked forward, knees bent and body slightly turned. They paused at each of the rooms, and either George or Lucy would check while Lockwood kept his eyes on the fourth door.

“Should I grab the chain?” Georg asked.

“Better to have somewhere to retreat to.” Lockwood tilted his head towards them without breaking his stare. “As long as the study’s clear, of course.”

“Seems so to me. Warmest room on this floor, in fact.”

After that, there was nothing to do but approach the door.

As soon as he was close enough Lockwood lobbled a salt bundle at it, which thunked against the wood and dropped sadly to the floor. “Oh. Thought it might be a Changer.”

When pushed it swung on whispering hinges, revealing a narrow steep staircase.

Lucy leaned forward, looking up to where the steps ended. “Attic.”

“George, you think you can find something to prop this with?”

“I should, the man worked in cast iron. I’ll be right back.”

“Grab the silver net too, I believe I left it in the kitchen.”

“This is definitely a Type-Two,” Lucy said once George had hurried away. “Maybe he should bring the chain.”

Lockwood began to move.

“Wait- Lockwood, the door!”

“You can hold it for us, can’t you Lucy?” And then he was off, taking the stairs in bounds.

Lucy was alone. The house pressed in on her. From above she heard something splat. She gritted her teeth, broke open one of her bundles, and scattered salt in a line across the doorway. Wedging the napkin into the gap beside the hinges bought them a few inches of opening. Hopefully, that would be enough until George returned.

She followed Lockwood upwards.

The attic was bitingly cold. Lockwood stood just beyond the mouth of the stairs. 

“I found the statues,” Lockwood said, “and our ghost.”

The attic had a sharply steepled roof and a window on each side, one overlooking the street and the other the back garden. It was set up as an art studio, a sturdy wooden workbench sitting in the middle of the room with sketches and measurements scattered across its surface. There were various casting moulds, some taller than Lucy, leaning up against the sloping walls. The statues were scattered throughout the room, human-sized, each draped with a white sheet, tinted green by the faint light of a ghost lamp filtering in from the front.

Beside the window with his back turned to them was a faintly glowing man. He didn't react to their arrival, seeming content to continue gazing through the glass.

“Its hands,” Lockwood murmured.

The ghost's hands were behind him, one hand gripping his opposite wrist, and the other grasping something small. Lucy could feel her attention pull. A clue to his Source, it had to be.

“I can’t See clearly enough. Can you tell what it is?” 

Lockwood stepped forward, and though she hissed in displeasure, Lucy matched him, rapier held steady before her.

There were thundering steps up the stairs. “I wasn’t even five minutes-”

“It’s a key,” Lockwood said.

Lucy grabbed him by the coat and hauled him backwards.

George froze on the stairs with his head just clearing the floor. “Found our Visitor, have you?”

“The Source is a key,” Lockwood repeated. “A bit large, the old type-”

The man vanished, and a cloying sense of self-pity and dissatisfaction Lucy hadn’t realised wasn’t her own left with him.

She turned. George had something small wrapped in the corner of the silver net.

“You had the Source?” Lockwood asked, incredulous.

“I didn’t know that’s what it was! I found it in the nightstand drawer when I was looking for something to use as a doorstop.’

“And took it?”

“Keys are always useful. Thanks for waiting for me, by the way.”

“Find anything else useful?”

“I found his copy of the baptism certificate,” George grinned. “There was a godson. I was right.” 

Lockwood walked across the room, staring out the same window from the same spot the Visitor had been in. “It didn’t go after you at all, even when you were carrying its Source around. No way that was a Type-Two.”

Lucy’s chest tightened. That same feeling she’d had at the mill, the one Jacob’s had so quickly dismissed, was crawling down her spine. “Lockwood, something’s wrong.”

“There are ten statues in this room,” George said suddenly. “The art books said he only cast eight.”

Lockwood dashed to the left at the same instant the statue on his right burst into movement, arms that were suddenly clawed and elongated reaching for him. His rapier slashed out, the tip catching on the sheet. It broke apart like oil in water under the touch of iron. George yelped and jerked his head back down, just missing the splash of ‘plasm. Lucy leapt forward.

“It is a Changer!” Lockwood exclaimed, blade flashing in intricate patterns. “It was hiding the door earlier.”

The shape shifted, shortening, its consistency changing from fabric to claylike. When it stepped forward there was a splat.

It lumbered towards them. Both rapiers made contact, sliding through that strange otherworldly resistance, and it dissipated. The attic was silent for only a few seconds before a shape began to grow in the corner.

“Already reforming.” Lucy steadied her stance. “Do you have any idea what the Source-”

George lobbed his salt bundles at the forming mass and darted towards them. One went wide, but the other hit straight on. It didn’t vanish, but the napkin sizzled and the Changer’s growth noticeably slowed.

He held up his fistful of lavender like priests in scary movies held up crucifixes. “Someone please make a plan-”

“Garden!” Lockwood barked. “Bring the net, the Source will be- now! Go!”

The Changer had grown past their heads, nearing the ceiling. The air was thick with malice. There was no time for questions.

Lucy had a curse word for every stair she touched in her mad dash down. George was right behind her, she kept catching the glint of the silver net in the corner of her eye. They sprinted past the iron lamp holding the door, slowed on the stairs, and hit the first floor in a dead run, heading down a hall and out the back, trampling their way through the garden.

“What now?” Lucy gasped.

“Lockwood?” George called. He wasn’t behind them.

A crash came from above.

The attic window shattered as something flew through it. For one horrible moment, Lucy thought it was Lockwood, but moonlight glinted off of metal, and she realised it was the statue of a boy arching gently and then falling straight down towards her. She yelped and leapt back on instinct, the underbrush catching around her feet and pulling her down. George grabbed her by the shoulders and wrenched her further back. There was a loud and sharp ring of sound as the statue hit the ground, head first and at an angle. The whole thing split into halves like a pistachio shell.

The sides skittered apart, and there, between them, was a stuffed rabbit.

George hauled her up. Her rapier had slipped from her hand, sitting between them and the toy, where clay was beginning to roil into existence. Lucy went for her weapon. “George, the net! I’ll keep it busy!”

The changer cracked open, something like a mouth forming in its centre. A hand lashed out, and Lucy cut through it as she charged forward. George hurled something; the Type-One’s Source. It landed beside the toy. He then let the net loose at her side. It began to fall neatly over the Sources but jerked to a stop in midair. Lucy stepped back hurriedly but the damage was done. She’d been standing on the corner of the net, and one fluffy ear lay beyond the silver.

 George yanked the net back with a curse and prepared to toss it again. No time for a warning, Lucy felt a crush of presence as the Changer dove for them and tackled George into one-half of the cast iron boy. Gripping the edge she rolled it violently over with them inside so it rested above them like a beached canoe. George’s full weight landed on top of her, knocking the breath from her lungs. There was a wet, thudding impact, but the iron above them held. George’s hands were clenched tightly around her forearms, his glasses digging into her cheek.

And then footsteps, the swish of a rapier, the reverberating outrage of a Visitor denied. Lockwood’s voice.

“I’ve got it! Try the net again!”

George rocked up, grunting. Lucy helped him shove the iron shell off them. She took one corner of the net and George took the other. With a heave, they sent it soaring. It landed over the Sources, and the night went dormant. They were alone in the garden, George and her panting, scuffed and covered in dirt, and Lockwood, tall and sweeping in a stolen coat, his grin lit by the moon.

“What,” Lucy wheezed, “Was that!?”

“The godson, if I have to make a guess,” Lockwood said nonchalantly, sliding his rapier back into place at his side. “Must have been upset about being used without anyone ever seeing, like the clay the moulds were made around.”

“Not that,” Lucy straightened herself. Lockwood faltered slightly, catching on to her mounting ire. “I’m talking about your plan!”

“I feel I judged your communication system too harshly,” George said. “What letter of the alphabet means ‘beware death from above’? How do you feel about Y? Because, why!? ”

“Not that either. We thought you were right behind us. We left you.”

“Someone needed to stay,” Lockwood said matter-of-factly. “I needed to figure out which statue the Source was hidden in.”

“How did you know it was in a statue?” George flopped down on the ground, wincing. Lucy figured he’d have a good array of bruises tomorrow, as he wasn’t very statue-boy-shaped.

“There was still one extra, that was a clue. Also, the Changer hid the door earlier in the night, when it would be weaker. It made sense that the Source would be in the attic, I just needed to know where. Then it occurred to me, because of the moulds against the walls, that the statues were all hollow. Great place to hide your angry godson’s Source. But I knew to get it we’d have to break the statue open, ergo window, ergo garden.”

“And you couldn’t have told us any of that? Let us help?”

“You did help. You secured the Source.”

“That you dropped on us, I’d like to remind everyone of that,” George said.

Lockwood looked a bit remorseful for the first time. “Ah, yes. I wasn’t expecting you to run so fast.”

Lucy had thought several very normal things about Lockwood’s face, a very normal amount of times since they’d met. This was the first time she thought it to be, at its core, distinctly punchable.

Something of that thought must have made it into her expression because Lockwood lifted his hands in front of him with an uneasy chuckle. “Look, I wasn’t sure exactly which of the statues the Source was in, and I didn’t have time to inspect for corrosion. I’d just have to grab them and see which one made it the most angry. I sent you down because I thought it was the safer half of the plan.”

Lucy started back into the house.

“Wait, Lucy-”

It wasn’t just the plan. It was the heart attack-inducing note in the church, which George had forgiven him for much too quickly in Lucy’s opinion. It was the fact that she’d only been with them days and she could already see that Lockwood’s first instinct was sacrifice.

Lockwood was following her. “I made a choice, I thought it was right, and it worked out,” he said, voice turning sharp. “I don’t know what you want from me here.”

“How are we supposed to save you if you won’t let yourself be saved?”

He stopped. She walked through the kitchen, the hallway, and to the front door alone. The street she looked out on stood dark and empty.

She wasn't left to herself for long. After a few minutes, George came to stand next to her. He’d opened the bag of crisps and held it out in her direction. She took one.

“Has he always been like this?”

“He was worse when I met him if you can believe it.” George took his own crisp. “Look, living like we do, It makes certain things hard for him to care about, I think. It certainly changed my perspective. We’ve taken most cases separately, up to now. I survive by learning what I can and setting up as many failsafes as possible, always having an exit. Lockwood survives by relying on his instincts, no questions, no doubt.”

“No, I understand that,” She deflated. “I’ve been trying to be careful, to not question what you’ve done to survive.”

“You can question me all you like,” he offered. “I don’t mind.”

Lucy smiled. “Thanks, George.”

“You saved my life,” he said. “Stuffing me in the statue like that.”

“Only after I stepped on your net.”

George shrugged. “Better than my very first case with a team, back at Fittes.”

“What happened?”

“I’ll tell you another time.”  George leaned her way and said in a stage whisper, “Lockwood’s staring at you forlornly from the kitchen. Every second he looks more like a sad puppy. Are you ready to talk to him yet?”

She sighed. “Might as well. Send him over.”

She stayed put as George walked away. Watching the street, she listened to the murmur of their voices, words she couldn’t make out. A ghost lamp came on outside. Lockwood approached quietly. He didn’t talk right away. She was beginning to wonder if he ever would when he finally began.

“It's been three years for me,” he admitted, voice low. “And I’ve only worked cases with George in that time, and even that rarely. I’ve forgotten how to properly communicate on a team. I should have been clearer about my plan, asked for your input, and been better prepared before going into the attic. Despite my intentions, I put you both in danger you weren’t expecting and that wasn’t right.”

She looked at him. Ghost lamp green lit his face and glinted off eyes otherwise hidden in shadow. He looked solemn, apologetic, and less punchable than he had earlier. 

“We’ll do better next time.”

He nodded sharply. “Also, you’re right. I don’t always think of this as something I can be saved from, that can have any end other than death. But I never- I don’t want- I’m trying-” He trailed off.

 “I understand that,” she said. “Feeling like something will never end. Feeling like death is the only way out. Like maybe you’d be better off.” Lockwood was turned toward her fully now, searching. “It’s not true.”

“I know,” he whispered. “I know that, Luce.”

She nodded. “So what happens now? We just wait for Carver?”

Lockwood grimaced. 

She frowned, alarmed. “What? What now?”

“I may have another risky plan,” he said. “Carver isn’t back yet, and, well. The fewer Sources Blackburn gets his hands on the better. He sells them, I think. I have a place I leave them sometimes when I can get away with it. I think I can get away with it this time, for the Changer at least.”

“Oh,” Lucy blinked.

“I won’t do it if we don’t all agree,” he said.

 “Will the Source be somewhere safe? Away from people?”

“It’ll be burning up in a Fittes furnace before the week is out,” Lockwood promised.

“You’re lucky this is for the greater good,” she grumbled, her mouth turning up.

Lockwood relaxed. “George,” he called as he strode back into the kitchen. “Stow the crisps, how do you feel about taking a walk?”

-

By some miracle, George’s entrance code had never quit working on the back door of the Fittes dormitory. 

To be fair, this was far from the hardest building to enter. Most of the precautions were in place to keep the Agents from leaving when they shouldn't rather than foreign entities out. Lockwood had gotten a janitor to let him in once with nothing more than a sob story about slow Night Cabs and a mean supervisor.

Lockwood stopped by the lockers first, where the kits were. He deftly transferred the stuffed bunny into a sleek silver bag and folded their net up tightly enough to tuck under his arm. A few magnesium flares and a handful of paper clips from the reports desk disappeared into his coat pockets, and then he was off. He took the stairs instead of the elevator to lessen the chance of meeting anyone and emerged on the third floor without incident.

As always when he was in this building he pictured George as he walked through the halls. Perhaps exiting his room, or coming out of the elevators. Younger, dressed in Fittes grey, arms most definitely looped around a stack of books. Sharp eyes catching on Lockwood, and then falling away, uninterested, the same way everyone else who’d seen him since he’d fallen in with Blackburn reacted.

In his more fanciful moods, he’d imagine that George would frown instead, forehead creasing in thought. That he’d ask Lockwood who he was and what he was doing here. If he needed help.

The first lock on room 312 was easy to pick, and the second’s latch a breeze to tap out of place with the blade of his rapier. An entirely useless defence in a building full of Agents.

It was a single room; Kipps was moving up in the world, it seemed. It was the type of clean only the anxious achieved, all right angles, wrinkleless blankets, and painfully shiny surfaces.

The window popped open easily. Lockwood threw it wide before perusing the desk. He found a stack of Post-it notes, a pack of gum, and a hunting knife in the desk drawer. He knocked the knife catty-corner, stole the gum, and wrote out a note on the post-it which he slapped on the Source, which he then laid at the head of Kipp’s perfectly made bed. He checked, then double-checked, that the silver bag was completely secure. Satisfied, he made for the door.

He froze when he heard the steps, a key being slipped into a lock. He ran for the window instead, tossing their rolled-up net down and swinging out onto the ledge. He shimmied quickly to the left until his hand met a drain pipe. It wasn’t too hard of a climb down from there, half of it sliding.

“Hey!”

He was maybe a bit too high still but Lockwood let go anyway. The landing jarred him from feet to skull and knocked his teeth together, but was easy enough to roll out of.

“Who are you!?” Kippes roared.

Lockwood grabbed up the net and ran. He looked back right before the alley twisted. He could see Kipps in his window, one leg thrown out as if to follow him, but it was no use. By the time he reached the ground, Lockwood would be twisting himself through the night, once more a face the London that knew the sun had long forgotten. It didn’t matter that Kipps and he had locked eyes before he took off. Lockwood wasn’t someone people remembered anymore.

He ducked his head and picked up the pace. Lucy and George were waiting, just a few houses down. Time to go home.

Chapter Text

“Take these.”

Lucy raised her head off the table to see George place a disk-shaped tablet and a glass of water at Lockwood’s elbow before taking the chair at his side, wincing when his shoulders met the back. 

“Sore?” she asked.

“Less so than you two.”

Lockwood had developed a bit of a limp on their trek back from the Fittes dorms. At first, he’d sworn up and down it was nothing but had eventually given in to their pestering and admitted he might have twisted something while kicking an iron statue out a window. Lucy was still smarting from the cab incident. Scrapes had reopened, and old bruises felt tender.

Lockwood, who was slumped so the chair back rested at the base of his skull, swivelled his head towards the offering as his eyes squinted open. “These don’t look like painkillers.”

“They aren’t. Vitamin D tablets.”

Lockwood made an amused sound.

George threw a napkin, covered in crumbs, in his direction. It fell harmlessly to the floor. “Excuse me, one of us doesn’t want to get rickets. You should have one too, Lucy. Shore up your reserves.”

A rumble worked its way into their hearing, drawing closer. A car engine.

“That’ll be him,” Lockwood murmured. He hauled himself up, took the tablet and one long swig of water, and headed for the foyer.

The table was covered with the decimated ruins of foodstuffs they’d found in Dalton’s pantry.

The nonperishables they’d set aside were picked up along with their kit. Lockwood winked at her over a hefty bag of flour, which looked much fuller than it had when they arrived, as they’d stashed several things inside; Lucy’s salt bundles, the flares Lockwood had walked out of the Fittes dorm with, and a paring knife from the kitchen. They shuffled out of the house in a single file line. Carver was leaning against the car, his arms crossed. “You sure look like there was a Visitor.”

Lockwood held up the silver net. “Type-One. The Source is a key.”

Carver nodded, and walked around the car, quickly popping the trunk open. “Hurry up.”

The kit went in, along with the food, the Source, and the big grey coat Lockwood had taken.

They piled into the backseat, much less conscientious of each other’s space than they’d been on the ride over. There was something about surviving ghostly peril that dulled the need for propriety, Lucy supposed. Or they were just too tired to care overly much.

She settled with one of her legs pinned under George’s and her shoulder butting up against Lockwood’s. She drifted in that strange in-between state, aware, but close enough to sleep that her thoughts were trailing into absurdity. The car drifting to a stop brought her fully awake.

She trailed Lockwood out of the car, George opting to crawl over the seat and out behind her instead of using the opposite door. She stared. They were in front of a warehouse, made of brick, metal, and barred windows. “I thought we were going back to the basement.”

“Just dropping off the Source,” Lockwood said. “Shouldn’t be too long.”

Carver passed them, pulling his mass of keys out. After fiddling for a moment he slipped one into the padlock securing the door. The chain rattled as it was loosened, and the hinges made a grating screech when it was pulled open.

George walked through first, his head ducked. Lockwood, silver net in hand, stepped up next, with Lucy following closely behind.

“Come on Luce, come sit over here. We’ll get this done, and then bed.”

The warehouse was very large and mostly empty, with one portion of the floor populated by several metal shelving units. Most were crammed with objects in silver-glass boxes or under silver nets, and one was entirely empty. There was a circle of iron chains laid out beside the table, which itself was situated in the middle of everything. It was the table Lockwood approached. Several silver glass boxes of varying sizes were stacked at one end, and Lockwood picked one of the small ones to transfer the key to. George was at the table too, bent over an index card, writing something down. This was taped to the front of the box which was sitting in an empty space on the shelves.

“They let you live, I see. Shame.”

Lucy jerked. “What?”

Both Lockwood and George turned towards her. 

“What is it?”

Her stomach sank. “I heard- and you didn’t, did you.”

“Is something loose?” George hissed.

Lockwood tensed, frowning. “What are you hearing, Lucy?”

“And they decided to throw you in with these idiots. Tough break, girl.”

“It’s talking,” she managed. Her words sounded distant and her hands felt numb. “It’s talking like I can hear it.”

“ You… you can, can’t you? You can hear me!”

Lucy clamped her hands over her ears. The boys rushed for her.

“Inside the circle, Luce,” Lockwood barked. “Hurry now.”

“I’m losing it,” Lucy whispered.

“No, you’re finding it!”

They tumbled over the iron chain. The pressure in Lucy’s head eased just a bit. A pressure she’d felt before, she realised.

“What about now?” George asked.

“Finally,” the voice said, “ Someone who sees my true power. ”

“It’s still speaking, why is it speaking?” Lucy whispered.

“ What would you prefer? Howles? A jaunty tune? The odd one here is you, for hearing me. Now quick, scoop me up while these fools are still gawking and let’s make a run for it.”

“Don’t engage.” Lockwood’s palm was warm and steadying on her back.

“What are you?” she called out. “Where’s your Source?”

“Ask the one in glasses about me, he knows. He brought me here.”

“It says George knows what it is, that he brought it.”

“No it doesn’t,” George said severely. “They can’t talk, Lucy, not unless-”

“It’s a Type-Three,” Lockwood said. “And the Listener is-”

“Really fucking powerful,” Lucy finished.

Yes yes, you’re one in a bajillion. Hurry up! Let me out, before your Master returns for me. We’ll both be free.”

“I don’t have a Master.”

“Then you aren’t here on Blackburn’s bidding? Locked in by his lackey? They’re short-sighted fools! Let me tell you about a real visionary.”

 Lucy shook her head. “I’ve felt this presence before,” The pressure was easing, not leaving but rearranging into something that didn’t send her reeling. “After the cab hit me.”

“Ask about the Problem. Why did it happen? How do we fix it?”

“George!” Lockwood snapped.

“What? Something I brought here and Blackburn carries with him, it has to be the ghost-jar, right? The one I took from Fittes. I always knew there was something special about that thing.”

“Why would that be here?”

“Maybe he stashes it when he’s pretending to be a productive member of society. If we can find it, we know this is real. If we can’t-”

“Sit down here, Lucy, where it’s safe. We’ll be right back.”

Well, that wasn’t happening. “Where are you?” She asked, stepping out of the circle.

“To the left. No, your other left. Close, but you’ve got to look up a bit. Closer… closer…”

A rattling knock at the door. “Hurry it up in there!” Carver barked.

“We need to go,” Lockwood said.

Lucy took another step forward. “But-”

There was a pillowcase, draped over something, glowing a faint green. She yanked it up to find a wretched ectoplasmic face swimming in a ghost-jar, right in front of her nose.

“Yes! You’ve found me!”

Lucy choked on air as she watched the visitor’s spectral mouth move in time with the words.

Lockwood had stopped. “Oh. I can’t hear it, obviously, but I can sense something happening when it… talks.”

George reached over her shoulder to tap at the glass. “Congratulations Lucy, you’re not insane. What’s it saying?”

“No,” Lockwood said forcefully. “This is not something we want them discovering, and Carver will be bursting in at any moment. Cover it back up. We need to get out. Next time we come across it we’ll… have a conversation with a Visitor, I suppose.”

“So logical, so strategic, ” the voice sneered as Lucy recovered the silver-glass. “You should beware Lockwood, girl. He knows where all the bodies are buried. ”

They stumbled out of the building and into the car while performing a desperate impression of three people whose entire world hadn’t been tipped to the side and shaken vigorously within the last few minutes. The trip back to the basement was silent, uneventful, and experienced while completely and totally awake.

-

“You’re sure it didn’t say anything about the afterlife?”

Lucy dropped her head onto the box with a groan. “I swear George, you’re thinking about this more than I am.”

“Unlikely.” He was down to his pants, eagerly comparing new clean T-shirts to find the softest. “I’m still sleeping through the night, while you're having pacing tournaments with Lockwood.”

They’d gotten supplies, two cardboard boxes dropped right inside the door by Carver, which turned the day into something special. The jobs Carver sent them on were full of danger and action, and even in the rare cases there was no Visitor to confront they still stayed busy scavenging for food and reading materials they thought Carver would let them keep, but the days they spent entirely inside the basement where sedate and monotonous. George got stranger, Lockwood testier, and barely anything ever changed.

Which was why they were treating new supplies like a Christmas morning.

“Potatoes,” Lockwood declared, holding up the bag so she could see. 

She hummed with proper gravitas.

George leaned closer, squinting, and Lockwood moved the bag closer to him obligingly. “They’re old. A few have begun to seed, see?”

He was right, there was a tangle of pale stems poking out of a few russet skins. 

“Can we still eat them?” Lucy asked.

“Yes but we’ll need to be fast, before they get wrinkly. As long as we cut out the sprouts and any soft spots. I made a potato battery in year 2. Stuck it in my closet after, and the next time I looked it had roots and everything. Didn’t last much longer than that though, and had an awful smell. Needed soil, I suppose.”

“They do decently in water,” Lockwood chimed in, setting the bag on the floor and reaching in for the next item. “As long as the glass stays full they’ll keep growing.”

“Was that your year 2 experiment?” Lucy asked.

Lockwood ducked his head and began rearranging the canned vegetables stacked by his thigh. “No. I did that here. Before George.”

The silence took on a watchfulness. It was hard to know sometimes when Lockwood was willing to be pressed on something or not and this in particular, his time with Blackburn before them, was almost always off limits.

Lucy kept her voice light. “Were you trying to grow more potatoes?”

Lockwood’s finger began tapping on one of the cans. “At the beginning perhaps, but mostly I just… it was alive. And I was lonely. I wanted it to stay.”

Lucy stood and took the potatoes to the kitchen, stowing them in one of the low cabinets. It gave her time to slide the new tidbit about Lockwood into place among all the others she’d collected and gave Lockwood one less pair of eyes to be conscious of.  “Thank you for telling us that.”

“That’s what we're trying for, right? Better communication.”

A fuzzy warmth bloomed in her chest. She went back to sitting cross-legged. George had pulled on a T-shirt and begun stacking the cans in a pyramid. “That’s right.”

“Which reminds me, I don’t think you’ve really told us how you feel,” Lockwood said. “About the Type-Three, I mean.”

Lucy blinked at him, nonplussed. The warm feeling was gone, but she found herself impressed with the trick. She turned to George. “Is this how he got all those embarrassing stories about naked yoga out of you?”

“No. I’m above emotional blackmail. And I don’t find them embarrassing, personally.”

There was a joke in there. Lucy was getting better at catching the fleeting spark that lit in George’s eye when he thought something was funny.

“I don’t mean to overstep,” Lockwood said carefully, “It’s just something very big, could inspire very big feelings. Best to have those locked down or out, given our occupation.”

“I don’t know what to tell you. It happened, you both agree it happened. But I can’t quite wrap my head around being–” She sighed, trying to find the words.

“Extraordinary?” Lockwood suggested.

“A super-Listener?” George offered at the same time.

“Special,” she spat. “It makes more sense that I really did make it up and you two are going along with it for some reason than me being some one-of-a-kind Talent.”

“I don’t see why,” Lockwood said, befuddled. “You’re certainly one-of-a-kind in several other aspects.”

Her cheeks threatened to heat, only calmed by George’s sage nod and mutter of “instinctual arsonist.”

She elbowed him. It made him knock the can off the top of his stack. He stared at her with dead-eyed disappointment.

Lockwood laughed. “Don’t worry Luce, I’m sure you’ll get used to it. Maybe it’ll be easier to believe once you’ve had a second conversation.”

“If we ever manage to see the thing again,” George complained.

They’d been to Source Storage twice in the last weeks, but Lucy hadn’t heard the skull either time.

“I’m sure we will,” Lockwood grinned. She couldn’t help but smile back. “I’d say we're owed a bit of luck.”

-

It had been a while since George was this excited about something.

“Can you imagine how much it could tell us?” He whispered furiously as Carver locked them in.

“So now you think it’s here,” Lockwood said.

“What are we even doing?” Lucy asked. “We don’t have a Source.” This was the first time she’d been taken straight to the warehouse, instead of finishing a case first.

“Sorting,” Lockwood answered. “See those shelves, there?”

“Oh. They were empty before.”

“Either someone died, or they’ve got a new member,” George explained. “In either case Blackburn has us check everything they surrender to him for psychical charge.”

“So we need to both look for the Skull and start sorting items?”

“We’ll divide up,” Lockwood said. “Two of us will look for the ghost-jar, while the third starts sorting. Everyone, think of a number under a hundred, the two closest together will look for the thing.”

George rolled his eyes. “That’s silly. Lucy should look for the skull because her Talent might be what’s drawing it out, and Lockwood, you’ll look because you aren’t great at sorting anyway. Saves me time rechecking your items later. Don’t mope at me, your Sight is indispensable in literally every other situation.” There wasn’t much to See on such objects unless they’d been directly marked by death. Using George’s mediocre Touch was the better choice for once.

“Or,” Lockwood started, jaw set in a stubborn line, “Lucy sorts because she’s the most vulnerable, and you help search as you’re the one with a million questions.”

Lucy’s head jerked up. “No need to search at all. I can already hear it.”

She walked forward slowly, Lockwood her watchful shadow. George strained for the feeling Lockwood had described last time, a knowledge that something psychical was happening, but he got nothing. He swiped the pen and the index cards from the table and followed.

This time they found it on the ground inside a cardboard box, behind some silver net adorned pots. Lucy hauled it up and set it on the table where they all crowded around.

George held the pen over the index card, ready. “What’s it saying?”

Lucy made a face. “Nagging us, mostly,” then, to the skull, “I don’t know why you’re mad, we looked for you, you just weren’t here to find.”

“Will it answer some questions?”

Lucy cocked her head listening. “Um.” She grimaced. “He won’t answer any for you.”

“What? Why not?”

“Well, he thinks the cult is dumb,” she said, obviously picking her words with care, “And if you hadn’t been carrying him, he wouldn’t be here.”

“It was on the way to the furnaces, if I hadn’t picked it up it would be gone. And I wasn’t the one glowing like a beacon on the tube. As far as I’m concerned I got caught because of it.” He wrote the exchange down in jerky strokes.

The ghost was still talking when he looked up, its approximation of a face stretching emphatically as it yammered at Lucy.

“Do we really need to continue?” She said, nose crinkled in disgust.

“We haven’t even started! What is it saying?”

“Nothing good. He’s horrible, obviously.”

“We’re talking with the other side, Lucy. Horrible or not, this is a singular opportunity. Tell me.”

“He says you're a two-bit thief, and it was his terrible misfortune you didn’t break your neck crawling in Blackburn’s window.”

“After they stole it from me, why isn’t he being called a two-bit thief?” George pointed a finger at the skull. “Blackburn’s lackey pinched you on the train like an unskilled purse snatcher, I had to be a way better at stealing to get you out of Fittes unseen- Stop it, Lockwood, this isn’t funny-”

“If you don’t mind,” Lucy said dryly, “I’d like to do something other than play middleman so you can squabble with a Type-Three.”

“You’re right,” George surged forward, squinting through the glass. “What do you know about the Problem?”

“More than you,” Lucy relayed.

“Why did it start? How do we fix it?”

Lucy took a moment to Listen. “He wants to make a deal.”

“We’re not letting it out,” Lockwood said sharply.

That didn’t go over well, the face stretching, ‘plasm rolling and writhing. Lucy took several quick steps back. “He’s demented.”

“What did you expect,” Lockwood said grimly, steely-eyed.

George turned back to the Visitor. “There has to be something else you want.”

Its ever-changing face swivelled towards him. The hair stood up on George’s arms. He may be well seasoned in dealing with the dead, but there was something about being watched by something so inescapably other and also demonstrably sentient that triggered in him the primal urge to run.

“He’s asking if you really want to know about the other side,” Lucy said.

“I do. Of course I do.”

It told her something. The green glow waned, the swirling ‘plasm disappearing until it was nothing but an old skull lying in the bottom of the jar.

“What? What did it say?”

“He said if you want answers you’ll have to go looking for them yourself. He gave me an address.”

-

“No.”

“Lockwood-”

“ No.”

It was after they’d returned from sorting, and Lockwood was, quite honestly, at the end of his patience.

George was in fine form, completely taken over by the same kind of focused curiosity Lockwood was sure his parents had once lived by. It was beautiful on him, and it was dangerous. If Lockwood had thought having a second conversation with the Type-Three would temper his fervour as well as calm Lucy’s worries he had been sorely mistaken.

“We might have an actual chance to learn more about the Problem,” George implored. “We have to take it.”

“If you haven’t noticed,” Lockwood gestured sharply to the basement they stood in, “we have other things to worry about.”

“We don’t, though, can’t you see? DEPRAC wouldn’t exist without the Problem, laws for psychical investigations, or Ghost Cults. It’s all just symptoms. Fixing the Problem fixes everything.”

You can’t fix the Problem. The words sat on the tip of Lockwood’s tongue, lighter than they should be for something he knew would hit George like a fist. He gritted his teeth and kept them unsaid. “It’s lying to you. If the answer to the Problem was just sitting in some bloody mansion in Silwood Park, someone would have found it by now.”

“Maybe they did,” George said. He was nearly glowing, eyes sparking, smiling in a way that softened his face. “Maybe they’ve been hiding it all this time.”

“We don’t need to decide what to do tonight,” Lucy said. She was leaning against the kitchen counter, watching them, her shirt wet with dishwater. “Better we sleep on it, really.”

“Good idea, Lucy. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”

Lockwood didn’t see sleep happening in his immediate future, but a chance to straighten out his argument was welcomed. George had a spectacular ability to let something go if the facts were against it. And usually, only when the facts were against it.

George looked mutinous for a moment, but after studying Lockwood’s face he sighed, shoulders dropping as he took a step back. “Fine. Tomorrow. I’m going to go read.” He ducked into the gap. The sound of cinder blocks shifting against each other began.

“What about you,” he asked Lucy. “Whose side are you on?”

She regarded him steadily. It was a look that had been showing up more lately, and while Lockwood didn’t dislike it he always felt sheepish and young when it was pointed his way.

“We’re all on the same side,” she said levelly.

“No, I- I didn’t mean- of course we are.” He looked down.

“You should lay down,” Lucy said, her tone gentling. “I’m going to talk to George for a bit.”

“I’m not going to sleep,” he said, peeking up at her.

She smiled just a bit. It was something that happened more now, as she acclimated to things. Each time it appeared all he could think about was how to make it happen again.

“Maybe,” she said. “We’ll see.”

-

In the end, Lockwood did catch a few hours of sleep.

This was a surprise. He’d never been a stellar sleeper, even before he’d lost anything when the only thing keeping him up was his Talent and biology. George had accepted his erratic sleep schedule as a matter of course, tending to the scattered moments Lockwood succumbed like one would a match before it met a lantern. Sometimes Lockwood rested his eyes briefly and awoke later with a pillow tucked under his head, the comforter around his shoulders, and whatever he’d been doing set carefully to the side. Lucy was much more direct about it, pushing Lockwood to lie down and try even when he was sure it would be no use. And sometimes, like this time, she was right.

He blinked groggily upwards. He had the odd feeling that something had awoken him, but no clue as to what it was. He turned his head.

 George was sitting in the chair, notebook in his lap. There was a worried curl to his brows, and he was looking up. Lockwood surged to full awareness. “Is it-”

Steps on the stairs.

Lucy’s legs swung out of the top bunk. “That’s quick.”

It was. It wasn’t unheard of in the past for Lockwood to be sent on several back-to-back jobs, hellish weeks he could barely piece together in his memory beyond sensations of dread, pain, and exhaustion, but it definitely wasn’t common.

They were waiting when the second door opened. George had pulled on his trousers, Lucy had run her fingers hurriedly through her hair, and Lockwood had pushed through any remaining grogginess.

Carver barely looked at them, already turning to retake the stairs. “Just you, Carlyle.”

A jolt went through Lockwood. Lucy had tensed up beside him, wide eyes finding his and then George’s.

“Why?” Lockwood asked.

Carver stopped moving. “What did you say?”

George shifted on his feet. Lockwood didn’t look away from Carver, but he could feel his friend’s unease.

“Why do you want her to come alone?”

Carver’s voice was cold. “You don’t ask the questions here, and you definitely don’t make the rules. You do as you're told.”

“I could say the same about you. What does Blackburn think of this little excursion you have planned?”

The man’s expression changed, going from annoyed to darkly amused. Lockwood’s stomach dropped. Blackburn’s interest wasn’t going to work as a deterrent, as he’d hoped.

“Alright,” Carver said. “If you want to play it that way.”

They stayed where they were as he ascended, as the top door swung open, and then closed behind him.

“Is that it?” Lucy asked cautiously.

George snorted. “Hardly. He’ll turn the lights off and starve us out if he’s in a patient mood. And if not…”

Shame welled up in Lockwood’s gut. “I’m sorry.”

George sighed. “For what, asking why? Don’t be. He wants her dead. If you hadn’t said something I would’ve.”

Carver opened the door, staring down his nose at them. He closed it behind himself and rolled his shoulders before he began coming back down.

Carver didn’t have much height on Lockwood anymore but he was still older, healthier, heavier, stronger. Meaner. He stalked towards them like a predator, like a dog or a wolf, and Lockwood had too many vivid memories of being pinned under his teeth and claws not to freeze like a rabbit.

Lucy was squaring up beside him. “Three on one, can’t we-”

Carver pulled something from his back pocket. The dull yellow light of the basement glinted off the pair of handcuffs.

Lockwood pushed past the rabbit in his brain and stepped forward, smiling apologetically. “Look, can’t we just-”

Carver took the last three steps in a run and Lockwood jerked back. A powerful shove on the sternum knocked him off his feet, and he landed hard on the concrete floor. A strangled noise, a thump. He levered up to a sitting position. George was lying crumbled against the wall beside the coal cellar entrance. Lucy was trying to clock Carver over the head with their kettle. He scrambled to regain his feet, but Carver was quick. He yanked the kettle from Lucy and stomped down on Lockwood’s hand at the same moment. His brain whited out, a shout on his tongue. When the pressure left he instinctively curled up, losing a precious few seconds while he tried to convince his lungs to pull in air.

The man was back at the base of the stairs by the time he was finally upright, dragging Lucy along by the hair.

“Carver-”

He didn’t start climbing. Carver cinched one handcuff around her wrist and the other to the bars.

He left her yanking roughly at the restraint and walked towards Lockwood.

George was sitting straighter now, one hand on the wall as he started to push himself up. He’d lost his glasses.

Carver snarled his way. “Stay down.”

Lockwood held a staying hand out in his direction and George sank back. It was over. If he could keep his friends from further injury, he would.

Carver stopped in front of him. He didn’t reach right away, there was no need. He simply watched as Lockwood struggled with himself, face thankfully blank but chest heaving and body shaking with fatigue and adrenaline.

“What do you think your place is, in all this?”

“I think-”

He rested his hand against the base of Lockwood’s neck. He didn’t press, he just held it there. Lockwood shut his mouth.

“This was what I was worried about when Blackburn told me about this bet you have going,” He said. “I was worried you’d misunderstand. Think we were equals, fighting for favour. We aren’t equals, Lockwood.”

The hand clamped down around his jaw, forcing him back. The back of his head ground into the cabinet, pressing his chin down. He had to take shallow breaths but the position didn’t block his airflow. His hands scrambled at the grip on instinct but accomplished nothing more than reminding him of his injured fingers. George was standing now, watching with intention. Lockwood tried to shake his head and hoped it would be enough to keep him back.

“Do you know how I know we’re different? Because The Sight asks me to do things. Most of the time I agree because he’s right, or it benefits me, or to show my gratitude. But he never asks you, does he, not once. He’ll let you pick between a few options sometimes, but he’s never let you say no. Do you know why?”

George slipped quickly into the coal cellar and then back out. He went to Lucy, blocking her from view, head bent close to hers. Lockwood couldn’t hear what he was saying.

“Because you’re a tool. You don’t exist outside of me. This isn’t an opportunity for you to rise, it’s a test for me, and I will succeed.”

Carver’s grip started to slacken. George was still too close to Lucy, Lockwood couldn’t lose his attention yet. 

“Lofty sentiments,” he managed to say, voice breathy but adequately argumentative, “from Blackburn’s favourite scapegoat. If someone discovered us down here do you think he’d go to prison for it? Or just you?”

Carver grinned. The pressure on his jaw increased. Lockwood was getting a little light-headed.

“Ask me to take her away.”

Lockwood flushed hot with contempt, and then cold. He said nothing.

“Ask me,” Carver goaded. “I know you understand, somewhere deep in that atrocity you call a brain, that things can get worse. Do you like having light? Do you like having heat? Do you like having books, and games, and beds, and food? Do you like having water? Because I’m where that all comes from. I can take it away.” He gave Lockwood a shake. “Ask me to take her upstairs.”

“Please take her upstairs,” George said.

Carver slowly turned his head towards him. Lucy’s face was set, unshaken. George’s eyes were on the ground.

“There you go,” Carver crooned. “Such a smart boy.”

He let Lockwood go and stepped back. 

 Lucy didn’t fight when he unlocked her from the bars, pinning her shoulders against the wall as he secured her hands together behind her back.

Lockwood stepped forward as they began up the stairs, but George’s hand against his chest kept him in place.

She looked back at them once before the top door swung closed, her expression fierce and undaunted.

The click of the latch and the turn of a key rang out like a condemnation.

He flexed his jaw, his hand. The pain felt like the only correct thing.

George stepped away, crouching over and squinting at the floor by the wall he’d hit. Looking for his glasses. “Refusing to say it was only going to make things worse, for us and her.”

“He could try anything.”

“He could always try anything,” George said, brutally practical. “But not without consequence, this time. I hid the paring knife in the back of her waistband. I made sure she could reach it.”

The crushing weight of failure eased a bit. They’d been forced to confront the ugly truth of things, that there was only so much they could do to protect each other, but George had still managed to offer her some tangible measure of defence.

It wasn’t enough. It was something.

Lockwood walked over and scooped up George’s glasses from where they lay half under the kitchen cabinets. He hissed quietly, his fingers twitching as he held them out. “Here.”

George plucked them up. The loose arm was drooping. He placed them back on his face, catching Lockwood’s wrist before he could drop it to his side. “How bad does it hurt?”

“It isn’t too bad.”

“Yeah? Could you hold a rapier right now?”

“If I had to.”

George went finger by finger, gently pressing at the bones, the joints. “Lucky,” he said. He dropped Lockwood’s hand and stepped past him, flipping the kitchen faucet on. “Nothing broken or dislocated. Just bruising. Won’t be fun, but it won’t take too long to heal.”

He came back with a wet rag, which he wrapped around Lockwood’s hand, nearly too tight. It was cool, and the throbbing eased. With a satisfied nod, George turned and retreated to the cellar.

He opted for the bottom bunk, scooting all the way back so he could lean against the wall, legs outstretched and feet jutting out past the mattress.

Lockwood crawled in beside him, trying not to jostle him too much. “Are you okay? You went down hard.”

“I’m fine.” George ducked forward and touched the back of his head. “Knocked it on the corner, but I didn’t lose consciousness. No blood, see?” He held his fingers out for inspection.

But seeing wasn’t enough right now. Lockwood pushed up on his good hand and pulled his legs under him, so he was facing George straight on. His friend watched him settle. He reached around, sliding his unswaddled fingers into George’s hair, searching gently across his scalp.

“How close am I?”

“Move a little down. Now to the side…”

“There.” Lockwood pressed gingerly. “A bit of a bump.”

George had gone tight around the mouth and eyes. Lockwood left the injury, scratching gently at the nape of his neck instead. George’s head fell slightly forward, lips parting.

Lockwood hummed. “Bad?”

“Not bad.”

“Tell me when to stop.”

Lockwood had known enough kids with Touch as their primary Talent to be understanding, but it went further than that with George. He’d explained at one point that he didn’t actively dislike being physically close to people, even craving it at times, but that his tolerance could shift from day to day and consistently abstaining was less work than trying to explain to people why he suddenly couldn’t handle something he’d been fine with the day before. 

Lockwood kept it up. George was leaning back into his hand now, encouraging Lockwood to scratch harder. He was slumping, moment by moment, the tension seeping from his frame.

“You like Lucy,” George said.

Lockwood blinked. He made to pull his hand away, but the movement made George’s face pinch, so he didn’t. “Of course I like Lucy.”

“You like her differently than you like me.”

His first instinct was to deny, but it wasn’t an entirely erroneous statement. “Well, yes. She’s a different person.”

George nodded. “She’s tough. She’s going to be fine,” he said. It sounded like an ending statement to a conversation Lockwood hadn’t even gotten the lay of.

“You aren't going to ask me anything else about it?”

“Do I really want to?”

“Yes,” Lockwood said immediately. “In my experience, you always want to ask more about it.”

The faintest smile. “Okay, you have a point.” George pulled away, twisting and flopping back onto the bed. “Go on, tell me how she’s different.”

Lockwood laid down next to him, on his side so he could map the gentle ridges of his face. “You know you give me something special, don't you?”

George’s eyes slid towards him. “Me?”

“You gave me someone to come back to. You take me as I am, always, and I- well. It's appreciated. Lucy doesn't do that.”

George narrowed his eyes. “And that’s better?”

“What? No, we’re talking about different, who said anything about better? Do you think she’s better?”

“What?”

“Because she does things for you I don’t. She asks for more when I’ve always shut you down. She gets you to tell her stories about your family, and your childhood, and your aspirations, when I’m always too-” Even in a context like this, when he was doing barely more than admitting the past existed, Lockwood couldn’t make himself finish the sentence. “It’s good,” he said firmly. “It’s good that she makes you think about home, and the future, just like it’s good that she pushes me, makes me want to be better than what I am.”

“There’s nothing wrong with what you are.”

“Except when there is. But, you see? That’s exactly what I’m talking about. I like her differently because she makes us different. Do you understand what I mean?”

George snorted. “Yes, and also very much no.”

Lockwood rolled over onto his back. Lucy’s mattress sagged between the bars a bit, above him. A fun loopy sketch of George eating a sandwich she’d done a few days previously was slipped into the bedframe, easily visible to the person lying down. 

“Let’s do it,” Lockwood said. “The Type-Three’s address, let’s go take a look.”

George’s head whipped his way. “What, really?” He was half laughing. “What about this nightmare of a… maybe twenty minutes since you woke up prompted that decision?”

Because he loved the look of George alight with possibility and hated the dullness in his eyes when he explained how helpless they were. Because they could die out there or in here, and at least out there Lockwood would have a weapon in his hand. Because he could feel the fault lines moving beneath them and retreating to this cage out of some twisted sense of familiarity wasn’t going to stop the tremors.

He smiled. “I don’t know. Sounds like it could be exciting.”

Chapter Text

Dear Norrie, Lucy wrote out on the thinking wall.

She'd used it before, adding to the silent secondary conversations, games of hangman and tic-tac-toe, quotes, and doodles the boys regularly littered the plaster with through the days. But she’d never used it like this. The marker scraped across the surface, shaky words taking shape under her guidance. 

I can’t help but think if you could have come with me none of this would have happened.

Lucy stopped and reread. She looked behind her. George and Lockwood were sitting on the floor in front of the stove, cross-legged. A map from the secret room was spread in front of them. George’s finger was tracing a jagged line as he spoke, endearingly animated in the way he only got when explaining something. Lockwood was nodding, the dark hair he usually swept back with an impatient hand hanging loose over his forehead.

With a thoughtful tap of the marker cap against her chin, Lucy added: It could be worse. I’m not alone. I’m trying my best. I think you’d be proud.

When Lucy had set off for London she’d done so with a tape recorder, determined to keep Norrie in her life as best she could. Writing letters on walls that would never be seen by anyone but Lockwood and George was a poor substitute, but at least it kept Norrie from becoming a secret Lucy never told.

She wouldn’t have done this, before meeting Blackburn. But everything was out in the open now; she knew exactly which strings he was willing to pull to make her dance for him. There was nothing in her previous life her silence would safeguard.

I’m sorry, she wrote. I miss you.

-

When the final door had closed, leaving her alone with Carver, she’d expected the worst. She faced him, feet spread for balance, hand curling carefully around the handle of the knife George had placed at the small of her back.

He’d brushed past her. “Follow.”

She’d been led to a bathroom. The cuffs were undone, and she was handed a pile of clothes identical to the ones she was wearing. 

He guided her inside with a perfunctory push. “You have ten minutes.”

He left. For once Lucy could be the one to turn the lock.

It was surreal, scrubbing at herself as she stood under a stream of piping hot water not five minutes after she and her friends had fought for her life and been thoroughly overpowered.

They kept themselves relatively clean in the basement, there was a bucket and rag tucked under the sink for that specific purpose, but cupping handfuls of water over hair and scrubbing under their arms with dish soap could only do so much. This felt glorious; it was tempting to close her eyes and revel, but Lucy didn’t dally, trying to wash as thoroughly and quickly as possible.

She was towel-dried and dressed in clean clothes when Carver pounded against the door. She opened it and he motioned impatiently with the cuffs. “Hands.”

They were locked in front of her this time. Carver took her by the elbow and hauled her right past the basement. Lucy tensed up. “I’m not going back?”

“Let them stew for a while,” he sneered.

She was placed in the front passenger seat of his car, her wrist secured to the door handle. Carver didn’t speak to her as he drove, which she was more than happy with. She watched out the window. It was evening, brighter than she was used to, the houses cast in vibrant purple light that faded with every passing minute. They didn’t go far. At a curve in the street was a large house, boxy and grey, newer than its tall brick neighbours. People were entering in pairs and larger groups, altogether too relaxed for adults out after curfew.

“Can you behave?” Carver asked after the car was parked on the street, amidst the others.

“Yes,” Lucy said, the metal of the knife warm against her side where she’d placed it after her shower.

“Then say nothing.”

He took her down the side instead of through the front and into the back garden. It was modern and well kept, but there were markers of age there the house didn’t share; walls made of roughly hewn stone, a tree thicker at its base than she was tall, a half circle of corrugated iron with a makeshift wooden door set in an artificial hill. An Anderson shelter.

This was where Carver led her. He shoved the door aside and tugged her forward. She had to duck to clear the entrance as she descended the rough cement steps.

It was being used as a tool shed; shovels, rakes, hoes, and bags of potting soil leaned against the walls. There was one strange feature most tool sheds didn’t have; a half-rotten wooden chair set on a square of poured cement, where a short chain, thinner than the iron ones used by Agents, was anchored. 

“Sit.”

A padlock was looped over the connecting chain on the cuffs, locking the chain in place. Carver left without another word, forcing the door closed behind him.

The shelter was full of gaps but there was little light to seep in. There was, however, plenty of cold. Lucy scooted off the rickety chair and settled on the floor. She drew her knees to her chest and pulled her shirt over them. She wished she could draw her arms inside her sleeves, but the cuffs made this too difficult.

Time passed. The chill worked its way into her hands, feet, and bum. She could hear nothing, psychically or otherwise, not even wind.

Being alone was surprisingly unnerving. You’d think living in forced confinement with two teenage boys would have her clawing at the walls for some time to herself. But now, with the first bit of true privacy she’d had since she was taken, all she wanted was to go back to them. Even if using the toilet while knowing they could hear every bit of it was endlessly embarrassing. 

She had her head down when Carver returned. She scrambled to stand. The chain brought her up short, forcing her to hunch over.

Carver popped the padlock and led into the house through the back. The heat that hit her face was such a drastic change it made her nauseous for a second. She could hear the murmur of voices somewhere close.

They went upstairs. Carver turned to her and put a finger in her face. It took a stupendous effort not to bite it. 

“ Best behaviour,” he warned.

Once she stepped into the room he closed the door behind her. Carver hadn’t followed. She could see the shadow of his feet through the bottom gap, standing guard.

“Lucy Carlyle. It’s a pleasure.”

She turned slowly. It was a study, dark greens and woods, a bookcase against the back wall and a man sitting at a heavy desk.

“Blackburn,” she said.

He smiled. “Come take a seat.”

-

 Lockwood and George were waiting at the base of the steps when she returned, pulling her inside as soon as the door opened. Carver was already behind the bars, moving upwards.

“Are you okay?” George asked. “What happened? Where did he take you? Are you hurt?”

She waited to speak until the stairwell was completely locked down and Carver was gone.

“The knife,” she said. “Thank you.”

George kept asking questions. Lockwood said nothing, but she could feel him scanning her, looking for injuries.

She meant to tell him she was fine, that no one had harmed her, but instead, she said “You were right. He found someone to keep me here.”

They were silent and solemn for a long time.

They ate rice and drank tea. The boys tumbled into the bottom bunk like a pair of puppies and Lucy curled up on her own. She squeezed her eyes closed.

She must have been shifting around a lot, looking for a comfortable position, because Lockwood spoke eventually.

 “Sleep isn’t coming?”

“I still feel cold.”

She heard him move and felt the dip as his hand pressed into her mattress. “Can I help?”

She shrank back a bit. “It’s fine. I don’t want to be touched anymore.”

“Lucy.” Lockwood’s voice had gone deadly sharp. “Did anyone-”

“No, nothing like that. There was just a lot of manhandling. I’ll manage.”

Lockwood hummed.

“There’s something we can try,” George said from below. “You don’t have to, but you can still get warmth and pressure without feeling skin.”

“How?”

And that’s how she ended up wrapped completely in the sleeping bag George kept in the secret room, her back pressed tight against Lockwood’s.

“Is it working?” George asked from the top bunk.

“Yes.” It really was. She was on the outside of the mattress, she was the one making the choice to push back or pull away. The layers of fabric changed the form of his shoulders and spine, the heat of him, from something overwhelming to something nice. “This was a good idea, George.”

“He’s full of those.” She could hear the smile in Lockwood’s voice.

“As long as a Type-Three isn’t involved?” she joked.

There was a pause. “About that…”

Sleep did come, eventually, and when she woke she was warm.

-

Lockwood slept for hours straight.

When the light came on he was loath to move. Lucy wasn’t pressed to him anymore, but her feet were tucked gently against the back of his calves. It was the second time she’d done this; the first she’d been wrapped in George’s sleeping bag. This time she hadn’t, simply asking after the lights went off. George and Lockwood had scrambled to accommodate.

The mattress above squeaked and shifted. Lockwood was facing the wall, the plastered patch where the coal shoot had been filled in. He heard George drop down to the floor behind him, and hiss. It was most likely chilly to bare feet; George often lost his socks while he slept. Lockwood heard him yawn widely, and then shuffle off for the kitchen.

Lucy was breathing slow, calm. He couldn’t tell if she was awake or not. Lockwood closed his eyes and basked.

After a while an aroma settled in the rooms; nutty and sweet, cut with something a little livelier; cinnamon. A special treat.

Lockwood levered himself up. Careful not to disturb her too badly, he climbed over her knees. Goosebumps broke out on his arms as he left the comforter behind.

George pressed a cup into his hands the moment he approached. Lockwood curled over the tea, fingers warm and steam caressing his cheek.

“Porridge?” he asked.

George nodded. He tapped the rim of a second cup with his stirring spoon. “That’s Lucy’s.”

Lockwood drifted back into the cellar, her tea in hand. She hadn’t moved at all but her eyes were open. 

He smiled at her and presented her cup. “George made porridge. With cinnamon! So you know it’s special.”

She didn’t take the cup. She didn’t move at all, or even look at him.

“Lucy? Are you sick?”

Nothing.

He set the cups on the desk and crouched, so they were at eye level. “Luce?”

Slowly, like the action required all her energy, she shifted her gaze to him. Her eyes were glassy, apathetic. There was no expression on her face, not even recognition.

Lockwood’s heart plummeted. He knew what this was.

He stood, picked up the tea, and moved back to the kitchen.

“Not to her liking?” George asked when he set the cup back on the counter. “We’ve got to watch the sugar for a while–”

“It’s a bad day.”

George looked at him sharply. “Like…”

Lockwood nodded. He rubbed at his mouth, exhaling heavily. “Everything was going to hit her eventually. And with Norrie…”

It had been three days since Lucy had met Blackburn. Since she started telling them about her dearest friend.

George looked solemn, eyebrows peaked in concern. “Is she talking to you at all?”

“I didn’t push it.”

“Well. Take her some water, at least.”

He did. She didn’t respond to his cajoling, so he set the glass on the desk.

 “Alright, that’s okay. I’m going to make this simple. I’m going to touch your hand.” Gently he reached under the comforter, finding her fingers tucked under her chin. He slid his palm under hers. “One squeeze means no, two means yes. Can you eat anything, do you think?”

He waited. Patience was key. It took a while, but Lucy eventually squeezed once.

“You don’t have to yet. How about the water, can you drink some?”

Another single squeeze, quicker this time.

He nodded. “Alright. Is it helping to have company?”

She found his eyes again. She squeezed twice.

He smiled. He wanted to smooth the hair back from her face, to hold her close while whispering that nothing was going to hurt her. He wanted that to be true. “I’m glad. Should I keep talking?”

The quickest double squeeze yet, and the hardest.

“Alright, that I can work with. That can be all for right now if you’re done with questions.”

She pulled her hands away.

Lockwood drew back and stepped over to the row of books lined against the cellar wall opposite George’s desk. He picked one at random, something not too long that didn’t look like one of the non-fictions George preferred.

He arranged the desk chair so it was by her head, took a seat, and opened to the first page.

“All children,” he read, “except one, grow up. They soon know that they will grow up, and the way Wendy knew was this. One day when she was two years old she was playing in a garden…”

-

A tap on his shoulder. Lockwood blinked up at George. His voice was going scratchy, and his eyes felt dry and tired.

“I’ve reheated the porridge,” George said. “You need to stop and eat.”

Lockwood glanced Lucy’s way. She’d moved, curling up more fully under the cover so it was only the top of her head sticking out.

George nudged his shoulder with his fingers and reached out an expectant hand when he looked back up. “I’ll take over reading, while you see to it.”

“Okay,” Lockwood conceded, passing the book over. “Thank you.”

He ate his cinnamon-spiced porridge and drank his tea while leaning against the wall on the other side of the desk. He listened to George’s voice as he read on, recounting how Peter Pan was saved from the sea by the Never Bird in a low soothing tone.

“Hey, Lucy. Where did… here it is. Nevertheless the bird was determined to save him if she could, and by one last mighty effort she propelled the nest against the rock. Then up she flew; deserting her eggs, so as to make her meaning clear. Then at last he understood, and clutched the nest and waved his thanks to the bird as she fluttered overhead. It was not to receive his thanks, however, that she hung there in the sky; it was not even to watch him get into the nest; it was to see what he did with her eggs... ”

-

“I’ll drink the water,” Lucy said quietly.

It was the first time she’d talked all day. They’d finished the first story and moved to a second after he’d taken her hand and asked if she’d like him to continue.

Lockwood sat straight, shutting the book. There was a crick growing in his neck and shoulders. “That’s great,” he said warmly. “I’ll get you some new from the tap.”

He poured out the old in the empty sink. George had done the breakfast dishes. He felt a pang of guilt but moved on quickly. It was the kind of thing George would stare at him incredulously for if he apologised for it.

He brought her the new glass. Lucy sat up, still slow and hazy-eyed. She took it from him. “You’re good at this. Taking care of people.”

“I’m copying George, honestly.” he looked up to the top bunk, meeting his friend’s eyes.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to use up the whole day.”

“Lucy,” he said, soft. “It’s alright. Some days are just like this, for all of us. Taking care of you isn’t a hardship.”

Her face fractured. He rejoiced as the lethargy fell away, and ached at the anguish that took its place.

“What do you need?” he asked.

“Can I have a hug?”

“Of course.”

She drifted to sleep in his arms. When she woke again she was willing to eat what George gave her, to sit on top of the comforter instead of beneath it. When the lights turned off at the end of their day she was talking quietly with Lockwood, George tucked behind her, running their hairbrush gently through her hair.

-

It was nearly a month before they got placed on a job close enough to the Type-Three’s address for them to put their plan in motion.

It was an overcast night and the air was heavy with chill. The cloud cover trapped the artificial light from the ghost lamps, and though George’s proposed route through sprawling gardens and footpaths had kept them from most of the houses and streets, there was still a hazy green-grey cast over everything. 

Large looming trees reached above them, and lush bushes reached into the overgrown footpath, their leaves brushing against George’s jeans, jacket, and cheeks as they pushed through. Lockwood strode in front of him, his bobbing head hiding and revealing the distant face of a large house. Lucy was at his side. George held a torch in one hand and their kit bag in the other. He clicked the light on when one of them got tangled or tripped up but kept it off the rest of the time for stealth purposes.

They didn’t speak as they stepped out of the trees and up to a high wire fence. There was a DEPRAC sign warning them away, the second they’d seen tonight. The first had been fixed to a large iron gate further down the hill. 

A good shove from Lockwood was enough to get them through. 

He slowed as they approached the white rotting wood and large glass windows of a greenhouse. “What are we looking for, exactly?

“Research,” George said. “It has to be something he learned at the Sanatorium before it burned. Something about death.”

George had managed to glean a bit about the site while researching for other jobs. Not enough by any standard, the last thing they needed was Carver's suspicion, but a handful of useful facts. There were two ruins on the property; the Green Gates Sanatorium, which a fire had reduced to ashes in the late 1800s, and the home of Dr. Edmund Bickerstaff, who’d gone missing around the same time. A housing development had been planned at one point and then abandoned due to disturbances. The address the Type-Three had given them was for Bickerstaff’s house.

Lockwood put his elbow through a window pane, reached inside, and opened the greenhouse door. “We’ve got to be careful on this. It’s the very dead of night, manifestations will be in full swing.” As soon as they stepped inside he turned to them. “Did the walk settle everyone? Any lingering miasma or creeping fear?”

“I’m good to go,” Lucy promised, and George gave an agreeing nod. They were coming straight from a job in Cricklewood. They’d arrived around eight and had the pair of Limbless terrorising a small hotel subdued before the clock struck ten. They’d still been shaking off the experience when they scurried out the back with their kit, swinging around the well-lit street and well-to-do houses of Hampstead Hill to reach the ruins at the end of Whitestone Lane. 

Lockwood nodded back seriously, unsheathed his rapier, and led them in. 

-

“Hear anything?”

“Not yet.”

There was a stillness to the cavernous halls of the Bickerstaff Mansion. They were progressing carefully, Lucy and George taking turns placing a hand on closed doors, trying to follow the traces of history with their Touch.

“I wish we knew where the study was,” George muttered. He might have been the one most excited about this, but he never liked acting without good information. He’d never trusted luck with something as important as survival.

Lockwood shifted his grip on his weapon. “If our friendly ghost-jar was telling Lucy the truth, Bickerstaff uncovered something truly revolutionary. It will be somewhere hidden.”

“He might have been lying,” she warned, “or he was fooled himself. He called Bickerstaff Master.”

“Master?” Lockwood asked. “Strange.”

“Could just mean the head of the house, given the time period,” George said.

“Or,” Lockwood proposed, “we’ve been coerced into a rousing game of my-cult-leader-is-better-then-yours.”

The next door was Lucy’s, and the instant her hand wrapped around the knob George knew by her face that they’d found something. “I’m getting traces,” she whispered.

He pressed close. “Of what?”

“Cigars, drinking, men. The laughter doesn’t feel right.” She pushed it open.

When nothing immediately made itself known George turned on the torch. The ceiling was so high it ate the light he pointed its way. There was a massive white marble fireplace. The floor was littered with debris, and in the centre sat a peculiar table, dwarfed by the rest of the room.

“Death glows,” Lockwood reported, eyes locked on it. “Faint, but with the amount of time that’s passed they were once remarkably strong.”

“Operating table,” George said. “But not a standard one. Look at the grooves, the spouts.”

Lucy stepped forward, taking a careful look around before she ran her hand along the wood. She pulled away with a grimace. “I can hear sawing. Something dripping, too. I thought he was a shrink.”

“Over here.” Lockwood was crouched in front of the fireplace. George pointed the torch his way. 

There was a thin line inside the fender, a gap in the hearth. Lockwood ran a finger along it, clearing dust. 

“A trap door. There will be a switch.” George began to push and pull on the ornamental mantle piece.

“Wait,” Lucy said. “You should take a step back, Lockwood.”

He turned towards her. “Do you feel something?”

She shook her head, face screwed up tight. “Nothing,” she said. “But you have to listen to me-”

“I do,” Lockwood said simply, standing and taking a step back. “I trust your Talent and your judgement. We’ll go carefully.”

George had been thinking a lot about the conversation he’d had with Lockwood the day Lucy had been taken upstairs alone. He’d been watching, wanting to make his own conclusions.

He thought he was beginning to understand what Lockwood had meant about different, not better.  

Lockwood was an anomaly. Their approaches to things were nearly always diametrically opposed, but there had always been a natural accord, an unquantifiable connection. Lucy wasn’t the same. She didn’t understand him naturally, but she was starting to get him anyway, purely because she wanted to. She asked questions, she remembered his answers, and she noticed when he was content and when he was upset. Lucy was what he’d been hoping to find, probably, when he joined Fittes. Embarrassingly enough he’d assumed the thing that set him apart so starkly from those around him must be an aspect of having Talent, and when those Sensitive enough traded playground games for career moves he’d be folded in among them without incident. It had been a rude awakening, to find that in every setting people found him odd.

Lockwood made him feel like being his friend was something easy, and Lucy made him feel like it was worth the effort. Lockwood was a fire he was invited to hold, but she brought something shy and giddy out in him he’d thought he’d lost the first time one of his teammates sneered the word freak his way.

And here Lockwood was, shifting himself again. Carefully had always been an externally motivated necessity, and to hear Lockwood choose it and mean it was something strange and new. But there was another angle George was starting to notice. He saw it now; how Lucy reacted, how she tucked the words away somewhere safe inside her, the tightness of her face relaxing just a bit.

It wasn’t just them. As much as Lucy was changing him and Lockwood, they were changing her too.

The lever turned out to be one of the spouts on the table. The bottom of the fireplace swung upward, revealing a steep wooden ladder with wide steps.

“Call it recent trauma,” George said dryly, “but I don’t think we should go down without a way to keep the exit open.”

The torch in his hand sputtered, and died.

“Right.” Lockwood shifted his shoulders, which made the red raincoat he’d nicked from the hotel make a funny swishing sound. “You two go, I’ll secure our retreat.”

“Why you?”

“It’s Lucy’s Talent that’s got us this far, and you're the one who knows what to look for. Hurry now.”

The ladder was sturdy underfoot. Lucy went first, rapier held in front of her. “Something awful happened here,” she said. George could feel it too, like the change in pressure before a storm. “There’s a lamp. Wish we had a lighter.”

George shifted so he could stick his hand in his trouser pocket. “I’ve got a matchbook, from the hotel.” He pulled it out and flipped it open. “Bring it here.”

The second match caught. Lucy held the lantern steady, as he carefully lit it.

The orange glow lit up Lucy’s face. She was smiling at him so warmly he felt it in his chest. “You have incredibly sticky fingers, George Karim.”

“It’s one of his best attributes,” Lockwood said glibly from above.

“I’m hardly the only one, Mr Coat Thief.” 

Lucy swung the lantern around and they got their first good look at the room.

It was larger than their basement but less inviting. A pillar stood directly in front of them and anchored high on its face was a pair of shackles.

They went as quickly as they dared. Each discovery deepened George’s dread; there were more shackles, more chains, stalls with suspicious dark slatters on the tiled walls, and an excess of medical instruments, either wickedly bladed or wickedly curved.

Halfway down the room, Lucy gasped, spinning around.

George drew his rapier and called her name.

She’d gone pale. “Something knows we’re here.”

“We need to hurry.”

At the far end of the room was a desk. George exhaled, relieved, and began to dig through its drawers. Lucy quickly began doing the same. “What are we looking for?”

George tossed a stack of loose papers on the desk. “Something unusual, something secret. Look for secret doors-” 

Lucy hissed a curse and took him by the elbow, reeling him back. “Ghost fog.”

It was seeping under the desk in thin tendrils.

“Lockwood, it’s started!” Lucy called.

She went around one side of the desk and him the other. He could feel malaise sneaking in, a subtle drain of drive and energy.

“George,” Lucy said. “I’ve found-”

A wind came with force from behind them. The lamp went out, the papers scattered, and the ghost fog was forced back and up the ladder. Lockwood shouted. The trap doors slammed shut.

A figure, smokey and indistinct, seemed to expand into existence, and then contract into nothing.

Lucy was holding her chest, curled forward protectively. “The way they sound-”

There could be answers hidden right behind them, answers that would save lives, would change the world. 

“He killed them,” Lucy gasped out, derisive.

Sometimes being a man of science meant understanding that there were lines. There were questions which were not worth answering because of the pain and misery doing so would entail. Bickerstaff had taken the dark road of discovery. George wouldn’t sacrifice his life, Lucy’s, trying to follow. There would be another chance. There had to be.

“We need to get out,” he said. “Now.”

Lucy nodded. “On three.”

The figures dissipated on a sigh.

“Three!” she shouted, and they ran together. The Visitors, ever-growing in number, reformed behind them as they clambered up the steps. The exit popped open ahead of them, Lockwood’s doing. They were going to make it– 

George felt his jacket snag on something. His foot missed the next step. Lucy was slightly ahead, halfway through the trapdoor. George shoved her upwards. As she stumbled out he felt himself lose balance, beginning to lean too far backwards. He didn’t have to look behind him to know. There were many, and they were close.

Lockwood’s hand fisted in his jacket, and then Lucy’s the second after. They pulled. The jacket caught and tore, and he was hauled nearly off his feet and out of danger.

“Run,” Lockwood ordered, and they did.

They sprinted all the way out of Blackburn’s mansion. There was a dry fountain halfway between the house and the fence and they came to a stop there, panting, cursing, and laughing in the way one does when they can’t quite believe they’re alive.

“Good call, Lockwood,” Lucy gasped. “If you hadn’t been there at the door...”

“I’m sorry.” George plopped down on the side of the fountain. “You were right, it was just a trap.”

Lucy hummed and stepped towards him. She was holding something, he realised. Something old, leatherbound. “It might still be nothing,” she said. “But it was in a secret drawer.”

She placed it in his lap. George scrambled for his torch with one hand, and the leather tie holding it closed with the other.

He couldn’t read the language. He didn’t even know what language it was, and that was thrilling all on its own. But the illustrations, the context…

This was it. This was it.

He looked up in amazement. Her hair was a mess, her coat covered in dust, her face was red with exertion, and her chest was still heaving. She was fiddling with the edge of her jacket, hiding her anxiousness behind a harsh frown, and she was-

“You’re incredible.” He said. 

She smiled, and Lockwood laughed. Soon they were all doing so, basking in the wake of a real, tangible victory.

And then a voice rang out from near the house. “Hey! What are you doing here-”

There was a real live person walking towards them. A real live person that froze as they instinctively turned his way.

“Oh shit,” Lockwood said. “Go!”

They ran again. They were already drained and out of breath, but had enough distance to squeeze through the fence and hare off into the underbrush before the Agent could reach them. They crouched, pressed tightly together, peering through leaves as they tried to control their breathing. 

The figure ran up, then past them, slowing to a stop to look wildly around. A grey Fittes uniform, a sharp face, and a shock of light hair.

That was Quill Kipps, George’s old colleague and Lockwood’s unwitting accomplice for Source removal.

“TONY!” He roared into the night.

Well. That was going to be a problem, wasn’t it.

-

“I really didn’t think he’d remember me,” Lockwood said.

They’d managed to make it to the hotel without being discovered by Kipps or Carver. They’d holed up in a room on the first floor with a window facing the street, washing off the grime and shaking out their clothes. George was now sitting on the floor, Bickerstaff's papers scattered around him. Lucy and Lockwood were sprawled on the mattress, the bottoms of their shoes the only thing visible from his vantage point.

“You weren’t close?” Lucy asked.

“Me and Kipps? Hardly. We were in the same circles, but I’d never call us friends.”

“Then why do you leave Sources with him?”

“Because he’s ambitious, uptight, and unimaginative. He’d never jeopardise his career by telling someone Sources were mysteriously appearing in his room, but he’d also never see an option outside of destroying them.”

George scratched his chin. “I wonder why he was there tonight. Do you think Fittes was hired to clear Bickerstaff’s?”

“By who?”

“The land developers, maybe.”

Headlights beamed through the window. Lockwood sat up. “Time to go.”

George hurriedly began gathering papers. The plan was to wrap their find up with the Sources. Inside a silver net was the one place Carver, no matter how suspicious, would never look. They should be able to smuggle the pages into Source Storage without much difficulty, where they’d hide them for now.

They gave each other a once over, making sure there were no obvious tells, gathered their kit and headed for the front door.

Lockwood cracked it open and paused.

“What?”

“That isn’t Carver.”

George and Lucy crowded him, peeking through the gap. Instead of Carver’s sleek black vehicle idling at the curb, there was a Night Cab.

“Not more Agents,” Lockwood groused. “Do you think a hotel guest called someone?” 

The front window rolled down, giving them a clear view of the driver.

Lockwood stepped back. “He’s Blackburn’s. Will you be okay, Lucy?”

She had taken a step back, her face distressed one second, and then carefully stoic the next. “Come on,” she said and stepped out.

Lucy got in the back seat first, immediately wedging herself against the far door, hands clasped in her lap. George got in second, and then immediately realised he should have let Lockwood have the middle, awkward spider legs or not. This was Lucy’s upset face.

The silver net was stowed carefully in the footwell. The cab began to pull away as soon as Lockwood was seated.

George used the action of snapping his seatbelt into place to hide how he leaned into Lockwood. “What’s wrong?” he whispered.

Lockwood ducked his head close. “This is the cab that hit her,” he told George, “And he’s…”

“Got it.” The man who sold her out to Blackburn. He itched to fix it, but he didn’t know what comfort he could offer, what she’d accept. There was no blanket here to envelop her in, no cup of tea to press into her hands, and he didn’t know if there was anything else she’d want from him.

Well. He did know what she’d want from Lockwood.

“Would you like to hold hands?” He whispered to her. She looked up and slowly nodded.

He took Lockwood carefully by the wrist. Lucy made a startled sound when he did the same with her. He pulled and they let him manoeuvre them, Lockwood readily and Lucy with just a touch of resistance. He placed Lockwood's hand over his lap, and Lucy’s hand over Lockwood’s. With no further prompting, Lockwood took it, squeezing her fingers once before lowering them to rest gently on George’s knee. Lucy relaxed a bit, her hand turning to better fit into his. George nodded to himself. It felt bittersweet but satisfying, knowing what would help, even if he couldn’t do the helping.

But then Lucy was tucking herself against him, hiding her face completely in his shoulder, the rest of the tension melting from her frame.

George froze. Slowly he turned his head towards Lockwood. What do I do, he mouthed.

Lockwood’s eyes were sparkling. He had an eyebrow lifted and a curl to his lips just barely on the soft side of a smirk.

Don’t sneeze, he mouthed back, having apparently decided to be completely unhelpful.

The sky was beginning to lighten when the cab stopped in front of the warehouse. They broke apart reluctantly, Lockwood and George spilling out of one side and Lucy opted for the other. Carver was waiting.

“Hey,” the driver said, speaking for the first time since the hotel. He was looking at Lucy. “I hope you’ll see someday that what I did was to save you–”

She threw the door shut with force, stalking around the back of the cab to fall in on Lockwood’s right. 

“Let’s get this done,” she said, voice thick with feeling, “and go to sleep.”

“Stellar plan,” Lockwood agreed, and they stepped towards Carver as one.

Chapter Text

“Firstly, Dr. Blackburn, thank you for taking the time to speak with me.”

Blackburn and the interviewer were sitting in cushy chairs inside a mock library. Lockwood couldn’t see them very clearly with the boxy television sitting on a low cabinet by the wall and him at the other end of a long table, But he could hear them. Catherine had cranked the volume so high their voices distorted slightly.

“It’s a pleasure to be here,” he replied. He was reclined, legs crossed, relaxed. 

The interviewer, a professionally dressed woman with perfectly quaffed hair, was eagerly leaning forward with her hands clasped in her lap. “We’re here to talk about VYR of course, but you’ve been heading programs supporting Talented youth and their families for years, correct?”

“That’s right.”

“What made you decide this was what you wanted to spend your life doing?”

The camera closed in on Blackburn’s beatific smile. “I always knew I had something to give. In my twenties I started to see post-Talent struggles first-hand in the lives of those around me, and how woefully unsupported those individuals were. That was all it was. There was a need, and I had a vision.”

The eight kids at the table, dressed in white shirts and bent completely to their tasks, spoke as one. “Laud the eye that sees.”

Lockwood shot a glance to his left. Catherine was seated in a chair she’d brought from somewhere else in the Children’s House, completely enthralled by the interview. She hadn’t noticed his silence. The dark-haired girl beside him had, and was shooting him a poisoned look for not joining the refrain. He winced apologetically.

“But most of your work nowadays is geared towards youth who still have their Talents, correct?”

“That’s a very narrow scope.” His tone was nearly reproachful. “Yes, VYR serves that demographic, but the benefits of the programs reach far beyond. Most of the staff, leadership, financial backers, and volunteers either are or care about someone who is Post-Talented. Building that safety for this generation, it’s an important part of their own healing.”

“Let’s talk about safety.” The interviewer straightened in posture and expression. “You’ve been quoted sharing some interesting views on how the Problem is dealt with in this country, even condemning the Agencies as a whole. How do you propose Talented youth should be supported, and do you think your solutions are practical?”

Something unusual flickered across Blackburn’s face. “When dealing with necessary evils one must decide just how much evil is necessary. I believe this society has failed to do that. Does the burden of the Problem rest on the shoulders of those with Talent? Yes. But there are other burdens they bear that have nothing to do with the Problem and everything to do with money. Those in charge are failing their duty to protect and to guide.”

“You think there’s a better way?”

All I’m saying is those who can should be looking.”

“Laud the eye that sees,” the kids intoned. The girl’s glare worsened. 

Lockwood bent his head over his work. There were six boxes on the table, each holding a different item. Brown paper bags were passed from person to person, each placing something from the box in front of them inside. When the bags finished their circuit they held a water bottle, a pair of clean socks, an oat bar, fruit snacks, a few plasters, and a VYR pamphlet.

The care packages would go with the adult followers of Blackburn, most of whom held night jobs of one kind or another. They would give them to anyone they came in contact with; agents, night-watch, Sensitives, cab drivers, waterfront diner owners, and every flavour of night-bound criminal. Charity, from those Blackburn hid his sins from. Bait, from those who knew.

“VYR is approaching its tenth anniversary,” the interviewer said. “How does that make you feel?”

“Vindicated,” Blackburn said. “I knew there was another way, and I was right. The community which has sprung up around me is evidence. We can thrive when we hold together, without causing further harm to the young people in our charge.”

Lockwood snorted. The girl slammed a water bottle onto the table. He didn’t know if it was a threat or a warning.

“What do you think is next?”

Blackburn looked directly at the camera. “Now that I’ve found the truth, I cannot constrict it. There must be expansion. VYR and all its affiliated branches must grow and reach beyond London, beyond the UK as a whole. More eyes must see what I have seen.”

A chill worked up Lockwood’s spine.

“Laud the eye that sees,” the others said.

A hand gripped his shoulder. “I didn’t hear you, dear,” Catherine said.

His stomach was tight with hunger. There was always an activity scheduled at the Children’s House, and very seldom did that schedule allow time for meals, or sleep, or talk with one’s peers. He, George, and Lucy had received no breaks since they arrived several hours earlier, but he knew some of those he was working beside had been hungry for longer.

 “Apologies,” he said, giving Catherine his most imploring look. “The Sight is such an astounding speaker, I got caught up.”

He wasn’t sure it would work at first, but then Catherine smiled indulgently and patted his shoulder. “Mistakes are a part of growth, but so is discipline. This is your second warning. You only get one more.”

The interviewer was laughing. She must have found something Blackburn said to be clever. “One thing is for sure, we need more people like you, Doctor.”

Lockwood ducked his head. “I understand.”

When the refrain was said again he mouthed the words under Catherine’s watchful eye, earning a nod of approval, but he didn’t add his voice to the chorus.

-

Lockwood had moved on to slipping cards into envelopes when Carver returned to retrieve them. Lockwood trailed behind as he collected Lucy from making beds upstairs, and George from the laundry room.

They checked on each other, murmuring questions and gently brushing against hands and shoulders as Carver had a short conversation with Catherine. The Children’s House was designed to encourage isolation and disorientation, with strict rules, sporadic meal times, constant observation, blacked-out windows, and no clocks. It had been a strain spending so long separated and unable to converse.

Carver thrust something towards him. “Change.”

He unfurled the bundle of blue and orange to find a jumpsuit, someone’s name stitched on the front pocket. 

"A Night-watch uniform?" Lucy asked.

Lockwood shrugged. "Must need to blend in, whatever we’re about to do.”

George started working on the buttons. “No one looks twice at a night-watch kid.”

After they’d finished they followed Carver out in a clump. It was night, sunset having passed them by completely. Lockwood cocked his head as they reached the curb. “This is new. Well, new isn’t the right word.”

Previously Carver had driven a sleek black car, long and low with rounded edges. This one was much older, boxier, and bluer. The hinges creaked when Carver tugged the back door open.

It was a tighter fit, all of their legs bent at comical angles. Lockwood leaned forward when Carver got into the driver’s seat. “Why the downgrade?”

“You don’t want to start with me, Lockwood. Not today.”

There was something dangerous in the tone. He didn’t even need Lucy’s staying hand on his forearm to ease back.

They weren’t returning to the basement, both the uniforms and their route made that clear. They were moving beyond the neighbourhood Blackburn controlled, going south. Most cases which stretched beyond that boundary were preluded by George being pulled upstairs to research, but not this one. Lockwood started taking stock as they crossed the Thames on an empty London Bridge. They might be on a case tonight, and he needed to be on top of it. Everyone should be relatively stable emotionally, but he’d check in once Carver left in case something had happened while they’d been separated. No one had any noteworthy injuries. The biggest hurdles would be hunger (the oat bars he’d snuck out in his socks would help) and fatigue. He hoped Carver had stocked their kit decently, he was infuriatingly hit or miss about that.

They slowed on an empty street. It was an older bit of the city made of narrow roads, uneven pavement, and tall brick buildings sporting graffiti, water-damage, and crumbling mortar. Carver had turned his headlights off when they crossed the bridge and cut the engine when they entered a short tunnel, the clanking of a train overhead nearly drowning out his voice.

“Here’s how things are going to go. You will walk to the end of this street. There will be a an antique store called Winkman’s. You will go inside and steal anything you think could make some money, and you’ll head back towards the bridge, where I’ll meet you. You will not tell anyone of this, not even Blackburn. Do you understand?”

“This isn’t a manifestation? You’re sending us on a robbery?”

His hands clenched down on the steering wheel. “Do you have the slightest idea what type of hell you put me through this week?”

Somehow none of them said anything smart.

Carver smiled, eyes cold. “How was your romp around Hampstead Hill?”

The fear both locked up his body and sent Lockwood’s mind spinning. Carver turned in his seat, throwing his arm over the passenger headrest, so he could look at them directly.

Lockwood’s voice came back. “I don’t know what–”

“Consider carefully,” Carver said, oozing menace, “Before you lie to me. I know you were there, I was told so by DEPRAC.”

Goosebumps broke out on Lockwood’s arms and the back of his neck. “DEPRAC?”

“They showed up at the hotel, you remember that place right, where you were supposed to be? Apparently, a matchbook with the hotel name on it was found in an active haunting right after a trio of unidentified suspects fled the scene.”

Carefully Lockwood reached for the door handle. He pulled it back slowly and pressed his weight against the window. Nothing. Child locks.

“I don’t care what you were doing. I’ve never felt the need to crack down before when you showed up with extra items, or suspiciously out of breath, because you never brought attention to yourselves and you always came back. We had a system, an understanding. But now you think you’re in charge of yourselves, saying no, drawing the attention of DEPRAC! ” Carver slammed his hand down on the seat with sudden vitriol. Lucy jumped. George had gone completely blank, eyes glazed. “A girl shows up and you two want to show off, is that it?”

Lockwood pulled a bit forward, so his shoulder was slightly in front of Lucy. “Listen-”

“Shut up. I’ll tell you when I want to hear your voice. You need to understand the chain of cause and effect, here. If you commit arson, someone has to pay for it. If you refuse to come when I say, I’ll come in and get you myself. If you bring DEPRAC down on us, you rob any place I say because if you don’t I will report this to Blackburn and he’ll cut you loose within the hour. Ask Lockwood if you don’t believe me, girl, he knows. Get out there and get me what I want. Say yes sir.”

“Yes sir,” they chorused.

He clicked the locks. “Get out of the car.”

They did, and quickly. They stood bunched up against the side of the tunnel while Carver unlocked the trunk, tossing a kit bag at their feet.

Lockwood stepped forward. “I want a guarantee.”

Carver’s hand snapped out, roughly grabbing his arm and hauling him close. “Still negotiating? After all this trouble you’re lucky I haven’t put a knife through your throat and been done with it.”

“Revise your terms with Blackburn,” Lockwood proposed, “And we’ll stop pushing our luck.” 

His free hand clamped down on Lockwood's neck. “You have bigger problems than your silly bet, boy.”

“Seems like our biggest problem to me.”

Carver’s face changed, less apocalyptic, more inquisitive. “You can’t want a shot at my job that badly.”

“No, you keep control if that’s what you want. But we keep Lucy.”

His expression shuttered. “Why wouldn’t you keep Lucy?”

“The terms. You wanted her gone.”

“When did I say that?”

“Blackburn said–”

Realisation washed over them both. Carver’s grip on his neck tighted painfully and then slackened. Lockwood held his hands up in wary surrender. Blackburn. He’d told Lockwood that Carver had asked for Lucy’s death, not because it was true but because he knew it would make him desperate, and messy.

“Still think this test is for you?” he asked, voice carefully neutral. Carver shoved him back a step, not nearly as hard as he would have the second before, and stormed to the car. He drove off erratically, and too fast.

They stood, staring down an empty street. 

“Blackburn set us up,” Lucy said.

Lockwood readjusted his uniform. “Or set Carver up, it’s hard to say.”

“But why?”

“It’s a game to him. What reason does he need? Let’s gear up.”

“I don’t like this,” George muttered as he unzipped the bag.

“Thankfully we’re rather splendid at doing things we don’t like,” Lockwood said, deliberately cheerful. “Shore up everyone. Might not be a haunting, but we’ll still suffer for it if we go in upset. Oh! I almost forgot. Here, I brought oat bars.”

-

The brick building was well-lit when they approached, bright lamps shining down on arched windows. Above them, written on dark green signage, were the words Winkman’s Antiques Emporium.

They went around the side, checking doors along the way. Lockwood approached a large loading dock door. He rattled the handle and found the lock simple and loose.

Lucy hovered behind him and George pressed against the wall with the empty bag over his shoulder, craning his head back the way they’d come. There’d been precious little in the kit bag, only a rapier and ski mask for each of them. Lucy wordlessly passed him the paring knife she’d been keeping on her, and Lockwood slipped its blade under the latch and levered up. It gave. He slid the door open and they slipped inside.

He knew immediately that these weren’t your standard DEPRAC-mandated antiques. A subtle glow wafted through the room, strong enough he could probably map it by other-light alone. Suits of armour, life-sized teddy bears and other oddities stood beside long shelves holding items of every kind. Unlike Blackburn’s Source Storage, there weren’t many silver glass boxes and no George to impose organisation. 

“I’m seeing some spectral trails,” he relayed in a hushed voice, slipping the knife into his pocket. “Lucy, George?”

“There’s a lot to hear,” Lucy whispered. Her words were slightly difficult to make out through her mask. “So much I can barely make anything out. Like the airways are jammed.” 

“General bad energy,” George agreed.

Lucy cracked open a wooden box and picked up a stuffed bear. “They’re relics.”

George visibly shivered. “Great, fantastic. We aren’t prepared for this.”

Lockwood was inclined to agree. “We need to be quick. Go for the strongest pulls.”

He followed his Sight. In only a few minutes the strain began to build, a wiggle in his temple that would become needle-sharp if he kept it up for too long. He turned left, drawn to a greatsword dripping a blue-white shine. He took the hilt and began to lift, careful to keep the blade from scraping against anything, but after a second of consideration set it back down. On second thought he should choose objects that wouldn’t be such a pain to lug up the street. He looked around for something else.

There was a doorway, presumably leading to the store section of the building, partitioned off by a curtain of hanging beads. These beads were swaying gently as if someone had just stepped through.

Lockwood checked on his friends. Lucy was closest, walking through the shelves slowly. George was still by the exit, pushing the lid back on a metal trunk. Behind George, rapier drawn, was a figure in black. They were trying to move silently and had their own mask pulled over their face.

“Excuse me,” Lockwood called out, clear and loud. Lucy and George both spun his way, Lucy with a flurry of incredulous hand motions, and George with confusion that quickly became alarm as he registered the nearby danger. “I’m afraid this is our break-in, why don’t you reschedule yours for later this week?”

George lurched away. The stranger’s rapier flashed out but he ducked the strike. Lockwood grabbed something small off the nearest shelf and tossed it as hard as he could. It smashed into a hanging mirror to the left of the attacker’s shoulder and they reared back, buying George enough time to duck under a low wooden table.

Lucy had made it to Lockwood’s side. 

“Get George," he said. “I’ll draw attention. Go!”

They ran forward together.

There was something exhilarating about crossing blades with a living person. Lockwood didn’t often get to experience the fierce pride of a successful parry or the excitement of a well-timed riposte these days. The match was fast and forceful. He quickly realised he was at a disadvantage; not outmatched, but without the endurance he once had claimed. He began to lose his form when the force of a blow reverberated down his arm.

He was desperately twisting to avoid a strike he couldn’t quite block when he noticed. His opponent wasn’t forcing him back. If anything they were giving ground, slowly retreating towards the trunk. No, not the trunk, towards the door George had been unintentionally blocking.

Which meant they wanted to leave. The thief already had whatever they’d come for.

“What’s going on in here!”

A quick glance to the side saw Lucy and George standing free of the table, but positioned shoulder to shoulder, their rapiers drawn. A woman with long blonde hair was standing before them with a short pole, wicked electricity dancing at its tip.

The plan came like a thunderclap. With a deft dart in Lockwood slipped the tip of his rapier into the thief's left pocket, the one with a slight lump that they were sacrificing technique to keep farthest from him, and flicked. Something small, light, and glinting flew towards the ceiling, and if he’d got the angle right–

“Plan Y!”

Lucy and George both looked up.

The object dropped towards them, and Lucy caught it handily.

“Regroup!”

They ran for him as he ran for them, their opponents chasing quickly after. He grabbed George’s jacket, who in turn latched onto Lucy. 

“Drop,” he barked.

 They hit the floor as one. The screeching woman’s taser and the silent thief’s rapier clashed right over their heads, electricity zipping down the blade. The thief was hurled backwards. They landed hard, and they didn’t move again.

A man charged into the room yelling, but they were already skirting past the downed thief and racing for the door. Lucy slipped out, then George, then Lockwood–

When he was halfway through someone clamped down on his arm, wrenching him back. Lucy grabbed onto him and tugged. George threw his shoulder into the door, keeping the gap impassable. Through the foggy window pane, Lockwood could see the woman with the taser stepping over the other thief and stalking towards them, smiling viciously.

“Brace!” Lucy ordered, and let him go. Lockwood did, leveraging against the door with his other hand. He managed to not be pulled inside, but no amount of effort could gain him any freedom or leeway.

The man thrust his head into the gap, wild-eyed, expression twisted in a frightful grimace. Lockwood’s feet were scrambling, the arm pushing back against the door starting to shake. His shoulder was slowly being forced through the opening, back into the building. Lucy’s hand slipped into his back pocket.

“Do you know who I am,” The man, probably Mr. Winkman, growled. “You think you can steal from me and live? You’re dead –”

And then he was howling in pain, rearing back. Lockwood fell onto the pavement the second he was loose. There was a wet warmth on his face, his neck. Winkman’s blood. 

 Winkman was cradling his hand to his chest, the hand Lucy had slammed a paring knife straight through. The handle was still sticking out of his flesh. Winkman locked eyes with him for an instant, and then George was shoving the door closed.

Lucy backed up. “Get up, we need to run–”

“Don’t run yet,” George grunted. He was braced against the wood. Lockwood got his feet under him just as someone rammed against the door. It swayed and shuddered. There was a battle cry from inside. It shook with force, again, then again, then again. Through it all George held steady. After a few more hits there was a sudden stillness. He waited another second before breaking from his position.

“Now!” George ran in the opposite direction of the street where Carver had dropped them, and Lockwood and Lucy followed. A shout rang out. Lockwood chanced a look behind them; the woman had gone around and out the shop’s front and was running towards the man staggering out, blood trailing down his arm. If they’d gone past the storefront she’d have cut them off.

“Thank God for you, George,” He laughed. They veered left, then down an alley.

Making it back to the bridge without being caught wasn’t dissimilar to evading Kipps on Hampstead Hill. The only real differences were that buildings provided less cover than a woodsy patch of land, and their pursuer spent much less time screaming into the void.

They were all tired, teetering on the edge of an adrenaline crash. “Almost there,” Lockwood assured his friends as they peeked around the corner of a tall building. The street jutted out past both it and the glow of the single ghost-lamp present, disappearing into the dark. The bridge.

They jogged up the road, wary and half-crouched.

“Will Carver even let us go back? We didn’t manage to steal anything for him,” George said.

Lucy hummed. She had a hand clutched over her pocket. “About that—”

A shock of brightness, their pitch-coloured shadows jumping into existence and stretching a building’s length ahead of them. They turned to find headlights, fast approaching. They sprinted away.

The vehicle screeched to a stop behind them. It was a delivery van, grey and nondescript. The door opened and Winkman jumped out.

They couldn’t run onto the bridge, it would be a deathtrap. “George, the building, try the first door, I’ll go for the second–”

They split. Lockwood’s door was locked. 

George yanked on his to no avail.

Before Lockwood could move something clattered onto the ground between them, cutting George off from Lockwood and Lucy. A sense of dread and a hulking form began to rise from supernatural smoke. That was a Source, a Visitor. Winkman sneered, good hand fumbling with another silver net bag.

 Lockwood met George’s eyes through the sneering transparent face. “Run!”

George ran back the way they’d come.  Lockwood’s hand found Lucy’s, and he pulled them both into a sprint towards the bridge. Over the river was a bad plan when their pursuer was a van, but a decent plan when the pursuer was a Visitor. Running water slowed them down.

Another presence appeared at their backs as they reached the edge of the Thames. Lockwood felt the cold on the back of his neck. He tightened his hold on Lucy and sprinted forward.

He had a stitch in his side, and his thighs and calves burned. They ran up the bridge, steeling themselves for another Visitor, but nothing came. They’d made it over the slight curve and had begun back down when Lockwood risked another look over his shoulder.

Winkman had gotten back into the van. It was idling, and pointed straight at them.

Lucy stopped, forcing Lockwood to stop too. He turned back. “What–”

Three vans were positioned on the opposite bank, blocking the end of the bridge. They were giant and mustard yellow, DEPRAC stencilled on their sides.

The roar of an engine. Winkman had floored it behind them.

Lockwood levered himself up onto the thick steel side railing. It caused a commotion amongst the DEPRAC officers. They started yelling and rushing forward, one van turning onto the bridge.

He reached back for Lucy. She was frozen, staring at him in horror. Her eyes, the only part of her face visible through the ski mask, were well-lit by the approaching headlights. 

“It’s our only chance,” he said.

She clambered up beside him. Hand in hand they left the chaos on the bridge behind and plunged into the water. 

-

Let go of me.

Lucy groaned. She twitched. There was something clutched in her fingers, something that felt angry, lost, and desperate. 

Let go of me!

She heard the sound of pounding footsteps. Her name was said, hands were placed on her shoulders. A litany of please, please, please began.

A sharp pain in her cheek. Lucy gasped, eyes flying open.

She was wet and freezing cold. Rough rocks dug into her back, her limbs felt heavy with exhaustion, and her nose and eyes burned from the river water. George was hovering over her, eyes dropping closed as he exhaled, a perfect picture of relief. He tipped over and pressed his forehead against hers. “I saw you go over,” he choked out. “I thought–”

She began to cough. As soon as it ended she grabbed onto the front of George’s shirt. “Lockwood?”

“I don’t know.” His voice was shaky. “I didn’t see him come out of the water.”

She lurched up. He helped pull her to her feet, bracing them both as she found her balance. The river was black, its surface glittering with distant lights. She couldn’t see the bridge, and she couldn’t see–

“Lockwood!” she screamed. She kept doing so until her voice became small and scratchy. The moment she went silent George took up the cry in her stead.

But the Thames didn’t answer them.

Lockwood was gone.

Chapter Text

There was no worse feeling in the world than what came on the heels of accepting there was nothing more that could be done.

Lucy had felt it before, after the Mill. After Jacobs had left. After the screams had stopped. After she’d stopped expecting Norrie to hear when she called her name.

She didn’t want to feel like that again. Fear of that feeling urged her on when hope failed, and she kept trudging down the bank of the river Thames, searching. Logically, she knew all the crucial moments had already passed them by but stopping would mean admitting it. It would mean their heavy waterlogged steps were being taken in a world Lockwood was no longer a part of. It would mean having to confront what came after him.

“Lockwood!” George shouted.

Lucy turned to the river once again. She saw light as smeared reflections of street lamps and lit windows but nothing floating, or swimming, or bobbing. There was no voice calling back. The Thames felt desolate. Sad. It felt like being alone, angry, like reaching for someone, anyone, to understand. Lucy was needed, she had to help–

A hand clutched the back of her coveralls. “What are you doing?”

She was knee-deep. The water was unbearably cold and she hadn’t noticed, hadn’t felt it at all. She couldn’t remember why she decided to wade straight in.

She let George tug her back. He didn’t stop at the edge, drawing her up the bank without loosening his hold. 

 “You’d just gotten dry,” he gritted out, “Walking right back in, that’s not normal–” He let go and crumbled. Had he fallen? No, he’d only curled up, knees to his chest, trouser legs soaked through, right there in the mud.

“George?”

“Did you see something?”

“No.”

“Then what were you– I swear if you leave me here alone–”

“No.” she stepped towards him, shaking her head, every inch of her thrumming with denial. “We aren’t giving up on him yet.”

“What if I got him killed?”

“Don’t say that, he’s fine–”

“Then where is he?”

There was no answer to give. It was sneaking up on them, that dreaded turning point when their hope died for good and they had to try and go on anyway.

“I became an agent,” George said, “because I wanted to fix things. I’m good at fixing things. Maybe it’s too big, maybe I can’t solve the Problem, but I couldn’t live with not having even tried. Every day I’d be wondering what if, it would have been agony. So training, applying for Fittes, those were easy decisions. It was just the right thing to do.” 

He dropped his head onto his knees. After taking a look around to make sure they weren’t drawing any ghostly attention, Lucy sat down next to him.

“It was the same reasoning, staying with Lockwood,” he continued, voice slightly muffled. “He shouldn’t have to choose between living under Blackburn’s thumb or being punished for a crime he didn’t commit, it’s wrong. The only way to make it right was to find a third option. And with the joint cases, the possibility of him gaining visability in the Visionaries, I thought we were making headway. And then the Type Three. I got distracted, I wanted another crack at that one big mystery and– and I dropped a bloody matchbook and ruined everything. ”

“George. This isn’t your fault.”

“He trusted me. He’s my friend, I asked him to believe in me and instead of helping I–”

“Georgie,” Lucy’s hand hovered between them and her heart ached. “Would you like to hold hands?”

He peeked up over his knees. “Me and you?”

“Me and you.”

He nodded. What– oh, she was still holding something, the little relic Lockwood had dropped on them, a plain locket. She stowed it in her pocket and reached out, lacing their fingers together. His hand was cold, rough with callouses from pencils and rapiers. Holding it felt nice.

“I don’t think Lockwood is your friend because he thinks you can get him out of this.”

George made a short amused sound. “He’s my friend because I was the only option.”

“He’s your friend because he believes you’re worth knowing,” Lucy squeezed his hand gently. “And he’s got it right. You are.”

George shook his head. “Lucy. I don’t know what the right thing to do is right now.”

“Find him,” she said firmly. “We just have to find him.”

-

There was something about having a shiny thermal blanket wrapped around his shoulders while in the middle of a terrible situation that Lockwood found distractingly funny.

He’d been sitting in a very grey room for long enough his hair had dried. They hadn’t cuffed him to the table surprisingly, so he could lean on his elbows as he watched the door. He’d been waiting for it, but the turning of the knob still startled him. Straightening in the chair, he watched as someone stepped through; a tall black man with piercing eyes and an imposing presence, carrying a file in his hand.

“Are you feeling warmer now?”

Lockwood nodded, taking his best shot at harmless and unassuming. “Yes, thank you. Who do I have the pleasure…”

“Inspector Barnes, from the Department of Psychical Research and Control.” He pulled out the second chair and sat. He leaned forward and pressed a button on the tape recorder in the centre of the table. “Can I call you by your first name, Leroy?”

It took effort for Lockwood not to look down at the night-watch uniform to check whose name he was currently wearing. “I prefer my surname if it’s all the same to you.”

The inspector’s eyebrows rose. “Alright Mr. Snook, if that’s what you prefer. Do you know what I prefer? Not to be pulled off important cases to deal with aspiring criminals.”

Lockwood nodded along. “You’re right, you sound much too important for a little misunderstanding like this. Please, if I could give you my side of the story, I had a perfectly good reason to be on that bridge.”

“Does your reason include how two Sources showed up in the middle of the street, and why you’re carrying a rapier illegally? Because if not, I’d rather not hear it.”

Lockwood leaned forward. “We were hired to run security. Our client was worried he was being sabotaged, which given we were chased out of our post and assaulted with two active Sources, it seems he was right about. I admit I shouldn’t have the rapier, but you know how it is out there, Inspector. I just wanted a bit of extra protection.”

“And your stolen night-watch uniform? Was that also for protection?”

“Stolen? I have no idea what you mean by…” Lockwood trailed off as Inspector Barnes opened the file and slid it towards him. “What’s this?”

“Incident report, filed by the Fenchurch Night-watch. Leroy Snook failed to return his uniform upon resigning from the branch. If you truly are him you're looking at a hefty fine if not a few months locked up, for theft. Anything to say?”

Lockwood eased back in his seat. “Must have slipped my mind.”

Barnes pointed a finger at him. “See, that worries me. You should have another story cooked up, but you’re willing to take the fall for theft. Which tells me what you’re really up to is much worse, Mr. Snook.”

Lockwood crossed his arms and gave the man a closed-mouth smile. “Just Snook, please, Mr. Snook is my father.”

Barnes stared him down, unamused. “What’s your name?”

“Snook.”

“You can make this easy on yourself, easy on us both. All I need is the truth.”

“Inspector, I’m an open book.”

“You really want to do this?” Barnes reached over, and flipped the first page. “I pulled Leroy Snook’s file. He was sixteen when the theft report was made. That was seven years ago. You don’t look like you’re twenty-three to me.”

“What can I say?” Lockwood shrugged. “I have a boyish charm. Keeps me looking young.”

“Your name.”

“Snook, as I said.”

“How about your accomplice, what’s their name?”

Lockwood said nothing.

Barnes watched him. He leaned back, thinking something through before his face relaxed infinitesimally. “We didn’t find them. They should have washed up beside you, but no one saw where they went. If you gave us a better idea of who we were looking for we might be able to get them somewhere safe and warm too.”

Lockwood didn’t say a thing.

“It’s a cold night, and they’re soaked through. They could get very sick. Surely being detained is better than being dead. Unless it was just a job, to you. Maybe you don’t care about their survival at all.”

Lockwood smirked. “Have me all figured out, Inspector?”

“It isn’t hard to do, I’ve met plenty of people exactly like you. Brash children who think they’re above the rules, that they can do whatever they want because they have Talent.”

“What’s your guess then? Rogue independent? Relic hunter?”

Barnes remained stone-faced. “When you operate outside of the law you don’t just endanger others, you forfeit the protection the rules would have offered you. If you cooperate, this might only be a wake up call. But if you continue making self-centred, short-sighted choices you’ll ruin your life before you’ve had any real chance to live it.”

 “Trust me,” Lockwood scoffed. “I’ve made the best choices I could.”

“If you had you wouldn’t be here,” Barnes said severely.

Lockwood grinned, trapping the hysterics behind his teeth.

Something changed in the man’s face. A fissure of regret, if Lockwood was being generous.

“Whose blood is that, Snook?”

River water had washed away most of it, but there was still an off-colour tint to the front of the night-watch coveralls. 

“I get nosebleeds.”

“And your neck?”

Where Carver had grabbed him. There were probably red marks beginning to darken. Hopefully not into something as damning as finger-shaped bruises, but it was an odd injury to have happened on a case. Best not to reply.

Barnes' brow furrowed. “We can offer you safety if you have a name for me. If you can tell me who put you up to this.”

Lockwood wanted to laugh. “Safety? After a confession, really?”

The man sighed, a touch of weariness seeping through. “Listen, you’re young, Talented. No one wants to waste that. Even with a confession, there are options other than jail time.” 

He pulled something from his coat pocket and tossed it across the table. It slid to a stop on the open file. It was a flyer, brightly coloured and sporting a picture of several smiling teenagers. The very same flyer Lockwood had been slipping into paper bags under Catherine’s watchful eye earlier in the day.

Vision Youth Refuge: There’s a place in the world for you!

Nothing for it. Lockwood threw his head back and laughed.

Eventually, Barnes left. Every question asked while that flyer was sitting in front of Lockwood only gained him silence or more laughter. The manic note it had taken on when Barnes insisted Lockwood had control of his own destiny had made the Inspector visibly uncomfortable. He’d eventually gathered up the file and flyer and made his exit, warning Lockwood that they weren’t done, and he’d be returning soon.

Lockwood now had his head on the table and his eyes closed. He occasionally found himself hitching the blanket tighter around his shoulders in response to sudden bouts of shivering, though the room wasn’t that cold.

Lucy was fine. He had to believe that. He had evidence; a brief glimpse of George before the back of the DEPRAC van had slammed shut. He’d been running full tilt in the other direction, and if he wasn’t running towards Lockwood he had to have been running towards Lucy.

The shivers were starting again. Inconvenient.

He wondered if Barnes would manage to find his DEPRAC file. It wouldn’t be easy, it was probably stashed in some back room with all the other dossiers on dead kids. If Lockwood was lucky they’d destroyed it outright after he’d been declared dead.

There was a click as a lock was turned.

“That wasn’t long,” he said. It was difficult to pull his eyes open and force his head up, but the words and the smile were easy.

The door swung open fully. 

It wasn’t Barnes returning. Standing there, dressed in Fittes grey, his eyes wide in his face, was Quill Kipps. Lockwood reached forward and switched off the tape recorder.

 “It’s you,” Kipps said. His throat bobbed as he swallowed. “It really is.”

Lockwood had seen him over the years, a few times at a distance and quite often in newspapers and magazines, but hadn’t quite noticed the changes before now. His hair was shorter than Lockwood remembered, and his shoulders wider, his features properly grown into.

“Kipps,” He greeted in as flat a voice as he could manage. “It’s been a while.”

The door swung closed, the lock clicking back into place. “I can’t believe this.”

“How did you know I was here?” Had Barnes been playing him? Did they already know exactly who he was? If so, this was going to get very unpleasant very quickly.

Kipps took two steps forward and pulled the chair out gingerly, eyes never leaving Lockwood’s face. He took entirely too long to sit. “I was giving Barnes a report. He got a call, I listened in. I’ve glimpsed you before– before I knew it was you – dressed like Night-watch, so… I just had a feeling.”

Well, that wasn’t as bad as it could be. “Why haven’t you told them who I am?”

Kipps face scrunched inward, like he’d tasted something unbearably sour. “Because it’s unbelievable. And because I want you to answer some questions, first.”

“Well.” Lockwood gestured to their surroundings. “I do believe that’s what this place is for.”

The first question came out cracked. “Why?” 

“You’ve got to be more specific than that. Why what?”

“Why me!? The sabotage, the threats. We didn’t like each other sure, but I never did anything to earn that level of–”

“Hold on,” Lockwood held up a hand, leaning over the table. “What are you talking about?”

“What am I–” Kipps laughed incredulously. “You put Sources in my bed,” he said, clipping out every word. “For years. I had no idea who was doing it, if they were trying to kill me, why. I got new locks, I traded rooms, I traded teams, and it didn’t matter. The moment I started to relax there’d be another!”

Lockwood blew out a long, slow breath. “I wasn’t threatening you,” he said. “Honestly. They were always inert, always labelled and sealed up–”

“We both know it only takes once.”

Lockwood’s jaw snapped closed. It felt like he’d been burned, an abrupt and lashing flash of pain in his sternum. “I wasn’t trying to hurt you.”

Kipps threw his hands up. “Then why!?”

“Because they were dangerous,” Lockwood said, “and about to fall into the wrong hands, and I knew you’d destroy them. That you’d take every single one straight to the furnaces.”

Kipps stared at him, then snorted. “You want me to believe it was an act of trust?”

“I don’t trust you as a person, not one bit. But yes. I trusted you would follow procedure.”

They sat in silence for a while. Kipps’ thoughts showed on his face, his struggle to assimilate the new information while he was still half in denial of what he was seeing. Lockwood contemplated letting his head drop back down to rest on the table, just until Kipps was done.

When he spoke again he didn’t say anything Lockwood would have expected. “I went to your funeral. Or memorial service anyway, they never found your body. Obviously.”

Lockwood blinked a few times, blindsided. “Ah. Why’d you go?”

Kipps looked away. “Seemed like the thing to do.”

Lockwood nodded, though he didn’t quite understand. “Was it nice?”

“It was a memorial service for a confessed murderer with a missing body, what do you think?”

Lockwood winced. He could picture it. A few superficially mournful guests watching all his favourite things get tucked into a snazzy iron box and lowered into the ground. A bit of pageantry meant to appease his wicked spirit and keep it firmly on the other side, all made moot by the fact that his body was out there somewhere, a ticking time bomb. At least it had looked like the Thames had taken him. That must have offered at least a little relief. 

“You found something in Bickrstaff’s estate,” Kipps said, changing tracks again. “What was it?”

That was interesting. “Part of the case you’re working on? The one that has DEPRAC Inspectors asking you for updates in the middle of prime working hours?”

“I’m here to ask questions, not answer them.”

“You’re not here just to ask questions.” Lockwood laced his fingers and sat his chin atop them. “There’s something else going on.”

Kipps' lip pulled up, disdainful. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“I know you never told Fittes about the Sources. It would have hurt your reputation, led to questions about your connections or if you were going on unsanctioned missions yourself.”

“So you were sabotaging me.”

“Oh for– no, the entire world doesn’t revolve around you, actually. But it sets a precedent, doesn’t it? You keep secrets from your superiors when your career is on the line. So why haven’t you run off to tattle, now that you know it’s me? What have you done? Or…” Lockwood smiled. “What are you about to do?”

“Screw it.” Kippes stood up and turned to go, visibly seething.

Lockwood sat straight, alarmed, but Kipps didn’t call out for Inspector Barnes or storm out of the room. He just stood in front of the door, a key card in hand and his head hung, breathing heavily.

He dropped the card back into his pocket. Slowly he turned and walked back, taking the set again. “I’m missing a teammate.”

“That happens to you a lot, from what I hear.”

“He’s not dead, he’s–” Kipps rubbed hard at his face. “Bobby Vernon is my researcher. We got put on a case, an unmarked grave at Kensal Green Cemetery. We were the second team, the first was from Bunchurch and got nearly wiped out unearthing the casket. Everything went well as we finished the removal, but relic hunters got to it later that night. We were brought back in; there was an artefact inside that DEPRAC wanted found. After a few false starts Bobby came up with Bickerstaff’s name. We went to the ruins.”

“And we beat you to it.”

“Bobby was furious. Kept shouting about how close we’d been, that he had to find it. It was uncharacteristic, and unprofessional. I signed him out of the dorms and sent him to his Aunt’s house. I thought he’d get his head on straight and be back the next day.”

“He didn’t come back.” Lockwood said softly.

Kipps shook his head.

“What did Fittes say? DEPRAC?”

Kipps smiled, something jagged, jaded. “They put a mark on his record for truancy and told me to focus on the mirror. They won’t listen, and I can’t– without access to Fittes resources I can’t– I need to know what you found in that house.”

“Sure,” Lockwood agreed, “But you also need help.”

“I don’t want your help.”

“I didn’t say want, did I? And quite frankly, I don’t think you have other options.” Lockwood rolled his shoulders. He felt rather lively, all of a sudden. “Alright. Let’s negotiate.”

“I’m not bargaining with you.”

“Why not? I can help you, you can help me. Sounds like grounds for bargaining to me.”

“I can’t trust you to stick to a deal. You’re a criminal!”

Lockwood gave him his toothiest smile. “Then why are you still here?”

Kipps seemed to age five years in an instant, deflating into his chair. He brought a hand up and bit at his thumb nail. 

“Fine,” he ground out through clenched teeth. “What do you want?”

Lockwood’s smile shrank to a smirk. “A few things. Firstly, I want you to break me out of DEPRAC.”

-

They came back to the bridge eventually. They didn’t cross it, wary of curious eyes. The last thing they needed was another call to DEPRAC.

“We need to consider our options,” George said.

“We aren’t giving up.”

“Did I say giving up was an option I was considering? Because it’s not.”

George had regrouped spectacularly, seemingly finding his second wind after airing his doubts on the bank. He’d taken point after Lucy began to flag, her fight with the river finally catching up to her. 

“Alright,” she said. “What are you thinking?”

“I’ve come up with a few options. None of them are great.”

“Tell me anyway.”

“We find a payphone and call the police, say we saw someone jump off the bridge. Hope precinct politics are strong enough they won’t know DEPRAC were down here.”

Lucy wasn't much of a fan of that one. “That might end up with Lockwood arrested.”

George nodded. He was half turned from her, watching the nearby buildings. “Maybe, but we’d know where he was. Better than him—” George didn’t finish the sentence. “We can’t do this with just the two of us, there’s just too much river to search. We need more eyes. Which brings us to our next, much worse option. We call Blackburn.”

Lucy raised an eyebrow.

“I know, but he’s got a vested interest and the manpower. His people are willing to do anything he says at the drop of the hat.”

“But, we’d have to tell him why we’re here.”

“And throw Carver under the bus, yes. Which is why this is the bad… plan…”

“George?” He had straightened, wide eyed. Lucy followed his line of sight.

A figure was walking over the bridge. They weren’t in a Night-watch uniform, and were much too far away to make out clearly, but the way they walked, how they rested their hand on their rapier hilt, that was achingly familiar.

They ran to him. Any exhaustion Lucy felt evaporated when they got closer, when she saw the grin on Lockwood’s face.

“I thought I’d find you here,” he said, and then let out an oof as they crashed into him.

“Idiot,” George breathed, his arm hooked over the other boy’s neck. “What kind of hair-brained plan was that!?”

Lockwood laughed. Lucy could feel the vibrations of it, her cheek pressed against his chest and her arms cinched tight around his shoulders. “Very sorry, best I could do on short notice.”

Lucy pulled back, elation giving way to outrage. “Where were you? We looked everywhere!”

“Got pulled out of the water by DEPRAC.”

“What!?”

Lockwood shrugged. “It all turned out alright. Come on, we’ve got somewhere to be. I’ll tell you about it on the way.”

“Are you also going to tell us why you’re wearing…” George gestured at his new outfit.

Lucy stepped back and took it in properly for the first time. “Is that…?”

Lockwood grimaced. “The Fittes uniform, yes.”

“I’ll be honest,” George said. “Not something I ever thought I’d see you in.”

Lockwood knocked their arms together jovially. “That makes two of us. Carver?”

George shook his head. “He hasn’t shown himself. Makes me wonder.”

“If he intended for us to die here?” Lockwood nodded. “I’m wondering too. But enough of that. I have a surprise for you.”

George cocked his head, raising a hand to nudge his glasses further up his nose. “For me?”

“For you. And trust me,” Lockwood said, with one of those secret smiles he kept only for them, “You’re going to love it.”

-

George couldn’t believe this was happening.

They took the back stairs. The outer service door had been propped open with a brick, a refrigerator magnet taped to the sensor so the silent alarm wouldn’t ring.

“When did you have time to do this!?” George demanded, voice hushed.

“I didn’t.” Lockwood squeezed inside. “Just gave directions.”

“To your mysterious ally?”

“Trust me, it’ll be better if you see for yourself.”

They raced up the staircase. Lucy and Lockwood were slow and George kept having to pause for them. “It’s been so long,” he said, not for the first time, as he craned his head over the railing to try and count how many flights they had left to go. “Do you have any idea how much I’ve missed this place?”

“I think we’re beginning to understand,” Lucy said, amused.

The top door was secured with a keypad. “I don’t know the code anymore,” George said. “They change it every few weeks.”

Lockwood stepped forward. “That’s handled. Their breaker was outside behind a padlock, so I had him flip it off.”

George was nodding his head. “Resorts to factory preset.”

“Either four zeros or one, two, three, four…”

Lockwood gave a push and it opened for him. 

“Have you two ever thought about how you might know just a little too much about breaking and entering at this point?” Lucy asked.

“Why no,” Lockwood said in a comically lilting voice. “Why would we ever think about that?”

They stepped through.

The main lights were off. Everything was lit by red emergency bulbs. George walked to the railing. It was massive, a pleasingly symmetrical concrete structure stacking reams and reams of knowledge on its several floors.

Being inside the British Archive again was… George didn’t know how to describe it. Like stepping back in time, or out of time altogether. Like discovering there was still a piece of chocolate in the toe of your Christmas stocking in February. Like hearing a song for the first time in years and remembering why it had been your favourite.

“I’ve seen people look less reverent walking into churches,” Lucy teased. The red light softened the features of her face. She was watching him with a gentle smile. 

Oh. Wait.

George had, for once, shied away from classifying things when it came to exactly what he felt for Lockwood but he knew it had shifted at some point. Lockwood had grown a flower in a section of George's heart that had never accepted seeds before, and while George didn't water it, he was happy enough watching it grow anyways. And now Lucy was smiling at him and he could feel the fragile beginnings, delicate roots fanning out under untilled ground.

Shit.

“Good surprise?” Lockwood said softly.

George’s throat had gone tight. He nodded adamantly, and cleared it. “The very best. Right! Right. We have so much research to do.”

Torchlight hit them from behind. They spun around. One of George’s hands lifted to block the glare, and the other landed on the hilt of the rapier he was carrying.

“Keep it down would you,” a voice grumbled. “We aren’t supposed to be here–” it cut off. The torch fell onto the carpet with a thump. George lowered his hand to find Quill Kipps gaping at him.

George shot Lockwood a look. Lockwood shrugged.

Kipps regained the use of his jaw. “ Karim!?”

Lockwood grinned. “Surprise!”

“What the hell, Tony!”

Chapter Text

Kipps didn’t stay long. He’d asked several annoying questions about why George, a missing person, was in Lockwood’s company, but none of them had given a straight answer. 

“Your family checks by the Fittes dorms every week,” he told George. “They leave missing posters at DEPRAC offices, and on the tube.”

“You can't tell anyone,” Lockwood had warned.

“Where am I supposed to say I got the research from then?”

“Tell them Bobbie did it.”

“And what do I tell Bobbie?”

“That he's such a shoddy researcher,” George cut in, “it brought me back from the dead.”

He’d left unsatisfied; there was a party to get to, apparently, the 50th anniversary of the Fittes Agency.

“What do you think that would be like?” Lockwood asked. He and Lucy had found italian in a small refrigerator in a staff room, and quickly drug George away from paging through newspapers to deal with the combined gnawing of their stomachs. They stood around a reception desk as they ate, the torch placed on its end between them, beam aimed at the ceiling.

“The party?” George clarified. Lockwood nodded as he bit into his slice of pizza. “Loud, obnoxious, and out-of-touch. Full of people who are also loud, obnoxious, and out-of-touch.”

“It was something we said we’d do,” Lucy said. “Go to parties.”

“You and Norrie?” Lockwood asked gently. 

She nodded. “We made a promise that we were going to get out. Leave Jacobs, come to London together and sign up with a big Agency. Get famous, go to parties, and have our faces in magazines.”

“Sounds nice,” George lied. Lucy snorted and had to scramble to save her slice.

They found a sofa in the break room, which Lucy and Lockwood had slumped onto while George returned to the stacks.

The research was its own kind of rest, in his opinion. With something to narrow in on, one clear objective, George didn’t feel like he needed to worry about anything else. It was soothing, meditative. And finding an answer, well, there was no high greater than that.

He was noting down something with a torch held between his shoulder and cheek when Lockwood sat opposite him. “How’s it going?”

George quickly finished writing and looked up. “I thought you were catching a nap.”

Lockwood’s eyes crinkled, though he kept himself from smiling. “I did. It’s been four hours if the clock behind the desk is to be believed.”

“Oh.” George took a closer look around him. There were quite a few newspapers and open books splayed across his table, now that he was paying attention. “I lost track of time.”

“Find anything?”

“Absolutely. I just hope I found the right things.” He began to move papers around, slipping them into three stacks.

“Firstly, I think I know where Bobby Vernon is.”

Lockwood raised his eyebrows. “Already?”

“I had some insider knowledge, turns out. Blackburn keeps extensive files on pretty much everyone in the Visionaries. You aren’t the only person he’s blackmailed, or framed. I’ve taken a peek at Carver’s, of course.”

“Of course.”

George plucked up an article and passed it and the torch to Lockwood. “Read that.”

“ ‘Sweet Dreams Excavation Wins Bid on Kensal Green Cemetery’. Kensal Green, that’s one of the magnificent seven.”

“Down here, read this.”

“Owner Paul Saunders states the public has nothing to worry about. "We're well equipped for the work, and work closely with a researcher.’ Said researcher, Pamela Joplin, was quick to support his claim, adding that ‘nothing will be done without keeping the good of the public in mind.’”

“Pamela Joplin is in Carver’s file. He was a relic hunter before falling in with the Visionaries, and he did several jobs for her. Sweet Dreams would uncover a relic or treasure and she’d hire him to steal it. The artefact disappearing after Fittes dug it up follows that pattern to a T. She must have taken on another partner.”

“Anything on this artefact?”

George nudged the second stack over.

“Bickerstaff’s papers weren’t in a language I can read, or recognise even, but the illustrations told a tale on their own. It was all pre-Problem accounts of spirits and Sources. And this, I think this was Bickerstaff’s contribution.”

He pushed over a rough sketch he’d jotted down from memory. “Bickerstaff was killing people in a way torturous enough to tie them to their bones. I think that’s what we found in Bickerstaff’s basement, all the visitors it didn’t quite work on. Or, maybe, the people he showed his creation to afterwards. I found an article on a rather gruesome party, only one survivor. That’s what I think Kipps’ team dug up, bones as Sources, several of them tied to one object.”

“Why, though, what would be the purpose?”

“It’s got to be singular. This isn’t just a relic, it’s an experiment. It might tell us everything we want to know about the other side.”

“Or?”

“Or what?”

“I know there’s an or, I can hear it in your voice.”

George sighed. “Or, we die horribly. That seems to be what happens to almost everyone who’s been exposed. There’s a long sordid history.”

Lockwood laid the paper back on the table. “So Bobby Vernon is dead.”

“Well, that’s where Joplin comes in. She’s the one who’s got the artefact, and I was thinking maybe she was operating under the false assumption that Bobby Vernon could help her research it.”

Lockwood massaged his forehead with a hand. “Seems to be the way of things, doesn’t it? Some sorry kid getting screwed over so an adult with no moral fibre can prosper.”

“Maudlin.”

“Oh leave off,” he said brightly, “It’s been a long night. Go on, if Vernon isn’t dead where is he?”

“I’m guessing at her flat. I managed to get an address.”

Lockwood tilted his head. “That couldn’t have been in an article.”

“No, but there’s a remarkable invention, you may have heard of it, it’s called a phone book–”

Lockwood kicked him under the table. “Alright, alright. That’s two of your subjects, what’s in the third pile?”

“A hunch. Thought I’d look into it while we’re here.”

“About what?”

“That relic we took from the Winkmans. Plan Y.”

“I’d forgotten about that.”

“Like you said it’s been a long night. Well, there was a moment when we were searching for you that Lucy almost walked back into the Thames. She was real blank-faced about it, and that didn’t sit well with me. So I went digging for any Agents who drowned, recently.”

Lockwood’s expression had turned dire when George had mentioned Lucy in danger. “You found something.”

George tapped a headline with his finger. “Tendy’s team, their Listener was ghost-touched off duty. In the bathroom, to be exact. She was still dressed, but lying in a full tub of water.”

“I’d say to leave a girl to her bath, but given the outcome...”

“I looked into their last case. They found the Visitor and body of an actress from the eighties. Everyone thought she was tied to her bones, which went to the furnaces straight away. I bet you the Agent took something from the house which ended up being the actual Source.”

“And that ended up at Winkman’s somehow?”

“Looks like. Maybe a relic hunter made it to the bathroom scene before DEPRAC did. I caught a look earlier when we were talking on the bank, It was a locket, silver. If it is a Source it’s kept inside that.”

“And she still walked into the river, even with the Source sealed?”

“Lucy can talk to Type Threes. She’s the most sensitive person either of us have ever met.”

“Don’t sugar-coat it,” Lucy grumbled as she walked up to them, rubbing sleep from her eyes.

“He meant psychically.”

“Feel any better?” George asked.

“A little. I don’t know if the pizza’s sitting well, though. Strange dreams.”

“About water?”

Her brow furrowed. “Maybe the unexpected swim then, not the food.”

Lockwood stood, stepping close to her. “Lucy, would you…” Deft fingers dipped into her pocket. He tossed the locket to George.

“Hey!” She took a step forward. Lockwood’s hand landed on her arm. “I need that!”

“Why do you need it?” George said, reclaiming the torch and hunched over to examine the silver oval closely. “I think you should think about that, for a moment.”

“Let’s take a seat, Luce.” Lockwood guided her to a chair. She sat, but her eyes were fixed on George’s hands.

He cracked the locket open for the barest second. The air went thick with psychical pressure.

“George!” Lockwood barked.

He snapped it closed again. “Clasp wasn’t done correctly. But now I know it is Annabel Ward. It’s her ring.”

He put a finger on a picture by his elbow and nudged it over. “The one she’s wearing here, see?”

“It doesn’t feel like she’s trying to hurt me,” Lucy said thoughtfully.

George scoffed. “You tried to walk into the Thames.”

“No, listen, she needs my help.”

“Help?” Lockwood didn’t sound very convinced. “She’s a ghost.”

Lucy’s face firmed up. “Something happened to her, didn’t it?”

 “Bricked up in a chimney on Sheen Street.”

Lucy nodded solemnly. “Someone did that to her. They have to answer for it.”

“Here, this is the Ward stack.” George passed it over. “Maybe there’s something satisfying in there.”

Lucy took the papers readily.

Lockwood brushed his hair back off his forehead. “She’s past needing justice.”

“But knowing what happened will make Lucy feel better,” George said. “Knowledge is its own reward. Right, Luce?”

She hummed distractedly.

Lockwood was looking at George, unreadable.

“What?”

“You should be able to do this all the time,” he said. “Whenever you wanted to. You should have been right here, all along.”

“Where are you, in this hypothetical?”

“Does that matter?”

“Yes,” George and Lucy said in tandem.

Lockwood smiled just a little.

“I’m going to finish writing this out in simple terms for Kipps,” George explained, “it might be too late to save Bobby Vernon, but who knows.”

“He’ll want the Bickerstaff papers, not just your account. He’ll need to convince DEPRAC to give him a warrant for her flat, which means evidence.”

George sighed. “If we must. Any chance we can come back here and use the copier first?”

“We’ll do our best. I’ll slip what you have into his bed, for old time’s sake. Then we’ll cut over to Source Storage.”

Lucy shifted in the seat. “Am I the only one who feels like Carver’s going to pop around a corner at any moment?”

“No,” Lockwood said. “But this is categorically not our fault this time. He’s the one falling short here. We should hurry this up. Yes, I know, but we’ve two stops to make, and around four hours of night left in which to make them. If we don’t get back to the basement before sunrise George turns into a pumpkin. We can’t have that, you understand.”

“I would make a stellar pumpkin,” George said. “Have you seen me in orange?”

-

“Drat. I thought at least one of you would die. How disappointing.”

“The skull is here,” Lucy whispered. She didn’t need to; there was no one but them in the Source warehouse, but she couldn’t help but be cautious.

Lockwood didn’t seem bothered, striding into the room with purpose as he tossed the broken padlock into the air and caught it again. “We don’t have time for it right now. The papers, then we get out of here.”

“I wanted Karim to die the most, but I just changed my mind. It should have been Lockwood. ”

“Where–” George was kneeling, reaching under a bottom shelf for the leather-bound pages they'd tucked away. “It's not here.”

“My master's research, the greatest discovery you could have made, and it slipped right through your fingers. Pathetic lot, you are.”

“Who has them?” Lockwood asked. “Does the skull know?”

“Like I'd tell you!”

Lucy found him on a high shelf this time. “You will if you don't want us passing you off to Lockwood’s friend so he can throw you in the furnaces.”

Lockwood winced. “Friend isn’t really…”

“Or we could just chuck you in the Thames, cut out the middleman.”

“Horrid girl, you wouldn't!”

“Why not? Might slow Blackburn down some if he doesn't have you to use as a prop.”

“Because we’re the same. Two different one-in-a-millions. You wouldn’t throw that away, would you?”

“I definitely would,” she said. “What good is being special if I can’t change anything? Where are the papers?”

The Skull was silent for a long second. “Carver found them. He came in earlier today.”

 She turned back to the boys. “It was Carver.”

“Great.” George pushed himself upright. “Bet that isn't going to bite us in the arse.”

The sputter of a car engine outside drew their attention.

“Do you think it’s Carver?” Lucy whispered.

Lockwood walked over to the door, placing his back to the wall and pushing it open a sliver. Moonlight drew a line down his face.

“Worse,” he said. “To the table, now.”

They went. They sat with Lockwood craned over them. 

“It’s Blackburn,” he said, hushed. “I’ll do the talking.”

The hinges creaked as they were moved. Shiny brown shoes clicked their way into the warehouse, then stopped. Lockwood turned.

“Well,” Blackburn said, "This is unexpected.”

“What happened to Carver?” Lockwood asked. “He was supposed to pick us up.”

Blackburn watched them for a long minute and then strode forward. His expression was placid.

“Pick you up from where?”

“My case? You said I could pick one.”

“Liar. I told you, didn’t I, Lucy? You can’t trust him!”

She fought to school her face.

Blackburn stopped just a little too close to Lockwood. “Did I say that?”

Lockwood’s hand went from resting on the table to clutching at the edge. “That’s… what I understood.”

“Hmm.” His eyes skimmed over George and caught on Lucy. “Ah, the bet. I remember. So? How’d it go?”

“We secured the source. Quite an interesting one. George, would you pass me…”

George fished out Annabel Ward’s ring, safely secured inside the silver locket, and handed it to Lockwood who held it out for inspection. Lucy’s chest seized. 

“Wait,” she said. “Don’t–”

Lockwood spun on her, leaning over so his mouth was right by her ear. “You need to trust me here. Our survival is more important than righting a wrong.”

She didn’t like it. There was a twisting in her core, an urge to snatch the locket back. But he was right and she did trust him. She nodded and let herself ease back.

Blackburn was smiling, watching them. It made her skin crawl.

Lockwood turned back. “Apologies,” he said. “This source affects the mind.”

“And you think it would interest me?”

“Not the source alone, but we did some research. Lucy, would you tell us about Annabel Ward?”

It was hard to unstick her tongue. She scrambled for her client friendly voice, plastering a vacant smile over her face. “Annabel Ward was an aspiring actress in the 80s. She played Ophelia in Hamlet. When she went missing her lover was questioned, Hugo Blake. Here…”

She fished the newspaper clipping from her pocket and placed it on the table. “He’s right here, he played hamlet. And the ring she’s wearing, that’s her source. He must have given it to her.”

“Someone was trying to steal it,” Lockwood said. “I think there’s something to cover up. I think the ring links her to her killer.”

“Pass me the picture, Anthony.”

Lockwood did so.

As Blackburn studied it something sparked in his eyes. “These are the men she was around?”

“Yes.”

He smiled. “Well, that is interesting.”

He took the necklace from Lockwood, tucking it into the pocket of his brown ironed trousers. 

“If I may,” Lockwood said cautiously, “Where is Carver?”

“You may not. Outside, go.”

At Lockwood’s nod, they stood. Lockwood put himself between them and Blackburn as they circled the man and made for the exit. A Night Cab was waiting, with a different driver than the one Lucy knew. They stood at the back of the vehicle while Blackburn spoke to him.

“I’m having you driven to Catherine’s,” he told Lockwood as he strode back towards the warehouse. “She’ll see you back home.”

The door shut behind him. They got in the car.

“Alright?” Lockwood asked when they were settled.

There was pressure behind her eyes, and the banked rage that lived in her soul was restless. “Have to be, don’t I?” she said, gruffer than she wanted.

“Lucy…”

She turned to the window and focused on watching the houses pass by.

-

Catherine had them stay upstairs as she unlocked all the basement locks, then came back up.

“I’ll know if you leave them open,” she said sweetly, like she was warning a six-year-old about sneaking a biscuit. “I’ll cut the lights if you don’t behave.”

“We understand,” Lockwood said quickly. Letting George be the one to reply was in no one’s best interest.

“Why do you hate her so much?” Lucy asked on the stairs, as George closed the first set of bars behind them.

“Because she knows,” he said. “She knows everything going on in the Visionaries and pretends she doesn’t. Pretends everything is fine and she's still a good person.” They began walking down, after Lockwood. “She has the truth and she hides it like a coward. Are you okay? That source–”

“I’m fine.”

“Lucy,” George asked quietly. 

She closed the second set of bars. “I’m fine. How could I have helped her, really? I don’t know why I thought I could.”

Lockwood hadn’t entered the basement, standing still right in front of them.

George swayed towards him. “What’s wrong?”

Lockwood took a step inside. Lucy and George shared a puzzled look and followed.

Oh.

It was hard to tell at first. The basement had always been sparse, but Lucy had grown accustomed to how Lockwood and George had left their marks on the space. All of that was gone now. The kitchen was empty looking.

There was no kettle by the stove or dishes drying by the sink. The papers that often littered the counter or were taped haphazardly to the walls were missing. Lockwood threw open a cabinet to find the shelves completely bare. He did it again, then again, with the same result. No food, no dishes, no glasses or water bottles. The only survivor was the washing bucket tucked under the sink. 

Lockwood stormed into the coal cellar. Lucy followed after him immediately.

Where the kitchen had been emptied, the cellar had been destroyed. The floor was littered with ripped newspapers and book pages. The desk, chair, and both mattresses were missing and the blankets and sheets shredded into strips, which hung on the metal bed frame which was still screwed into the back wall.

Lockwood turned away, brushing past her as he left. He kicked out at a kitchen cabinet, an abrupt kinetic release, and began to pace furiously.“Every time! Every time we gain even the smallest bit of ground, they kick us in the nuts and knock us right back down again!”

George hadn’t come any further inside, his hands clenching and unclenching in a rhythm, eyes locked on the floor. “Is it gone?”

“All gone, or destroyed. I guess we know what Carver was up to while we were in the Children’s House.” Lockwood stopped moving. “George? Alright?”

George motioned behind him. Lucy’s breath stalled. Ugly paint had been slapped over the thinking wall in thick meaningless lines, the red turned brown by the dull yellow lighting.

It felt like they had been ripped into. Which was insane, this wasn’t a home. But it was the one place they were left to their own devices, where they could sleep and eat and take care of each other in peace, the one place they could always hear the danger coming. Having it taken apart so thoroughly felt like a violation. And if Lucy felt this unmoored by it, she could hardly imagine how George and Lockwood felt.

A thought struck her. She tensed up, hand clutching at the coal cellar entrance. “The secret room?” 

George’s head jerked up. He ran for the gap, Lockwood on his heels and Lucy behind him.

Lockwood came to a stop. The curtain was gone, and the hairbrush that lived on top of the toilet. Lucy put a hand on his shoulder, going up on her toes to try and see George. Lockwood shifted sideways to give her more room. There was no light here but what leaked in from the kitchen and all Lucy could see was George’s back and his hair as he moved blocks.

“He wouldn’t have put it back, right?” Lockwood murmured to her, his voice barely audible. “If he’d found it?”

Her fingers twitched where they were still resting on his shoulder. “He might’ve. This was about getting in our heads.”

As soon as there was something of a gap George stuck an arm inside. There was a click, and a glow radiating out. He’d found a torch. He ducked his head in, then pulled it out.

“Well?” Lockwood asked.

“He didn’t find it. Everything’s here.”

It was a cooling salve on a stinging wound. Beyond all of George’s records on Blackburn, they had food here, a few favourite items, and George’s sleeping bag. He pulled back and started on the blocks again. “Come on, everybody in.”

It would have been cramped any other day, a narrow sloped space, the underside of the stairs visible above their heads. There was no way to keep their elbows and knees from knocking together, and Lockwood, who ended up under the lowest part of the slope, had to lean forward to even sit. But it felt like theirs still, so it was perfect.

George unzipped the sleeping bag. Almost every time Lucy had come in here she’d found him huddled inside it as he transcribed feverishly. “Help me lay it out,” he asked.

It covered the whole floor, bunching up against the walls. George kept nudging things into new places, first the notebooks and canned goods, then Lockwood and Lucy. She ended up farthest from the opening, curled on her side with her hands tucked to her chest. Lockwood was sat up, his back against the horizontal wall and his feet stretched out, miraculously straight. George laid down by the opening. Lucy couldn’t see him, her head tucked against Lockwood’s hip, but she could hear him shuffling around, trying to find a comfortable position.

“Here,” Lockwood said.

Lucy lifted her head to peek. Lockwood had hooked his heel behind George’s knees and was pulling him closer to the centre. His legs were still bunched up, but it looked like he could straighten his back and neck more. Lockwood left his leg thrown over George’s.

 “So touchy-feely,” George said, but he curled closer.

“Too much?” Lockwood asked.

“No. But I don’t know what to do with my hands.”

“Give one to me,” Lucy said. She threw her arm over Lockwood’s lap, reaching. George lifted his head to send her an incredulous look.

“I’ll take the other,” Lockwood said, “If you’re offering.”

“That isn’t at all what I meant,” George grumbled, but he did it, letting Lucy link their fingers and pull his arm over Lockwood. He must have grabbed Lockwood’s hand as well, given the satisfied look she found when she looked up at the other boy.

She cradled George’s hand in both of hers, right under her chin, and pressed her forehead tightly into Lockwood’s side.

How peculiar it was, that she’d only known them for months. She felt like their souls were twisted together, like trees that had been planted too closely, inseparable from the lowest root to the highest twig. Every deep emotion, be it good or bad, could be borne when cradled between the three of them.

“We can’t be caught here,” George said. “Someone needs to listen while the other two sleep.”

“I’ve got it,” Lockwood said, voice soft and so warm she could swear it made the air glow. “Go ahead, it’s okay. I’m looking after you.”

George let go of Lucy, rolled over, and switched the torch off. His hand was back between hers before she’d had a chance to miss it.

Things were awful, but they were awful somewhere else. Here, in this secret place, there was only them. And that made it safe.

-

“Queen to 6D.” George said.

 Lockwood hummed. 

They'd been busy since waking. A box of digestives from the secret room had made up their breakfast, split evenly of course. They still smelled like sweat and river water, so they had taken turns at the sink scrubbing silt out from behind their ears and knees and necks. The mess in the coal cellar had been sorted through, everything salvageable set to one side and everything ruined dumped in a partially ripped pillowcase. That’s when they’d found a small foldable chess board wedged between the bed frame and the wall. It must have fallen behind the mattress at some point, and been overlooked by Carver.

They sat around it now, in the kitchen corner. Some pieces had been missing so Lucy had scribbled substitutes on scraps of paper. George removed Lockwood’s queen and placed the bit of paper that symbolised his own in her place.

Lockwood scooted his rook one space to the right. “Check.”

“Damn it.” George pulled off his glasses, rubbed them vigorously, and then put them back on as he leaned in, peering at the board. “King to 8F.”

Lockwood smirked. He used the rook again, moving right to talk one of George’s pawns and open up a path for his Bishop. “The castle bloke to this square. Check.”

“The castle bloke.” George moved the piece. “It's a rook, as I've said fourteen times. You're only doing this to wind me up.”

“George, no,” Lucy bemoaned from where she was lying on the floor, head turned to watch the board. “I was counting on you to avenge me.”

“Oh shush, you don’t need to be avenged. Maybe the chess losses will make up for the way you trounce us at Rummy on the daily. King to 8G.”

Lockwood chased after him with his rook. “Check.”

“I know, I know. King, 8F.”

“The horse to whatever this spot is…” Lockwood pinched the paper with a rearing horse doodled on it and moved it two spaces left and one space up, taking one of George’s pawns. The king stood in the path of the knight’s next jump, and if George moved it either the Rook or Bishop would take him. “Checkmate.”

George tipped over his king and slumped back. “The horse, really.”

Lockwood grinned. “Why, what’s it supposed to be called?”

They heard a lock click.

Lucy lurched up. Lockwood and George scrambled with the game, sweeping all the papers and pieces into a pile. Lockwood flipped the board, George scooped the pieces onto it, Lockwood snapped it closed, and Lucy grabbed it and took off for the coal cellar.

“Do you think it’s Carver?” George asked.

The door swung open. 

It was Blackburn, as put together as ever, wearing his brown suit and looking as out of place as ever at the entrance of their prison.

“Anthony,” he said, beckoning with his hand as he turned and started back up the steps.

Lockwood took a deep breath. “I’ll be back.”

He stepped through the doorway and past the bars. As he reached back to pull them closed Blackburn spoke again. “The girl too.”

He fell back a step. He looked up; Blackburn was standing partway up and looking past him. Lockwood twisted; Lucy was standing there, chin jutted and expression set, but eyes wide as they met the man’s. George was a step behind her, head ducked in what looked disturbingly like resignation.

“We don’t have all day.”

Lucy turned to George, who gave her a nod. “See you soon.” He walked out of view. Lucy took a hesitant step forward and then a bolder one.

They didn’t stop at the overflow room. Lockwood hadn’t realised how comfortable they’d gotten in each other’s space until he found them plastered to different sides of a Night Cab, too wary of their captor’s attention to behave normally.

They didn’t travel far. He could still see the Children’s House out of the back window when the cab drifted to a stop. Blackburn stepped out, and after sharing a quick look Lockwood and Lucy did the same.

It was a two-storey house, narrow and detached, made up of brown brick with iron shuttered windows and a pitched roof. The windowsills were painted white, and they stood out as oddly bright in the strong moonlight.

“Are you getting anything?” Lockwood asked.

Lucy shook her head.

Blackburn walked up the brick walkway with the driver, who stayed on the stoop as Blackburn inserted a key and stepped inside. Lockwood approached, Lucy just behind him. The driver was tall, rather rough looking, and didn’t acknowledge them at all. He was acting as a guard, then. In four sure steps Lockwood had cleared the threshold.

He was in a small hallway sporting two doors, one directly in front of him and one to his right. The right doorway led to a small living room. There was a sagging brown sofa against a mustard yellow wall and a squat oval coffee table. Blackburn was standing in front of it, hands in his pockets.

“That leads to a toilet,” He said. “This way.”

Lockwood followed. There was a small dining room and past it a cramped U-shaped kitchen. The colours continued to be warm and bright, and every window had an iron shutter. They were welded shut, just like the one in their basement.

“There’s a refrigerator. I’m sure you miss having one of those. The washing machine is here, under the stairs.” He began to climb to the second floor. Lockwood turned to Lucy, but she was looking around the dining room, a strange look on her face as she considered the square table, two chairs, and highchair.

There were three doors on the second floor, the farthest one already open. That led to a dated bathroom with a pea-green sink and tub. Blackburn opened the first door and motioned Lockwood inside. It was a simple bedroom with a full bed that took up most of the floor space, a nightstand, and a dresser. These windows didn’t have shutters. Instead, a set of vertical iron bars were fixed to the frame.

“I thought you’d like a bit of sunlight.”

The whole picture fell into place. Lockwood wrestled with the shock, failing to keep it off his face if the glint in Blackburn’s eye was to be believed. 

“Is this place for us?” he asked.

Blackburn smiled. “It was going to be. Not now; there’s been a huge development. But after putting so much work into getting it ready I wanted you to see. I’ll have another one set up. Same idea, different location.”

“Lockwood.”

He stiffened at Lucy’s voice, watching Blackburn carefully, but there was no irritation or dissatisfaction at her interruption. He was in a strange mood, chipper and benevolent.

Lockwood slipped past him and towards Lucy. She had the second door open and was staring inside.

A smaller room. There was a short table and a light blue armchair. Right in the centre, made of wooden slats unnervingly similar to the bars on the room’s one window, was a baby’s crib.

Lockwood’s body went numb. “What is this?” he asked.

Blackburn appeared in the corner of his eye. “The future.”

His stomach turned. He took a step back. “I don’t understand.”

“Really? It seems rather simple to me. You’re going to lose your Talent, Anthony. I could just look for replacements but I’m fond of you, and that solution comes with… complications. So I decided to just produce more Talent, no outsiders needed. And the two of you, well. I’m sure your children will be spectacular.”

Lockwood shut his eyes. He couldn’t look anymore. “You’d use them,” Lockwood said, the words appearing as if out of a haze. “Like you use us.”

“Watch your tone.” Silence filled a moment and then Blackburn spoke again, his voice contorted into a facsimile of comfort. “It wouldn’t be nearly as hard on them. They’ll have their parents to come home to, and nothing to miss; they’ll never know anything different.”

“What about George?” Lucy asked.

Lockwood opened his eyes again. 

Blackburn was regarding her coolly. “What about him? Karim will stay where he is and keep doing as he’s told until I find a better use of him.”

Lockwood made an involuntary sound of dissent. Blackburn’s gaze shifted slowly back to him.

“Sorry,” he managed to say. “It’s just–”

“Come on now, Anthony. I’m giving you a gift. Soon you won’t need him anymore.”

There was a cacophony in his chest. The part of Lockwood that wasn’t reeling knew this was a dangerous state to be in while in Blackburn’s presence, but he couldn’t make his guts settle or his head clear. “But I do need him.”

“You don’t,” Blackburn said with finality. “I understand why you think you do, but you have Lucy, now. I kept you all together so you’d be able to see how different things feel with her than they did with him. You’ll be fine, Anthony. You can let go.”

Bile, on the back of his throat. The ruckus in his chest had sharpened to a scream that could not, under any circumstance, be allowed out. 

Blackburn nodded like they’d come to an agreement. “I’ll give you two a moment to take a look at things. Don’t dawdle.”

He headed back downstairs. Despite himself, Lockwood looked back at the crib.

-

As soon as they heard the front door close Lockwood bolted.

Lucy didn’t turn to see where he’d gone right away, struggling through her own shock. There was a stuffed giraffe sitting on the chair, and a baby mobile hanging above the crib.

From behind her came the sound of retching.

Lockwood was in the bathroom. His legs were splayed out over the yellowed tile, his thin shoulders jutting up over the toilet bowl. The sounds bounced off the walls, loud and revolting.

She closed the nursery door firmly and went to him. She stepped carefully over his feet. “Can I touch you?”

He shook his head violently.

Lucy sat down with her back against the sink, near but not looming.

His stomach heaved a final time. He spit into the toilet and sat back on his heels, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Lockwood kept his head turned away from her.

“I can’t do this,” he rasped out.

“I know.”

“I thought he’d just kill me, eventually. I’m the oldest, I’ll lose my Talent first. It would make things simpler for George and you to run, it would be fine. But this, I can’t. I can’t live like this, I can’t sentence children, my children to- and George –”

“I know.”

“This is why it was you,” he gasped out wretchedly. “Out of all the girls I met, this is why he picked you. Because I liked you.”

Her chest ached. “Lockwood. This is not your fault.”

“Isn’t it? How can you not hate me? If it wasn’t for me–”

“I was out of good options, I was going to sign up for night-watch–”

“Still better than–”

“Most likely I’d be dead. All I had left in the world were promises to keep.”

He looked at her, finally. His face looked blotchy and distorted. “She could still wake up.”

Lucy felt heat well up behind her eyes. She looked up to keep the moisture from falling. “It isn’t Norrie.”

“What isn’t Norrie?”

“The thing Blackburn has on me. It isn’t Norrie. He brought her up, but she wasn’t threatened, she isn’t the reason I can’t leave.”

She sneaked a peek his way. He was still shaky and drawn, but there was concern in his eyes. “Why, then?”

“He called my mother.” The emotion crashed down on her, as if it had just happened moments ago. “He’d been talking to her. Maybe he still is. He spun a good lie, saying VYR is a school for troubled youths with Talent. He let us talk over the phone.”

Lockwood moved towards her, slowly, cautiously. He sat himself down at her side, shoulder to shoulder. His shirt sleeve brushed against her arm. “What did she say?”

“I told her everything. I told her I’d been snatched up, about the car hitting me, the basement, the handcuffs, the illegal jobs, that Carver had hurt us. She didn’t care. She said I should have gone back to Jacobs, like she told me to. That this is what I got for dragging her name through the mud. And then she just… hung up.”

“Lucy…” Lockwood whispered, pained.

“I didn’t mean to make it sound like I don’t have any living family when I do, I just– I really did think of my team that way, and she’s never been–”

“No. No, you’ve got the right of it. I’m sorry.”

“What I’m trying to get at is this; I didn’t have a future out there, and I don’t want the one Blackburn wants for us. But the present, the life I have right now with you and George, that’s worth something to me. I want to fight for it. For a future that we decide on.”

Lockwood’s head had dropped into his hands. “I have to tell George. Blackburn’s going to kill him; he can’t stay now, he has to see that.”

“Lockwood, none of us can stay.”

“There’s no–” he cut himself off.

“No place to go? No one waiting? If that’s true for you, it’s equally true for me.”

“You’d figure it out,” he said. “You’d make it work.”

“What do you think it would be like, if we escaped? What does that future look like to you?”

“George would go home to his family,” he said immediately. “You’d get an agency job, of course you would, you're a stellar Listener. I’d go to prison, and after that, I’d… I’d live on, somehow.”

“Silly boy.” Lucy leaned towards him, eyebrow raised in question. When he nodded she rested her head on his shoulder. “Do you want to know what I think it would be like if we got out?”

Lockwood nodded again.

“Maybe you go to prison, but George and I don't rest until you're acquitted and afterwards you open up your own Agency like you wanted to. Maybe I'll get hired somewhere, but as soon as you’re set up I’ll quit and come work for you. Maybe George goes home to his family, but he comes back for visits and to do the experiments his parents won’t let him try in their house, at the very least.”

Lockwood turned away again. “That sounds nice,” he said, voice thick.

“Life didn’t pause when you got taken,” Lucy said. “It’s been happening all this time. It isn’t going to be the same as it was. We aren’t going to let you be alone out there, any more than we’d let you be alone here. We aren’t going to leave you. Okay?”

He exhaled. “Okay.”

They stayed like that for a bit. Lucy closed her eyes. The afterimage of the crib haunted her, but Lockwood’s shoulder was warm under her cheek.

He shifted. She lifted her head and in one fluid motion, he stood. He reached a hand back towards her, the same way he’d reached for her on the bridge, with the same resolve in his eyes.

“I’m ready,” he said. “Let’s get back to George.”

-

Lockwood was in full form in the cab, loose and jovial and lying. Blackburn bought it. They spoke lightly of horrible things; children’s names, how many would suffice, and the techniques used to train Agents. Her hand was on the car handle before they had completely stopped in front of the house with the basement. 

“One more thing,” Blackburn said, reaching into his breast pocket. “Carver hasn’t checked in. The bet may have been a bit much for him, I’m afraid. Which means you’ve won, and as agreed Lucy is safe.”

“Thank you for that,” Lockwood said docilely. Lucy wondered how Blackburn could be so blind to the fire banked in his eyes.

A key was held out. “This is a lot of trust,” he warned. “I’ll be watching how you use it.”

Lockwood took the key carefully, face blank and vaguely agreeable. “I understand. Thank you for the gift. All I want,” he said, honesty ringing in his words for the first time since they left that dreadful house, “is the chance to repay you for everything you’ve done.”

Blackburn reached over the seat and squeezed his shoulder. Lucy’s insides squirmed.

“Go on,” he said indulgently. “In you go.”

They went.

“Luce,” Lockwood said brightly as they reached the basement door. “How do you feel about murder?”

“I did stab a man yesterday. I bet I could do it.”

“...Alright, interesting answer.” Lockwood slipped the key in. He pulled the door open.

Something was wrong. Both sets of bars were hanging open, and the bottom door was ajar. They could see a sliver of the basement through the gap.

Fear swelled up in her, and then rage. “Carver.”

If this was another of Blackburn’s tricks, if George was hurt –

They took the stairs at a run, the way they had the first time they met. Lockwood shoved the last door so hard it banged against the thinking wall.

“George!”

Her stomach dropped, her head throbbed, and her ears filled with the sick sound of buzzing flies.

There was blood.

There was a body in the blood, strangely twisted. A knife with a large curving hilt was sunk into his back, right between his shoulder blades. A step closer revealed short brown hair and a gaping mouth in a pale face.

One look and it was obvious. Carver was dead.

Curled up tightly against the cabinets, his glasses gone and his eyes glazed over, sat George. His hands were hanging between his knees and they were stained red.

Chapter Text

George couldn’t make himself look away from the body. Not even when Lucy hit her knees in front of him, blocking it from view. Not even when Lockwood’s hand grasped his shoulder, almost painfully tight.

“Don’t move him,” he managed to say. “Don’t look.”

“We need to get you clean,” Lockwood pulled at him. “George can you–” 

Getting up felt herculean, everything was far away and inconsequential, everything but the buzzing. Lockwood’s touch fell away. George’s unfocused eyes trailed down to his own hands.

It had been worse earlier. The blood. It had felt tacky and hot. It had seeped into the creases of his knuckles and the beds of his nails, and as it dried it had begun to pull at his skin. He could look and he was fine, but the feeling of it still made him dizzy.

Lucy was hovering right in front of him, on her knees, her hands reaching but not touching. “Can I?”

He nodded. Didn’t matter what she wanted he’d give her–

She crushed him to her with strong arms. Her face was tucked into the side of his neck. He could feel her shaky breath as she let it out, warm on his skin.

Before his focus could return to Carver’s body Lockwood was standing in the way. He knelt in front of them, their washing bucket in hand. He’d filled it; George hadn’t heard the faucet turn on, preoccupied with the sound of flies. There was something profound about the way he took the cloth in hand, how he looked up at George as he reached for his nasty, damned hands and asked, “Alright?”

George nodded, his throat tight.

“Lucy, can I have a bit of room?”

She let go, scooting out from between George’s legs before scooting back in on his right, listing to the side as she hugged him tightly to her again. 

Lockwood nudged the bucket into the space she’d left and took one of George’s hands in his. He dropped the rag in and then his own hand, scooping up a palmful of water and tipping it over George’s knuckles.

Lockwood retrieved the rag and began to scrub.

It was spellbinding. There was such an intense focus to his actions, his head ducked low, hair falling forward. He rubbed the rag between George’s fingers, and poured cupped handfuls of water over the skin with careful intention. He didn’t stop until the blood was gone, nothing left but the electric sensation of his fingers tracing over George’s and a pink tint to the bucket. And then, when he was satisfied, Lockwood took his other hand and repeated the entire process.

Lucy was still hugging George, warm and solid.

Eventually, there was nothing more to clean. Lockwood dropped the rag back in the bucket and looked up, meeting George’s eyes. This close he could see them clearly, even without his glasses.

“Better?” Lockwood asked.

It would be easier to hide behind impulse, but that wasn’t the truth of it. George knew five things. Carver was dead. The words he’d whispered about Bickerstaff’s artefact, Bone Glass, seven, and terrible things. The fact that George had glanced at it before realising. The research suggested he was going to die. And Lockwood and Lucy were right here. George made a choice.

He brought a newly clean hand up to rest on Lockwood’s shoulder, pulled him in, and pressed a kiss to the other boy’s cheek. Then he turned his head, placing another on the crown of Lucy’s head.

“You know I love you both, right?” he said softly, holding Lockwood’s gaze. “Thank you for everything.”

“Georgie,” Lockwood said, equally hushed, still held close by George’s grip. “That sounds much too close to a goodbye.”

“Carver called it a Bone Glass. Seven Sources in one artefact, that’s what Bickerstaff was doing. Carver has to have taken it from Joplin, that’s who he’d try to sell Bickerstaff’s papers to. I tried to catch him, I didn’t realise… the silver cover had slipped. I caught a glance, Lockwood, I can feel it in my head.”

Lockwood’s face firmed, something going still and strong in his eyes. “Then we take you far away, hope the pull weakens. We’re leaving. Luce, can you get into the secret room? The flairs I took from Fittes are there.”

“On it.” She squeezed him tight and then let him go.

“Wait,” George said,  “how are we leaving?”

Lockwood held something up. “Blackburn gave me the key.”

“That’s– That’s amazing. ”

“Where are your glasses?”

George lifted his socked foot. One lens was completely shattered and the other cracked down the middle. The loose bit he’d been doctoring with tape for ages had snapped clean off.

“I was going to look again,” he explained. “I could feel that I was. But if I couldn’t really see … And it worked. I just had to stay right here where he’s too fuzzy to make out and wait for you.”

“Brilliant,” Lockwood said, nearly reverent. He took the glasses and slipped them into his trouser pocket, and then cupped George’s cheek with his hand. 

“Got them!” Lucy raced back over.

“Come on, up you get. Lucy, can you-”

They hoisted him up between them. George floundered and then got his feet straightened out. 

Lucy ducked under his arm. “Close your eyes for me, Georgie.”

He did as he was asked. Lockwood placed his palm, still wet, over his closed lids and something in George relaxed. Even if he succumbed, he wouldn’t see it again, the writhing bottomless black.

“Alright, here we go.”

The buzz worsened as they moved forward. Lucy made a low sick sound.

“Lockwood-”

“Nearly there, step over and–”

Then they were heading up, George stumbling up the stairs between them. They stopped periodically to close and lock the doors and bars.

“Is it like this with the locket?” he asked Lucy. “Every step away feels so…”

“Maybe a bit,” she said. “I’m still thinking about Annabel, even when I’ve got other things to worry about.”

“New rule,” Lockwood said, “You both have to tell me before you make any decisions. Particularly decisions to go anywhere alone. Understood?”

George sagged a bit as they reached the top. “The buzzing is getting quieter, but I still want to go back.”

Lockwood’s hand dropped from George’s eyes. He blinked them open. The shapes of the house were distorted and fuzzy.

“Lucy,” Lockwood said, “Overflow room. Anything you think we need; we aren’t coming back.”

George startled. “What?”

Lockwood’s hand was on his arm. His thumb moved back and forth soothingly. “It’s too dangerous. We need to leave.”

“We don’t have a strong enough exit plan.”

“We’ll have to do without. We’re out of time. Alright?”

George leaned further into the touch. “Alright.”

Lockwood shifted to better support him. “Okay?”

 “I’m being ridiculous,” he muttered. “There’s nothing wrong with my legs, I can stand on my own.”

“Does it help not to?”

He sighed. “Yes.”

“Then stay right here.”

“Lucy!” George yelled. “I hid your things under Lockwood’s coats! Carver never goes through those, there’s too many.”

After Lucy came back, laden down with bags and coats and shoes, she sat with George as Lockwood broke into a locked room on the first floor, coming back with rapiers and chains. They left through the kitchen. There was a rosebush in the garden George hadn’t seen the last time he was here, full of blooms.

“Did you know old prisons used to plant rose bushes to mark where executed prisoners were buried? If they put a headstone the disgruntled public would dig them right up in a rage.”

Lockwood’s laugh was a little strangled. “That is fascinating and will keep me up at night. Ready for this?”

“Ready,” Lucy said.

“Where can we go?” George asked.

Lockwood gave them a weak smile. “I know a place.”

-

It was a slow and tense endeavour, sneaking out of the Visionaries’ neighbourhood. George found his feet eventually, but Lockwood and Lucy made sure at least one of them was always within arms reach. It was a tad annoying, stopping to catch his breath and immediately being flanked like he was an important politician they’d sworn to protect. Any crankiness on his part evaporated completely when they’d strayed far enough beyond Blackburn’s reach to speak comfortably again.

Lucy and Lockwood filled him in on the house with barred windows and a crib, the sorry excuse for a woman Lucy called her mother, his own implied demise. It was easier to take, then. The hovering wasn’t just about the Bone Glass, it was about them all being unwilling to lose each other.

Lockwood stopped, motioning them forward. Lucy and George hurried to his side.

“There it is,” he said.

35 Portland Row was a tall upscale house in the centre of London made of pale stone and narrow windows. It was the only dark house on the row and had that hard-to-describe barrenness abandoned things often did. Anything more detailed than that George couldn’t make out; the world was hopelessly blurry to him, currently.

“Doesn’t look like anyone’s in,” Lucy said.

Lockwood took them around the back, hoisting them both over the wall before scaling it himself. There were trees in the corner, spindly branches reaching towards the sky. George squinted, trying to make out what kind they were.

Lockwood pressed his glasses into his hand. The cracked lens still cleared things up. He couldn’t put them on properly, but if he tilted his head back they’d balance on his face like a strange monocle. “These are apple trees.”

Lockwood nodded. “No good for eating. The apples were never very sweet.”

“Good for making Khoresh Sib o Gheysi, then. ”

Lockwood’s head whipped towards him. When George had first arrived recipes had been basically fairytales. Lockwood had always wanted to hear a new one, and George had explained them with great enthusiasm. They’d stopped doing so at some point. Looking at the subtle elation on Lockwood’s face George wished he could remember why.

“What’s that?” Lucy asked.

“It’s an apple stew. It’s great on cold days.”

He stayed under the trees as Lockwood and Lucy went around peeking through windows. They found no recent signs of life. There was also no key under the large white rock Lockwood overturned, but the hairpins Lucy had snagged in the Overflow Room turned out to be perfectly respectable lockpicks. It didn’t take long for the back door to swing open under Lockwood’s deft hands. He stared inside and, after visibly steeling himself, walked in.

The back door led into a kitchen. The walls were either a warm brown or covered in light wallpaper, and there was reddish tiling on the floor. Everything was a bit mismatched, from the chairs around the table to the cabinets themselves. It looked like it had been someone’s home. 

Lockwood flicked the light switch by the garden door but nothing happened. “Drat,” he muttered. “I was hoping… Still, we can plan here. Come on.”

They left the kitchen in a single file line, Lockwood at the head. The hall was covered in patterned wallpaper, geometric tiles, and an assortment of interesting items. They were hung all over the walls; masks, weapons, photos, and ancient bowls.

“I didn’t think this would be the same,” Lockwood said, staring up at a pair of axes fixed above the doorway. “Through here, I’ll show you around.”

It didn’t take long for Lockwood’s enthusiasm to ignite. Soon he was prancing up and down the stairs, leading them from room to room in some chaotically chosen sequence only he understood, showing off first one bedroom on the first floor, then going back downstairs to present the living room, then all the way up to the attic, and down to the second bedroom which was situated beside the first. 

“What’s that one?” Lucy asked.

Lockwood stopped, already several steps down, and looked back at the door on the landing. His hand was braced on the bannister, and his eyes darkened with unknown things. “I’ll tell you,” he said. “I will, but not now.”

“Okay,” she said. “It doesn’t have to be now. We’ll wait.”

The last room on the tour was the library. Lockwood had an obvious fondness for it, and George was quickly caught by the books on the shelves; peering through his busted glasses at the titles and finding himself itching to pick up each and every one. Visitors, the Problem, modern history, old myths, there was so much.

“I could spend years in this room,” he declared, finally settling on a thick book about the necropolis railway.

“I think the plan is to never spend years in any room, ever again,” Lucy said. “Someone’s tracked mud in here.”

“They have!” Lockwood exclaimed. “Oh, good. I was worried.”

Lucy yanked a bag of liquorice from between the sofa cushions.

“I’d put those back if I were you,” Lockwood cautioned. “Check the kitchen, maybe there’s something in the cabinets.”

“Well, if the sofa liquorice is off limits,” she grumbled and walked out.

“Your parents were researchers,” George stated. 

Lockwood made himself busy scanning the objects sitting on the fireplace mantle, but he nodded in acquiescence. “Yes. They’d have adored you.”

A crash came from the hallway, followed by a startled shout from Lucy.

George dropped the book and lunged for the door, Lockwood right behind him.

There was a stranger in the hall, a girl with deep brown skin, bushy black hair, mud-caked shoes and a very large knife. She had Lucy pinned to the wall, the blade much too close to her throat. 

“Wrong move,” she hissed, “breaking into this house.”

Lockwood stepped around George. “Flo.”

She stopped dead. Her expression changed, first going slack and then taut with something close to fear. Her head turned towards them first but her eyes stayed on Lucy, as if she couldn’t bear to look. And then, she did.

Her knees bowed. She stumbled away, her knife hand dropping to her side, eyes big and stuck on Lockwood’s face.

“I’d say you look like you’ve seen a ghost,” he said when the silence had stretched too long, “but given the circumstances…”

Lucy began scooting along the wall towards them and George reached out and snagged her, pulling her behind him. Flo didn’t twitch. A gust of cold night air came in through the wide open front door, but she didn’t shiver. She just stared.

George glanced Lockwood’s way. His uneasy smile was smoothing into seriousness. “Look, Flo, I–”

Flo flinched at his voice and abruptly turned away. She stomped straight out the front door, banging it shut behind her.

None of them moved. The wind was gone but the cold lingered.

“What?” Lucy looked at Lockwood, then back at the door. “Who was that? Why did she leave?”

“I deserve it, honestly. Let’s just–”

The door opened again. Flo marched straight up to them, face set in a scowl, and drove her fist into Lockwood’s shoulder with enough force to take him back a step. Then she threw her arms around his neck and hauled him into a tight hug. 

“I thought you were dead,” she said fiercely. 

“Couldn’t have been much of a surprise.”

She let go and shoved him, arms crossing. “Not funny. I thought you jumped in the Thames without coming to me, to anyone, and instead of a note you left a murder confession -”

“I didn’t kill him.”

“No one who knew you believed you did,” Flo said. “Not for a second.”

Lockwood shuddered, like an old wooden structure under too much weight. “No one?”

“Sykes was writing character reference letters to his dying day,” She said. The name sent Lockwood swaying. “He swore up and down you’d been framed. Wanted you posthumously pardoned. Hard to prove, when you’d told them exactly where to find Danny’s body.”

If Sykes’ name had been a blow, the name Danny nearly ripped Lockwood in two. 

“It was the only way Blackburn would let me tell anyone where he was buried,” he said, voice cracked and strange. “If I hadn’t written it, his family would have been stuck like that, waiting every day for him to walk through their door one more time, never knowing he was truly gone unless some poor sod came across the ghost. I couldn’t leave him like that, Flo.”

“Stupid.” Her face was dry but her voice was wet. “You stupid bloody martyr.”

She pulled him in for another hug. This time he relaxed into it, hand coming up around her back.

When she let go they both seemed lighter. She held Lockwood by the shoulders, looking him over from top to bottom, and then stepped back. “You look like you haven't had a full meal since I saw you last.”

Lockwood gave a bark of laughter. “Observant as always.”

Flo raised an eyebrow at him. “Introduce me to your friends.”

“With pleasure,” Lockwood straightened up and grinned, tucking all his squishy bits away again. “Meet George Karim, the best mind of a generation, and Lucy Carlyle, quite possibly the best Listener to ever live.”

Lucy winced. “That’s a bit of an exaggeration.”

“Speak for yourself,” George said. 

“This is going to be a long story, we should sit. In the library? After you.” Lockwood gestured Flo past him with just a little too much flourish.

“You better not have touched my liquorice,” she said, and stomped past.

-

They arranged themselves, Lockwood and Lucy on one sofa and Flo on the other, liquorice in hand. George claimed an armchair all to himself. He found himself staring into space. The buzzing was nearly silent, but the tugging…

“I thought you’d change things up,” Lockwood said, rubbing his hands against his trouser legs. "Take some things off the walls to sell, at least.”

Flo shrugged, eyes skittering away. “Seemed like a surefire way to bring you back angry, tossing the place. Why’d you do that anyway?”

“Do what?”

“Give it to me in your will. You know I don’t do houses, Locky. And they made me file paperwork.”

He looked down, smiling. “Lucky I did, Blackburn would have gotten his hands on it otherwise and stripped the place to the bones.”

Flo narrowed her eyes at the name, but didn’t question it. “But that wasn’t why you did it.”

Lockwood shrugged. “I told you that you're always welcomed to put your feet up, here. I wanted to be sure that stayed true.”

Her face tried to twist up, but she wouldn’t let it. “Where were you?”

He leaned back. Lucy reached towards him, and he took her hand readily in his. “I don’t know where to start.”

“You best start somewhere,” Flo nearly threatened.

Lockwood rubbed his free hand over his mouth, brows drawn together. “There’s just so much.”

“I can summarise,” George offered. “If that helps.”

Lockwood considered it, then nodded. “Alright. Gives us a jumping off point.”

George sat up a bit so he was facing Flo properly, pushing through the mirror inspired haze covering his mind. She had her chin tilted up and her eyebrows hiked, waiting. 

“A man named Timothy Blackburn leads a Ghost Cult. He claims he came back from the dead and can control Visitors now, and take away or bestow Talents. Things would fall apart rather quickly if he was calling Agents in for manifestations so instead he nabbed Lockwood, and then me, and then Lucy. We do any needed psychical work in secret, without the cult knowing. We’re also the linchpin in his property fraud schemes. Lockwood gained enough trust that Blackburn gave him the key to our basement. We ran.”

Flo was doing her best to seem unbothered, but George could see the cracks.

“Did I miss anything?” He asked Lockwood and Lucy.

“You got the broad strokes, I think,” Lucy answered.

Flo was staring at Lockwood now. “Some bastard,” she said slowly, “locked you in his basement? For three years?”

“It’s more complicated than that,” Lockwood sighed.

“And you charmed your way out?”

“We aren’t home free yet,” he cautioned. “The murder charge is one thing, but Blackburn has leverage on George and Lucy too. We need to resolve that before he realises we’re gone.”

“Or,” Flo fished a ring of keys out of her coat. “You can run. I know a lovely houseboat by Eel Pie Island.” She presented a key. At the look on his face, she pulled up another one. “If the houseboat is too close to home, how about a nice caravan in Camber Sands?”

“They’ve got people, Flo. I won’t let him hurt them.”

“You could go alone,” Lucy proposed. “So no one can arrest you. We'll come find you, after.”

“Absolutely not. We’re sticking together; neither of you should be on your own right now, remember?”

Flo frowned hard. “What does that mean?”

George grimaced. “You can’t tell? Lucy keeps looking out the window and I can’t stop staring into space.”

Flo’s face cleared. “Mesmerised?”

Lucy crossed her arms. “I’m not.”

“We’re handling it,” Lockwood said, firm. “As soon as we warn who needs to be warned we’ll figure out how to get that dealt with. I was hoping we’d be able to make some calls from here, but the utilities are off.”

“But not the phone line,” Flo said. “I keep that paid when I can. My own posh three-storey phonebooth.”

Lockwood rocked up to his feet. “Then we have our next course of action.”

His heart skipped. “Do you mean…”

“Yes, George,” Lockwood smiled softly. “It’s time to call your family.”

-

“She probably won’t answer,” George said. He was in the entry hall, Lockwood and Lucy hovering close. Flo had gone out again, presumably to bring them food. The ringing was loud in his ear. He twisted the cord around his hand. “It’s the middle of the night.”

He’d decided to call his sister. She was the oldest, the most forceful, if anyone could boss the whole family into compliance it was her. 

The ringing stopped. George let the receiver sag. “See, she didn’t–”

“Just try again,” Lucy said quietly.

He steeled himself and tried again.

“Hello?” it was a man's voice, groggy. George didn't recognize it.

“Oh.” Disappointment soured in his mouth. “I’m looking for Susan? Susan Karim? Does she still live there?”

“She does, but she can’t come to the phone right now–”

“No, please, this is urgent, it’s life or death. That is not metaphorical. I have to speak with my sister, now.”

“...George?”

“Yeah,” he breathed. “Yeah, it’s George.”

“Holy–” there was a thump, muffled yelling. “I’m getting her! I’m getting her, she’s downstairs dealing with a friend emergency– let me– Don’t hang up!”

There was a pause. George tried to catch his breath, but it was speeding away from him.

“George?”

Her voice was tinny through the receiver, urgent, familiar. He clamped his hand over his mouth and quaked. Lockwood stepped close, a silent question, and George nodded. He placed a bracing arm over George’s shoulders. Lucy ducked between him and the side table, reaching up to dab at his cheeks with her jacket sleeve.

“George!?”

“I'm here,” he said, voice back under his control. “It's me.”

Susan made a sound he couldn’t describe, maybe a groan or a sob. “Are you safe? Where are you? I can come get you right now–”

“Don't you have a friend thing?”

“Don’t worry about that, I need you to tell me if you're safe.”

“For now. Suze, I need a favour.”

“Anything.”

“I need you to get everyone together. The whole family, even Grandma. Get them somewhere defensible, make them stay there, and then don’t let anyone in. No one at all, even if you know them.”

“George? What's going on?”

“We’re making a break for it,” he told her, “but he knows about everyone, about you, he knows your boss. I need to be sure you're safe.”

“You didn't run away,” she said, voice teeming with vindication and white-hot fury. “Someone took you.”

“Someone took me,” he agreed. “I'm trying to come home. Can you-”

“I’ll do it,” she promised. “You don’t worry about us anymore, you just focus on doing whatever you have to to get away. Do you understand?”

“I understand. I have to go, we need the phone for other things–”

“No! No, not yet, wait– my friend is going to talk to you for a moment while I run upstairs, just a second, okay? We're getting in the car now, just… stay on a little longer.”

He looked at Lucy, questioning. She nodded.

“Okay. Just a little longer.”

“Good, that's good, I'll be right back, stay on the line. I love you.”

His vision blurred. “I love you too.”

Some shuffling and then another voice. “Hello, dear, are you still there?”

His heart dropped, his mouth dried, and his grip on the phone tightened. Lockwood and Lucy serged closer in response to his sudden distress.

“Don't worry about a thing, George. Your family will be taken care of.”

“Catherine,” he said. Lucy covered her mouth with her hands, Lockwood cursed and walked away. “Don’t hurt her.”

“Everything will turn out fine. You know exactly what you need to do. Don’t you?”

He was numb. He was the burned out shell of a magnesium flair. “Yes.”

“Good boy.”

The line went dead.

-

George was in the bathroom. 

There was no water in the tap, and looking in the mirror made him feel sick. He was sitting on the toilet lid, head in his hands. He’d locked the door behind him. Lockwood’s shadow leaked through the gap underneath.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “We’ll– we’ll figure it out.”

George laughed. “Will we?”

A long moment of silence. “You were right. We had no exit strategy.”

“No, you were right, staying wasn’t an option. I just… If something happens to her because of me, how do I bear that?”

“I know that feeling. Believe me, I do. We’re going to do everything we can.”

“Is Lucy on the phone with Norrie’s parents?”

“Yes.”

“You should be with her.”

“We should both be with her.”

George shook his head. “I’ll be fine, you should go.”

“I’m not going to leave you–”

“Jesus, Lockwood, don’t you ever get tired of being right on top of each other, every second of every day? I just need to be alone for a while, can you handle that!?”

There was a long, heavy silence. “Alright.”

Guilt crested like a wave. “Lockwood…”

“I know. It’s fine. We’ll be downstairs when you're ready.”

George listened to his steps as they grew fainter. He stood up, cleaned his face as best he could, and unlocked the door.

He left his glasses on the sink.

It wasn’t a bad drop from the window in the second bedroom to the pavement below. He looked back towards the garden but he couldn’t see the trees.

He’d have liked to have gotten to know this place better, to try the apples and read the books. Shame.

George began to walk, and the tugging in his head rejoiced.

-

He didn’t sneak his way back to the house with the basement. He walked right down the street. Curtains moved as people watched him, but he didn’t duck his head and he didn’t hurry. Let them watch.

The front door was unlocked. It opened for him, and he stepped inside. Nothing looked clear, but the basement door stood out to him anyway. Lockwood had the key. Good thing, too. Right?

“I should have known this would happen.”

George looked up. An indistinct Blackburn stood on the first-floor landing, looking down on him, like always. 

“That we’d leave as soon as you handed Lockwood that key?”

“That they wouldn't come back to help you. Despite your hopes, you’ve always known you were the expendable one.”

George was here for two– no, one reason, and one reason only. “Call Catherine off.”

“In time. We have more to discuss.”

“No, we don't, you just want to stall until Lockwood shows up. What do I need to do to ensure Catherine leaves my family alone?”

“What do you need to do? Are you sure you have anything to offer?”

“So there's nothing.”

“I didn't say that.”

“Then what do you want?”

“What do you want, George?”

“My family safe, I just said.”

“You can have that when I have what's mine–”

“So that's the play is it, I bring Lockwood back, you leave them alone?”

“Don't interrupt me.” His voice had dropped dangerously. George was sure he looked properly intimidating to people who could see that far.

“Why not? The only way you’d let me save them is by betraying him. I refuse. Why would I follow your rules anymore, we're done here.”

“Is it truly a betrayal to–”

“Bye!”

George had drifted over to the basement door without noticing. The first step away was difficult, and the next equally so. He clenched his teeth and bore it, bore the shame of knowing where the answers were and walking away.

“He isn't safe out there. They'll never understand him.”

George placed his hand on the doorknob.

“I know what he needs. I could make him spectacular. You're jealous of that aren't you, that I see nothing of value in you and a version of myself in him.”

George laughed.

“You think that’s funny?”

He turned back around. “I think it’s absurd. Lockwood isn’t like you.”

“Are you sure? You’ve seen it, his hunger to be known, his greed for your attention. If he’d lived the same life I had, are you sure he wouldn’t be standing right where I stand?”

“Yes I’m sure, because you don’t see yourself in Lockwood, you nutter, you see everything you wish you were. You aren’t moulding him, you're trying to snuff him out because he’s the genuine article and if anyone saw you two side by side they’d see through you in an instant. All he has to do to be loved is be known, and the only way you’re loved is if you hide, if you lie. So you make him hide, make him lie, because you have to see that genuine beating heart in him destroyed, have to be the one that destroys it. It kills you, doesn’t it, that you’ve had years and you still can’t manage to crush it out. Buried under your feet and he's still better than you.”

There was a long beat of silence, which was a sign of a clean hit in George's book, given that Blackburn never shut up.

“That's an interesting perspective,” he said finally, his voice satisfyingly uncontrolled, “But you don't understand–”

“I’m right. Goodbye.”

George twisted the knob. The door was yanked out of his hand and thrown open. Lockwood was there, out of breath and wild-eyed, Lucy right behind him.

George had failed. He'd failed. He thought it would work. He thought he'd have more time.

…Why had he thought he'd have more time?

The flies were buzzing.

Chapter Text

“George.” Lockwood breathed. “Alright?”

Not alright. Very incredibly far from alright, actually. “I didn’t mean it. What I said in the bathroom. I don't–”

“I know that.” Lockwood stepped over the threshold, reaching out. George leaned away from the touch. It wouldn’t help, it would itch and burn. He didn’t deserve it.

Lucy was staring over their heads, expression cold. “We could take him out.”

“And leave the Karim family to suffer the consequences?” Blackburn asked.

Lockwood stepped smoothly around George, putting himself between them and Blackburn. Staring at his back, George ached with fondness and remorse.

“I’d like to make a deal.”

“Would you?”

“Yes.” Lockwood took a step forward. “I’d like another chance.”

Blackburn began descending the steps. “And why would I allow that? You’ve proven yourself more than capable of turning your back on your responsibilities.”

“Because I understand now what you were doing with Carver. I understand why you were setting us against each other.”

Blackburn stalled on the bottom step. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Lockwood bowed his head. “My mistake. It’s just that you’ve been talking lately about expansion and relocation. A task like that takes a lot of logistics and a lot of trust. You would need to know which people are truly loyal to you. Of course you’d test them. You tested Carver, and he isn’t here. You tested me and I failed, but you brought me back. I can only assume that means you’re willing to show mercy, to let me gain your trust again. And I’m willing.” Lockwood’s arms fell open at his sides. “Let me make it up to you. Tell me the price, and I’ll suffer it gladly.”

“No,” George stepped forward. “Lockwood, don't.”

Lucy circled them both, putting her back to Blackburn with bold disregard and her face a breath’s space from Lockwood’s, expression unyielding. “you made him a promise,” she whispered forcefully.

Together.

“Put them away, Anthony. We've got somewhere to go.”

“It’ll turn out alright.” His smile was bright, reassuring, a sham. “Look after each other, I mean it. No more haring off.”

George shook his head. This couldn’t be happening. It should be him.

Blackburn walked into the living room as Lockwood argued quietly with Lucy. George’s attention drifted back to the door.

Bone Glass. Wretched thing. It would take from him more than it would give, it already had. It would be different if it was only him who would suffer for answers, but it wanted his friends also. He knew this, deep in his bones, and yet he couldn’t stop straining to Hear. He was starving to approach.

“Catherine. How are things?”

Lockwood and Lucy stopped talking. Blackburn was in the doorway, phone receiver to his ear. He lifted an eyebrow, a question. George hated him.

“George,” Lockwood said, stepping over. He ducked his head so he could speak softly close to his ear. “He can’t discover Carver, or the Bone Glass. I’m going to leave you on the stairs and I need you to wait for me there. Flo went to find your family, we’ll make sure they’re safe. Focus on staying put; I know you’ll want to get into the basement but don’t, because you are stronger than this, and you can beat it, and you know that if you look in that glass I will blame myself for it for the rest of my days.”

He clenched his fists. “That’s not fair.”

“But it'll work.” Lips brushed his hairline, so light and brief it could have been an accident.

Lockwood stepped back. “Lucy–”

She nodded, resolute. “I have him. Come back safe.”

Lockwood approached the door, fishing in his pocket and pulling out the key. He looked them both in the eyes and promised, “I’ll see you soon.”

Watching Lockwood close the door behind them felt like hell.

-

Lucy took a deep breath.

There were no electric lights in the stairwell; blackness encased them completely. She listened to the tap of George’s feet as he took a step down, and the whisper of his clothes as he sat.

Her chest was tight, and her breath was quick. She wanted to be moving, fighting. She didn’t want to sit with her disappointment and her worry.

“Come on,” George said. “Let me have it. I’ve definitely earned some spectacular yelling.”

It was cold here, colder than their basement which was never particularly warm in the first place. An hour ago she’d have huddled up to George without thought. Now she left space between them when she sat on the same step, unsure what he’d accept, or what she was ready to give.

“Well? Say something.”

Lucy closed her eyes. “You scared the shit out of us.”

“I’m sorry.” He sounded it. “I really thought I had a plan. It made perfect sense, it all fit together. And then I was back here, wondering why I didn’t take the basement key from Lockwood, and when I think back my reasoning slips right through my fingers.”

She leaned against the cinderblock. Cold leached from the rough surface, but the extra support was helpful.

She heard him shift in place. “I’m still waiting for the yelling.”

“I’m not going to yell,” she said.

“You should. Might make you feel better. Might make me feel better.”

“I’m not angry at you, I’m not an amateur. I’ve experienced malaise, I’ve been mesmerised, I’ve been ghost-locked.” she crossed her arms, squeezing them tightly to her. “I’m angry at Blackburn, and Catherine, and my mother, I’m angry at the Visionaries, I’m angry that we didn’t notice you were gone sooner. I’m angry that you and Lockwood got so close to your homes and lost them again because of other people’s choices, and I’m angry I can’t set this entire house on fire.”

“But I’m the one who chose–”

“To come back after your family was directly threatened? To give into a relic Carver brought straight to you?” 

“But if I had just spoken with you–”

“No use in that,” Lucy sighed. “Of course you can think of other ways, now that you know what happened, but you couldn’t before. You didn’t choose to look in the Bone Glass. This is not your fault.”

George huffed. “I feel like you're always talking me and Lockwood off ledges,” he said. “When are you going to have a proper breakdown so we can do the comforting?”

Lucy smiled, opening her eyes again. She scooted closer, not touching but near enough that she could feel his body heat. “You already have,” she said. “Of course you have.”

His shoulder brushed against hers, and she pressed back.

“How’d the call to Norrie’s parents go?”

“Well as it could, when I couldn’t say what was really going on. They’ll be sticking close to Norrie for a while, in any case, if only because I sounded so unhinged.”

“That’s good. Lucy?”

“Yes?”

“What if we could destroy something?”

She wished she could read his face. “Destroy what?”

“The Bone Glass.”

“George…”

“I know that sounds like mesmerization talking, but I swear it’s me. I pulled you both back into danger and I can’t stand that. I can’t trust myself, you can’t trust me, until this is solved. And we have to be able to trust each other. Urgo, I have to break the connection. Which means destroying the Bone Glass. But I can’t do it alone, it’s too risky. So, help me. Help me fix this.”

She understood wanting a second chance. And after a day, a week like this, smashing something did sound brilliant. And if it worked, if it released George… “Lockwood is going to kill us.”

“Better than getting Lockwood killed.”

“I’m not saying yes yet,” she warned. “But… explain it to me. What’s your plan?”

-

Since they had no tools it took some time to pry one of the steps off the stairs. The plank didn’t come up in one piece, instead splintering where nails had been drilled through. They’d meant to simply stomp it back into place after, but it was now impossible to hide their activity.

“We’re compromising the secrecy of the secret room,” Lucy panted, hand on her knees as they took a break. Her back was sore, and she was sure she’d find splinters in her fingers the next time she had light.

“What’s important now is getting rid of the source. Sources. We’ll deal with everything else after.”

 George had become nearly unreadable after he’d convinced her to do this, speaking about the Bone Glass in flat distant tones. Trying, she assumed, to make his decisions distinctly rational, so he could better discern out any outside influence.

They took off their jackets and laid them over the edges of the hole to protect her from the splintered wood. It was daunting, dropping through the stairs. They’d chosen the step as close to the first set of bars they could manage while still having room to work so she knew it couldn’t be more than a two metre drop. It didn’t matter. Lowering herself down a hole in total darkness set her heart to racing. For a moment when she was teetering on her elbows with her legs hanging through her hindbrain kicked into gear, screaming at her to pull herself back up. And then she let go.

There was barely a fraction of a second between when she let the staircase go completely and her feet touched down. She landed partly on a stack of cans, which sent her lurching off balance, but the secret room wasn’t large enough for her to have a proper tumble.

“Alright?”

“Alright,” she confirmed. She bent down, feeling for a torch. Switching it on, she squinted at the sudden light. First, she dug out some salt bundles they’d brought back from the Dalton case and then she knelt to examine the cinder blocks.

They were pushed aside easily enough. “How long have you been thinking up this little route?”

“I thought it up in the first week. We have a kitchen. It’s a fire hazard and we needed to be able to bang against the top door in case of emergencies. Never imagined I'd use it to get in, not out.”

The last block was pushed aside. “Good, George?”

“I can feel it.” He said shortly.

She could too, the buzz on the edge of her hearing and the unpleasant taste of a growing miasma on the back of her throat. “Stay there. I mean it.”

“Be careful. I mean that.”

She left the torch behind, as they’d decided while planning. George had proof you needed to be able to see the relic to be caught, so if she went in completely blind she should be good.

It smelled like blood. Hand against the wall and shoulders twisted to fit, she crept forward along the gap. Her hand curved around the corner and she stepped out, sliding her feet across the floor, one, then the other. Only a few steps in her foot butted up against something.

It wouldn’t be safe to kick his body, would it? Not when the source was under him, and partly unsealed. Too bad.

Lucy felt around with her hands, finding the shoulder and shoving the body over. It had barely been two hours since she and Lockwood had been brought upstairs, rigour mortis hadn’t travelled from the face to the limbs yet. He moved easily.

As soon as he did, the Bone Glass reacted. Her head throbbed, her stomach contracted, and her ears rang with the deafening sound of flies. Dizziness washed over her, and she fought it with desperation. If she fainted here that was the end.

“Lucy!” George yelled. 

“Stay there!”

She patted the ground. She found the rim of the Bone Glass and skimmed her fingers over its face. Another wave of miasma slammed into her at the contact. Whatever Carver had used to secure it had fallen off completely. She felt over his front, quickly recognising the texture of a silver net. She yanked at it. It stuck at first, affixed to his chest with what was probably dried blood, and then came loose. She used it to pick up the Bone Glass, swiftly wrapping the silver completely around. The myriad of horrid sensations cut off.

She sat on her heels and breathed.

“Lucy!?”

“I’ve got it!” She called. “You can come in now.”

She stood, the artefact held firmly in her arms. An orange glow sprung into being. She watched the light grow and sharpen as George came closer.

His face came into view, mouth twisted and eyes kept resolutely on the circle of torch light he was pointing at the floor.

“How are you feeling?”

“The flies are quiet,” he said. “But I still want it.”

“It’s alright,” she said softly. “Last step.”

“Last step,” he agreed.

With slow deliberate movements she placed the mirror on the ground. George came closer, so they were each on one side of the object. Lucy pinned it still between her feet. “Ready?”

George placed his foot on top and turned off the torch for safety. “Ready.”

“One.”

“Two.”

“Three!”

George grunted as he brought his foot down with force. They heard glass shatter. Something fractured in the air.

“Did it work?” she asked.

“Back away, now.”

They did. George clicked the light on again and they darted back into the gap. Lucy fished out a salt bundle and readied herself, arm cocked back for a throw. The silver net held.

Slowly the atmosphere changed. The hungry power faded away, replaced with something gentler. Sadder.

She stepped back into the room.

George’s hand caught her jacket. “What–”

“It’s okay.” She reached back and squeezed his fingers. “It’s alright now. I have a feeling. Just close your eyes and trust me.”

“Be careful. No unnecessary risks.”

She smiled. “There’s the George I know.”

He let her go.

She squeezed her eyes shut as she bent down, taking a corner of the silver net.

“Eyes closed?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

She pulled up. When the weight of the Bone Glass disappeared from the net she backed away, senses straining. Yes, that wasn’t hunger, that wasn’t madness. That was imploring, then gratefulness, relief.

She opened her eyes. “It’s okay, we can look.”

One after another seven lights spiralled out of the Bone Glass, sweeping and looping around the room before disappearing through the ceiling.

“Why aren’t they attacking us?” George asked, voice hushed and awed.

“Because we’ve set them free.”

-

They decided to return to the stairs to wait, in honour of not giving Lockwood a heart attack.

“I’ll explain,” George said. He had the remnants of the Bone Glass in his lap, completely harmless now that the spirits had departed, but wrapped in the silver net anyway. “It’ll be a relief to tell him this is dealt with, at least. We need to be clear-headed for whatever punishment Blackburn decides on.”

“Is it strange that I’m not scared?”

George looked at her, tilting his head in question.

“How often have we taken on grim odds together, now? We’ve pulled through every time.”

“Yes, but that isn't necessarily an indicator of future outcomes.”

“I don’t think I care. It feels good to fight for something instead of just trying to survive, and even before Blackburn and Carver that’s all I was trying to do. So even if it all goes wrong at least I know what I want, I know what I’m capable of, and I have my own dream.”

“What’s that?”

“You, me, and Lockwood, walking in the front door of his childhood home. In the very middle of the day, where anyone could see.”

George ducked his head, smiling. “All three of us?”

“Of course all three of us.”

“This is awful,” he said. “But I’m going to say it anyway. I’m glad it was you. I’m glad we met.”

She leaned into his shoulder. “I’m glad we met too, Georgie.”

-

“You may stop here.”

The cab pulled under a ghost-lamp. It coloured everything green, and flickered slightly above them as they began to walk down the street.

It had been a long time since Lockwood had been in this position; walking slightly behind Blackburn in a normal London neighbourhood, kit bag in hand and rapier at his side. It had happened more in the early days, before George. Blackburn had been more hands-on then, taking Lockwood around nearly as often as Carver did, his attention a constant and heavy weight. It wasn’t a time in Lockwood’s life he liked to think about but he felt rather scraped open currently, and couldn’t avoid it. The past had been biting at his heels all night.

He hadn’t been told but he knew where they were going. Blackburn had directed the driver, the one Lucy hated, to Sheen Road, and Lockwood had remembered the connection from George’s research on Annabel Ward.

Why they were here he wasn’t sure. Asking questions seemed like quite the risk, currently.

Number 62 was a sizable Queen Anne style house, red brick with white trim that lined the eves and portico like piped icing on a tiered cake. Blackburn led him past open iron gates and through a sizable front garden, up to a door embedded with delicate stained glass.

He held something out. “Let us in, won’t you?”

Lockwood picked up the thin metal tools carefully. He was skilled enough; though not taught formally, lock-picking was a necessary skill for an Agent and doubly so for a captive one. He stepped forward and made quick work of it.

The house was dark. None of the usual markers of a haunting were present; no dips in temperature, sense of foreboding, or nasty smells, but there was a strong death glow at the foot of the stairs.

“You’d best have your rapier ready,” Blackburn said as he began the walk up. 

Bricked in a chimney, George had said. That was the only evidence of Agents present, a sheet of plastic fixed over a hole in the study wall with tape. Blackburn walked up to it, inspecting it casually.

“I don’t sense any Visitors,” Lockwood said.

“That's not the kind of company I’m expecting.”

He hadn’t snapped when Lockwood spoke, so he ventured a question. “Who, then?”

“The ring,” Blackburn said. “Have you thought about why the thief was after it in particular, at the Winkman’s?”

Lockwood’s foot slid back, positioning himself for defence on instinct. “You know about Winkan’s?”

“Carver thinks too highly of his skills in subterfuge. You were right, this ring is special because it’s a clue. It can ruin someone’s life if discovered. Why else take only it, when surrounded by higher ticket items?”

“So they stole it because the ring incriminates Hugo Blake somehow?”

Blackburn sent him a look, eyes half-lidded and staring down his nose, bitingly condescending. “What would you do if someone called you in the middle of the night to tell you they knew the truth, and to meet them at the place your victim was uncovered?”

The back of Lockwood’s neck tingled.

“If you’re innocent you’ll stay home. But if you’re guilty…” Blackburn smiled, self-satisfied. “I made such a call to every man in that picture. I have a suspicion I know exactly who will take the bait.”

There was a creak behind them.

Lockwood drew his rapier and spun. Iron clashed with iron. A woman was lunging through the doorway. She had large eyes and short dark hair. She wasn’t wearing black this time, or a mask. Her blade would have caught him in the neck if he’d been slower.

He threw himself forward.

The match was different this time. The woman wasn’t preoccupied, but neither was Lockwood. They danced across the landing, ringing blows and short breaks to watch each other for openings. A hit at her side during one of their clashes gave him the advantage, and he soon had her on the stairs. There she was encumbered by the wall and angle, while he was able to strike with full range from above. Until she struck out at his ankles and he had to leap backwards to save them. He thudded down on his back and elbows, skidding several steps down, under her blade. Before she struck he kicked out hard, driving his heel into her stomach. She stumbled back, missing a few steps and landing hard against the wall of the landing, elbow going through the window with the tingle of shattering glass.

A gun cocked.

“Settle down,” a voice said from the ground floor, pinched and authoritative. “You’ve made your point. Why don’t we talk, like civilised people.”

Lockwood pulled himself upright and looked down. There was a rifle aimed at his chest, and staring down its barrel at him was Sir John Fairfax.

Blackburn’s leather shoes clicked against the floor above. Lockwood couldn’t see him, but he could imagine; cold eyes and a twisting smile, staring over the bannister. “Let’s.”

-

Lockwood hadn’t recognised Fairfax in the picture, being taken so long ago, but Blackburn had. He and Fairfax had relocated to the ground floor library, both playacting courtesy for the other. Lockwood and Fairfax’s woman had been sent to make tea, which was quite the awkward endeavour when you’d been doing your level best to kill each other minutes prior.

He fished tea bags from the top cabinet as the woman put on the kettle, twisting so his back was protected. She ignored him, approaching the table and sitting heavily in a kitchen chair as he got the teacups down. She peeled up her shirt, inspecting the wound he’d given her. After placing the cups on a tray Lockwood wet a rag and set it on the table. She looked at him, her eyebrows raised, and picked it up.

“So,” he said. “Sir John Fairfax. Founder of Fairfax Iron. How’d you come to be his thief?”

“I’m not his thief, I’m his assistant.” She hissed as she wiped at the wound. It wasn’t horrible. Lockwood estimated a few stitches, at most. Infection would be the biggest enemy.

“Interesting assignment for an assistant.”

“He’s an interesting man. A good one to know though, once your Talent fades. He isn’t kind, but he understands second chances.”

Lockwood hummed, grimly amused. “I’d suppose he would. Still, I’d be careful of him. Someone who’s gotten away with cold-blooded murder once is predisposed to try and do so again.”

 She put the rag back on the table. “Is that personal experience talking? One look at your employer and I can tell there’s something off.”

“Good instincts. He isn’t my employer, though.”

She scoffed, then winced as it pulled at her stomach. “Why are you here if you don’t work for him?”

Lockwood turned to pour the steaming water into the cups. “Oh, I do the work, but I definitely don’t get paid for it.”

“Internship?”

“Abduction. Would you like a cuppa?”

“What? ”

“Would you like a cup of tea?”

“...No. Thank you.”

Lockwood shrugged. He left the tea to steep, pulling out a second chair. He leaned back and closed his eyes. The moment he did he saw George and Lucy’s faces right before he locked them in the stairwell, in the dark. He opened them again.

She was watching him, concern in the line on her forehead. “Why would you lie about that? What does it gain you?”

“What indeed?”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Yes you do, you just don’t want to.”

She was getting properly upset now. “Why me? Why tell me?”

“Well, why not? You’re not going to be able to say anything about this night without incriminating you and Fairfax, and I both don’t get the opportunity to talk to many people who aren’t Blackburn’s and will more than likely be dead before the week is out. Might as well seize the chance. Very occasionally I find it quite bracing to tell the truth.”

He tapped his foot. He could almost hear them in the library. Fairfax had a voice that carried.

“Why not just pick up the phone while they're busy and call for help?”

Lockwood looked her way and smiled. “You seem like a woman who understands that life’s much more complicated than that.”

Her mouth pinched.

He held out a hand. “Anthony Lockwood. Call me Lockwood.”

She stared down at his hand in trepidation. Slowly she reached out, giving it one shake before letting go. “Ellie.”

Lockwood took the tea into the library when it was ready. Ellie had started to, but he’d told her to sit on account of her side.

“Great timing,” Blackburn said when he entered. “Place it on the table. I employ several independent Agents, I’d say Anthony and his team are more than up for the job. Why don’t you tell him about the house, John?”

Sir Fairfax, who did not look happy at all about being called John, cleared his throat. “Yes, well. Combe Carey Hall is a property I own in Berkshire. I’ve contemplated selling it for years now, but it has a collection of Visitors, very pesky. We’ve come to an agreement; if he can cover the psychical investigation I’ll sell him the place at a reduced rate. The return of a possession of an old friend of mine will of course be included.”

“Of course,” Blackburn said. “Exactly the kind of job you deserve, Anthony. Don’t you agree?”

Lockwood looked him in the eye and knew without a doubt that they were being set up to die.

He smiled. “We’ll just have to see.”

-

Lockwood fumbled the basement door key twice before managing to slide it into place. He threw it open with force. George and Lucy were standing there, George with a bundle in his arms and Lucy with a torch. The step behind them had been torn to splinters.

“It’s alright!” George said quickly and held out the circular object, swaddled tightly in a silver net and dead to Lockwood’s Psychical senses. “We destroyed the Bone Glass. I can’t look now, it’s safe.”

Lockwood sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. His sole reaction should be irritation, but he was much too fond of rule breaking for it not to be coupled with levity and admiration. “I don’t know what I expected. Not a one of us does exactly what they’re told if we can help it.”

“An apology isn’t nearly enough, but–”

“George,” he cut him off. “I’m just glad you’re alright.”

“Well?” Lucy asked. “What did Blackburn do to you?”

“Nothing, yet. But we’ve got a job. I hope you’re ready for a challenge because tomorrow night is going to be a big one.”

-

Combe Carey Hall was a massive country home. Mansion was almost too small a word; it was grandiose and looming, a pale stone structure with colossal windows and several square towers crowned with turrets.

“It’s so big,” George groaned, more apprehensive than amazed.

They had a sizable kit this time. It was in Blackburn’s interest that they contain the haunting, so he’d let Lockwood bring every bit of equipment he could.

There’d been people watching the house with the basement but no one had forced them downstairs or taken the key, so they spent the day exploring the upper floors thoroughly, safely out of sight behind the house’s heavy curtains. That and preparing; oiling chains, testing rapiers, picking the best coats from the overflow room, and pillaging the rather well stocked kitchen. Turns out Carver had been living above them; they found an unmade bed on the first floor and a journal tucked in a nightstand (George had claimed this, immediately).

They’d wrapped Carver up in their shredded sheets while George nervously relayed facts about mummies and placed his body and the Bone Glass in the upstairs bedroom. They scrubbed up the blood in the basement and salted the spot, but there was nothing for the death glow, and the smell lingered.

Blackburn led them up the stone steps of the hall and to the front door, nestled under a grand arch. Fairfax was there waiting, Ellie at his side.

“It really is him,” Lucy exclaimed quietly.

“What, did you think I was lying?”

She checked him with her shoulder. Warmth shot through him at the contact, sudden and alarming.

“You’re late,” Fairfax bit out. “The sun’s already set!”

“I don’t let them loose when it’s light out,” Blackburn said, unruffled. “Why don’t you show them inside.”

“Ellie can show them inside,” Fairfax countered. “I’m not stepping a foot in there!”

So Blackburn and Fairfax stayed on the porch.

They used their torches as they walked through the entrance. Everything they saw was gigantic and impressive, stone, arches, and wrought iron. They walked firstly through the foyer, and then into a massive two-storey tall room filled with round tables. There wasn’t much to See yet, but Lockwood could tell George and Lucy were already getting a taste of the house’s evil.

“This is a maze,” George said, craning his head upward. His broken glasses had been somewhat taped together, they now stayed on his face on their own, but he was missing one lens. “Do you know anything about it?”

“Didn’t get any research in?” Ellie asked, slightly mocking.

“Well, no,” George said honestly, still looking around. “We only learned about this yesterday, and we’re locked in during the daytime.”

Ellie’s face fell. She might be able to convince herself Lockwood was lying about their predicament, but Blackburn’s comment on the steps and George’s unthinking sincerity was harder to dismiss.

She shifted on her feet, tense, before seeming to steel herself. “It was built on a Priory that was destroyed after some big tragedy,” She said. “There’s lots of mismatched parts, hidden rooms, and illogical pathways.”

“You’ve spent time here,” Lockwood mused. “Which means Fairfax spends time here, correct?”

She frowned at him and didn’t answer.

“Any idea what the manifestations are?” George prodded.

“There’s been a lot. Sir Rufus Carey is the big one, they call him the Red Baron. He built the hall, and supposedly killed people here quite gruesomely until one of his prisoners managed to kill him first.”

“Good on them,” Lucy said with a decisive nod. 

“And locations?” George continued. “Where do you think the primary source is?”

“It’s not my place to speculate.”

“Ellie,” Lockwood said quietly. “Please. You were an Agent weren’t you, you know exactly what kind of night is waiting for us. And you know neither of those men would be bothered if we didn’t make it out. What’s the harm in telling us what’s coming?”

She ground her teeth, but she talked. “There’s a screaming staircase. Some smaller incidents in the library, here in the dining hall, the long gallery, a bed chamber, and the west tower. But most likely, it’s the Red Room.”

“And where’s that?”

She motioned upwards, to the right. Lockwood switched his torch on and pointed it in that direction. The first-floor hallways looked down on the dining hall through impressive stone balustrades. Through the gaps Lockwood could see several large dark wood doors. He followed the hallway around, to where it linked with a very wide set of stairs to Ellie’s left.

“Ellie! Come here, now!” Fairfax yelled.

She raced for the front door. After a shared glance, they followed.

There were cars right in front of the house, at least ten, and he could hear more coming up the long straight drive. Their headlights were off, which was most likely why it had taken so long for Fairfax to call.

“–trespassing!” The man in question spat. “I could have you arrested–”

“Where are they coming from?” Ellie asked, whispering.

“They’re Blackburn’s.”

People were stepping out onto the gravel now, gravitating towards where Blackburn stood on the front steps. They were mostly familiar faces, people Lockwood had seen in passing for years. The seasoned, the faithful.

George deflated in relief. “Catherine is here.”

“That’s good,” Lucy said, “means your family’s probably safe.”

George was nodding hard. “Susan will keep them that way, now that she knows there’s danger. She’s a force to be reckoned with; you’d get on with her, Lucy.”

“And Flo’s watching now, just in case,” Lockwood said.

“Greetings.” Blackburn’s voice boomed out, and the crowd replied in kind. “Thank you for your swift answer to the call; I am blessed to be called to lead such enthusiastic people. I’m sure you’re wondering where we are.”

There was a low hum of agreement.

“This,” he said, “is our future. London eats at us. At every turn, our mission is rebuffed, ridiculed, and restricted. DEPRAC has used the unfortunate fire in one of our houses and a piece of planted evidence as an excuse to open an investigation into our organisation.” Outrage swept those present, voices raised in disgust and derision. 

“First they will come for your homes, then your children, then you. But we will be safe! For I have seen.”

“Laud the eye that sees!” the people cried. 

“This,” Blackburn beckoned, “is Combe Carey Hall, and it will be our new home. You, my most devoted, those closest to Reclaiming, have been told first.”

They roared with exaltation.

“To earn this home,” Blackburn said, “I will stand firm at the door and converse with the house; there are dead waiting for me to soothe them to sleep. But this is a task unlike any I have taken on before! For this, I will require help.”

The hush sang with silent anticipation. 

“I have long shared with you the fount of my connection to the Other Life, discovered after I was granted release from death. My predecessor, whose Talent passed to me upon his departure from this reality.” Blackburn reached into the bag, removing a familiar skull in a jar. “Our benefactor, whispering truths from beyond; Tom Rotwell! He will guide my way!”

They shouted their elation.

“That is not Tom Rotwell,” Lucy whispered.

“I’d think not,” George murmured back. “That would be the second most notorious grave robbery you could possibly undertake. We’d know about it, for sure.”

“Is this a Ghost Cult!?” Ellie hissed.

“Yes. The Visionaries,” Lockwood said. “If you were ever looking for a sign to run…”

“Now look here!” Fairfax bellowed. “This is my property, and you aren’t allowed to be here! Leave at once, before I call the police to drag you away!”

“See the corruption in his soul,” Blackburn said. “John Fairfax, head of Fairfax Iron, feeding off our children, with every unnecessary death robbing you of the chance to meet the soul your Talent passed to, and Reclaim your gift.”

The crowd roared in outrage.

“Fear not! He will emerge reborn. Plunge him into death, so he may rise anew.”

The crowd surged forward.

“Shit.” Lockwood bit out. “Back!”

They raced into the dining hall, hiding behind the tables. The doors banged open, people swarming inside, and just as quickly siphoning back out again. In their wake was Fairfax lying on the ground, stunned. The doors slammed closed.

Ellie got up, unsheathed her rapier, and ran off into the house. Away, Lockwood noted, from the Red Room.

He hoped she made it out.

Lockwood squared his shoulders and smoothed out his face. “Right then. Best we get to it. If we can find the primary source we can survive this.”

They gathered up their kit, checked that their rapiers were secure, and approached the bottom of the steps.

“Wait,” Lucy said. “I have to do something.”

She walked back through the tables and the lobby, right past Fairfax and up to the front doors.

“Lucy–” George called out, even as Lockwood began to bound towards her with a strangled “Wait–”

She threw the doors open. Fairfax scrambled up and began lumbering towards Lockwood and George. Blackburn was still standing by the entrance, his back to them, arms outstretched as he spoke. Lucy took a running leap and tackled him off the steps.

They hit the ground hard. Lockwood and George stalled, and the crowd went silent, stunned. Their leader lay flat on his face and the skull’s jar had gone flying, bouncing down the steps and rolling under a Night Cab.

Lucy sprang back up just as the people began to scream.

“Run!” She yelled as she darted back inside, through the dining hall and past them, aiming for the stairs.

Nothing for it. Lockwood and George raced after her. Fairfax was on the first landing, and they passed him as they went.

Most of the mob stopped in the dining hall, but a few brave souls chased them up the stairs and into the hallway. Objects from the tables, plates, glasses, and candle holders, began to shatter against the railing, or the hallway wall.

“Wait,” George gasped out, “aren’t we headed to–”

“No choice!”

They tumbled into the Red Room. Lockwood started to close the door. Someone threw their weight into it, forcing their way through and hitting the ground. Fairfax.

Another body hit the door before Lockwood could shut it, screeching and clawing through the space. George smacked the hand with the flat of his rapier, and when it retracted Lucy and Lockwood heaved the door closed. Yelling, pounding, and then the sound of deadbolts sliding into place.

“Dead,” Fairfax moaned. “You’ve killed me!”

Lockwood straightened and sighed. “You’ll live longer if you stay calm. It’ll feed off your panic.”

George spun on Lucy. “What was that? When did you become a lunatic!?”

Lucy hoisted up their kit bag. “I’ll set up a circle.”

“Did it feel good?”

“Lockwood!” George admonished.

She smiled, eyes shining. “Yes. It felt good.”

Chapter Text

The Red Room screamed at her. It was large and imposing, with wallpaper on the walls and decorative moulding forming intricate patterns across the ceiling. There were no windows and no other doors.

Fairfax had planted himself in the middle of their iron circle as soon as she’d made it, staring around with bugged eyes. His fear was repellent. How small he seemed when he was the one at the mercy of evil.

Annabel had been bricked in a chimney.

The manifestation was strong. She could feel it building; the cold, the draining miasma, the creeping fear tinging her thoughts with dread.

“George stepped into the iron circle facing Fairfax. His Rapier was still in his hand. Lockwood and Lucy had drawn theirs as well.

“This is your house,” he said. “Old, cobbled together in spots, right? What’s the original floor plan like?”

“Why are you in my circle!?” Fairfax was scrambling at a bag he’d brought up. “Go destroy the thing!”

George sneered and stepped back towards them. “This is an odd room, in more than just the fact that it isn’t actually red. There should be windows, or interior windows, or a servant’s door. But there’s nothing.”

“Then that’s what we’ll look for,” Lockwood said. “George, look for hidden exits or windows. Lucy, look for the source. I’ll watch your backs.”

“I’m not getting a feel for a source,” she warned, but she went to the walls anyway. In places, the wallpaper was pulled up a bit at the seams. She ran her hand over these spots, hoping for a letter tucked into a crevice or a photo stuck under the moulding. George had stated there was bad energy in the walls right after they’d entered, and she agreed. It clouded her senses and made it hard to puzzle out specifics. She closed her eyes, trying to better focus her Touch and Listening. “George, stop tapping for a moment.”

“He isn’t tapping,” Lockwood said.

She stepped back, whirling to face him. His face was set, calm. “In the circle, now.”

It was a tight fit. The best-kept chain at the house with the basement hadn’t been very long, and Fairfax was taking up room also.

“Feel that chill?” George asked. “Something’s happening.”

Her torch beam caught on something in the corner. She swallowed thickly. “That’s blood.”

It wasn’t blood, actually, despite the look and smell. It was ectoplasm, and it was creeping towards them.

“I thought I found something,” George said, rushed, as they watched it make ugly syrupy splats on the floor. “A door maybe, in the corner–”

Lockwood held his rapier higher. “We’ll have to chance it. You look, Lucy, let’s keep it’s attention.”

“Not from the circle,” Fairfax snarled. He’d freed a strange pair of goggles from his bag and was fixing them over his face. “You’ll lead it to me!”

Lucy gasped as he shoved her past the chain. George and Lockwood shouted for her as she lay sprawled on the floor. She leapt up. ‘Plasm marked the ground much too close to where her shoulder had been.

“George, the door, now.” Lockwood went for the walls, banging his rapier against them and taunting the ghost. “Hey! Not much of a looker, are you?”

Maybe they bought George a few extra seconds, but not long. Soon the dripping became a flowing and the blood began to close in, herding Lockwood and Lucy back towards the corner. Fairfax made a startled animal sound, grabbed the chain and followed, demanding they don’t leave him behind.

She’d never seen anything like it. The walls seeped red, then the ceiling, the floor, a growing, reaching river of blood that wanted nothing more than to devour them. This, Lucy realised, might be her last moment.

Then the door opened and they lunged through. 

Lockwood slammed it shut after them. There were old bars of iron fixed to it’s face and nothing seeped through. They were outside the effects of the manifestation for now; Lucy’s stomach was settling, her breath slowing. She could smell must and dust but no blood.

“Changers?” George asked. “Lots of Changers?”

“Most likely,” Lockwood answered.

“I’m starting to dislike those.”

There was a click. 

Fairfax was standing between them and a descending flight of stairs, a revolver cocked and pointed straight at Lockwood. “Why did he throw me in here? It doesn’t make sense to kill me. It certainly doesn’t mean Blackburn gets Combe Carey!”

Lockwood stared back. There was no fear, just irritation and indifference.

“You're thinking of him as a puppet master,” George said. He was moving slowly closer to Lockwood, as was Lucy. “He’s more like a cat with a string.”

“Maybe he thinks your heir will be easier to convince,” Lockwood said. “A niece, right? She’s in the paper sometimes; very involved in your charity work. Including your donations to VYR.”

Fairfax’s hand was shaking. “Where’s the ring then? Where’s he hidden it?”

“I don’t think we’ll tell you.” Lockwood rolled his shoulders and straightened his jacket. “Call it insurance. If you kill us you’ll never know.”

“I only need one of you alive for that, don’t I?” Fairfax smiled. “You’re going to make me another circle, And then you’re going to go down those stairs and find an exit, clearing Visitors along the way. I’m going to keep one of your little friends here as my own insurance, and we’re going to have a nice chat about that ring.”

His eyes met Lucy’s. She fisted her hand inside her trouser pocket.

“Are you.” Lockwood’s voice was steel.

George stepped forward. “A circle’s a good idea, at any rate.” 

The only thing that stilled Lucy’s tongue was the warning glance George shot both her and Lockwood as he knelt, his hand curling around the end of the chain Fairfax had dropped. A hint of a smirk touched his face and Lucy immediately began searching for what he’d seen, what she and Lockwood had missed.

There. Fairfax’s foot, the one nearest the steps, rested on iron links.

George gave the chain a solid yank.

Fairfax shouted as he lost his feet. The gun went off. Lucy ducked at the clap of noise, but Lockwood didn’t flinch. Instead, he stepped forward, striking Fairfax’s hand with the blade of his rapier. The gun fell to the top step. Fairfax teetered and then went rolling backwards.

He thumped down the stairs for a few seconds, and then there was silence.

“Nicely done,” Lockwood praised. He picked up the revolver and slipped it into the pocket of his coat. “We need to move, can you feel it? It’s getting colder. There's a stronger manifestation, and we don’t want to get pinned.”

Turns out Fairfax had only tumbled half a flight, before becoming wedged between the walls. He was unconscious at any rate. They stepped over him and continued on their way.

The further they went the stronger the chill. Fear began to needle at her again, trying to squirm into her mind. She could tic the warnings off a list; chill, spiderwebs, a bad taste in the air. They entered an old stone passage, lit by moonlight from peaked windows, and froze.

A Visitor stood there, glowing and indistinct to her Sight. When he turned and disapeared into the dark of the hall the straight line of a rapier at his hip was easy to distinguish.

“What do you want to bet that was a member of the last team that tried to clear this place?” George asked.

They couldn’t go back. Lockwood led them forward.

They found another staircase. The second Lucy placed a foot upon it her intuition sang, but they were halfway down before she began to Hear the screaming. It was hard to gasp the word out, so encompassing was the din in her head, but she managed. “The screaming staircase. This is it!”

Together they ran.

-

“Look for the Source!”

“Where!? There’s nothing in here but the Fittes kid!”

It was more a cavern than a room, hand-hewn stones, tall pillars, and a well. The screaming had been joined with chanting and the creeping fear had made its way in; Lucy was drowning in it, clawing for clear headedness, fighting to raise her rapier as the pressure built. Lockwood’s instructions became indistinct, George’s panicked responses muted. She was bursting with noise.

One smokey robed figure appeared at the foot of the stairs, and then another. 

Best to give in. Best to give up.

Her rapier clattered to the floor. She didn’t hear it land.

Best to sleep. Best to fall. Best to die.

Wasn’t she tired?

Nothing to worry about, falling. After all, she already was.

She gasped into awareness, staring down the well with two hands fisted in her jacket. They reeled her back. The lethargy, apathy, and acceptance left. Instead, she was shaky, cold, and alive.

George and Lockwood pulled her down between them, backs to the stones she’d been teetering on. Lockwood clutched her hand, and George held her forearm tightly. The room in front of them was packed wall to wall with dark figures, chanting, screaming, and approaching.

“You were ghost-locked,” Lockwood said, half a statement, half a question.

“I know where the source is,” she answered. “There are bodies in the bottom of the well.”

“Got your flares?”

There hadn’t been magnesium flairs among the supplies they’d found in the house with the basement, but they’d brought the ones Lockwood had taken from Fittes and smuggled downstairs in a bag of flour. He’d passed them out before they left.

She pulled hers free, George doing the same beside her. She slipped her thumb into the circle on the end of the linchpin.

“On three! One, two…”

One standard issue flare might not have been enough, but three, thrown down the well in tandem, made quite an impression.

-

Lockwood came to in a world of rubble and dust.

He coughed, pushing himself up. Through the haze, he spotted a body. His breath hitched. George, head turned away, unmoving. Lockwood’s fingers scratched at the ground as he pried himself off of whatever he was leaning against and began to crawl.

“Not one step closer.”

He swivelled, looking over his shoulder. A torch discarded on the ground lit the back of Lucy Carlyle, standing tall amidst the dust. She had her feet set wide and her rapier in her hand. In front of her, at the base of the screaming staircase, was Fairfax.

“I can help them,” he said. His voice wasn’t built for reassurance, always carrying a note of condescension. “The best medical treatment, the greatest doctors. All I want in return is for you to tell me where the ring is.”

Lockwood reached George. He grabbed at his shoulder, his face. He placed his head on his friend’s chest and shuddered when he felt it rise.

“Come on.” Lockwood sat back up and shook him. “George!”

“I’d never tell you that,” Lucy told Fairfax.

“I’m up, I’m up,” George grumbled. His glasses were gone completely. He frowned and blinked up, grumpy and clear-eyed.

Lockwood smiled at him. “Good. That’s good.”

He pulled himself to his feet and started for Lucy. He found a rapier along the way, scooping it up before coming to stand with her, shoulder to shoulder.

“Leave us alone,” he said. “You’re outnumbered and outmatched.”

Fairfax’s face contorted, sneering and red. Something went unstuck in his eyes. “I only needed my hands the first time,” he growled and lunged for Lucy.

Lockwood’s blade rose.

Lucy stepped into Farfax’s attack and clocked him one across the face with the hilt of her rapier before retreating to Lockwood. Fairfax fell on his arse and stayed there, sitting on the bottom step, his hand to his nose and his goggles tilted, staring in utter incomprehension.

“About the first time,” Lucy said.

She fished something from her pocket. Silver glinted in the dull light as she popped a familiar locket open and tossed the circle of metal inside into the air. She backed up and Lockwood did the same. 

The spectre manifested quickly; the shape of a woman in a long dress composed of other-light. It’s attention quickly caught, and sharpened.

Fairfax gawked through his goggles. “Annabel?”

With a scream Lockwod could not hear, Annabel dove for her killer. Fairfax died quickly, other-light expanding inside him, burning out of his mouth and eyes. He collapsed back, bloated and strange. The ghost of Annabel Ward reappeared above them, face twisting before settling on something softer, more human. She turned to look at Lucy. Lockwood began to creep forward, towards where the ring sat on the ground. And then, before he could lunge, Annabel drifted apart into nothing. Her presence in the room dissipated like steam.

“She’s gone?”

“He’s dead,” Lucy answered. “She isn’t angry anymore.”

In two long steps, Lockwood knelt and collected the ring. He placed it back in one half of the locket, which Lucy snapped closed.

“Feel anything else?” Lockwood asked.

“Nothing.”

The realisation began to dawn. He was alive. They were all alive, the primary Source was destroyed, and Fairfax was dead. Here they were, standing amidst the debris of their final Hail Mary, and they’d won. They’d survived. Somehow, they’d survived.

Emotion tumbled back into his reach. Relief, elation, vindication.

And then, as a thought came to him, bafflement.

“Lucy,” he said. “Luce, dearest, did you dive tackle a cult leader in front of his followers so you could pickpocket a Source off him?”

 She crossed her arms. “...Maybe. I knew he had it. The skull was complaining.”

Incredible. He grinned at her. She smiled back. Truly incredible.

 “Maniacs, both of you,” George groused as he finished approaching. He pulled them into a rough hug. Lockwood dropped his rapier onto the ground and held onto them as tightly as he could.

-

There was, of course, still escape to deal with. They were safe for the moment, but they’d need to make their way out.

They’d been debating braving the Red Room again when Lucy saw it.

Her head was tilted up, her mouth slightly parted. “There’s light.”

She was right. The explosion had been enough to jar the building and cause a small break in the wall. Through it came a visible beam of sunlight, cutting through the dust.

“Tyndall effect,” George whispered.

They stared like it was magic.

“Alright,” Lockwood said. “There’s our way out.”

It took time to scale the wall and tunnel through. Lockwood broke his rapier blade, and they all had to take breaks to step away and breathe better air. His back grew sore and his arms heavy with fatigue, but eventually the last stone was chiselled out and they could see through a person-sized opening into an old unassuming hallway.

“Ready?” Lockwood asked as he stepped into the short tunnel, George and Lucy waiting to scramble up behind him. “There’s still Blackburn to consider.”

“We aren’t going back,” Lucy declared.

And it was true. They’d broken the status quo too thoroughly; there was no returning to how things had been. If they didn't succeed in escaping this time they’d never get another chance.

“We aren’t,” Lockwood agreed.

They looked at George. He looked apprehensive but also resolute. He nodded. “We walk out free.”

Or, of course, they didn’t walk out at all.

Lockwood ducked through the hole and into the daylight.

-

It was a soft morning, the sunlight filtering through wispy grey clouds that coated the sky from one horizon to the other. There was still the subtle sense of a manifestation, Visitors sequestered deep inside, away from the still new sun. With any luck, the cluster would dissipate over the next few weeks, now that the bodies in the well weren’t there to draw them in. Lockwood’s eyes stung and watered when he looked out the windows along their path, out onto the golden autumn countryside, struggling with the brightness. He looked anyway. Everything was so vibrant.

They were curving around the back of the house, trying to stick to rooms with windows. They’d come upon a few Type-One Visitors, drifting around without sparing them any attention. With no floor plans, there was only George’s architectural know-how and Lucy’s strong sense of direction to rely on. Lockwood didn’t mind the detours, the backtracking, or the light squabbling George and Lucy had fallen into. He followed sedately, drinking in every moment the three of them were cradled by the day.

“This looks familiar…” George tilted his head as he looked down a hall, reaching up to adjust glasses that weren’t there.

“It doesn’t look like anything,” Lucy grumbled, stomping to his side. “Remember five minutes ago, when you drew your rapier on a suit of armour?”

“You also drew your rapier, what’s your excuse?”

“I was following your lead!”

They walked down the hall. Lockwood was drawn to another window. He could see a long grey lake from this one, dark green trees dotted along its edges.

“You. ”

George and Lucy went silent. Lockwood turned around.

There was a staircase, wooden and twisting, dropping away from the hall they were in. A good seven steps down, was Blackburn as Lockwood had never seen him.

His eyes were blackening around the bridge of his nose, and there were traces of blood on his upper lip, a nosebleed he hadn’t wiped completely away. His jacket was ripped, what looked suspiciously like a ‘plasm burns curling up one sleeve, the knees of his trousers were scuffed, as were the toes of his shoes. The everpresent air of calm superiority had been stripped away, leaving animal bright eyes in a twisting face.

“You did this,” he accused. “You did it on purpose, didn’t you? Carver’s in on it, you’ve been working together. He’s always been jealous. You’re trying to steal my people, to ruin my life.”

George and Lucy had closed in around Lockwood, blades bare and faces blank. He didn’t feel the urge to bring his rapier out yet. Blackburn didn’t look like a monster to be slain, he looked like a child having a tantrum over not getting his way.

“You turned them against me,” he wailed. “You ruined everything. You were supposed to die! Why didn’t you die!?”

He huffed like a beast, lungfuls of air pushed out a quivering mouth. And then he straightened, schooling his face. He was trying to project authority, but the mask didn’t fit over the twisting, nasty, selfish edges anymore.

“I can start again. I can go back, I’ll go to the Children’s House. I’ll set up a miracle, you’ll help me. They’ll see, they’ll believe again. Come on, Anthony, protect me. Lead me out of this place. I’ll let your friends go,” he lied. “Stay with me and I’ll let them leave. You know there’s no future for you, you know that you’re nothing without me.”

“My name,” he said, “is Lockwood. Don’t call me Anthony, you have no right. And the honest truth is you are nothing without me.”

Rage surged forward, demolishing the put-on civility. He began to climb the steps. “You’ll do as I say, or–”

Lockwood pulled Fairfax’s revolver out. He felt settled, resolute. His hand was steady as he aimed it at Blackburn’s chest.

The man froze.

“It’s funny to me,” Lockwood said, “that you claimed to conquer the one thing you’re truly afraid of. Being alone, being unloved; no, not unloved, not worshipped. That fills you with avarice, with hate. But death, that fills you with fear.”

Blackburn was sneering. “I always knew you were like this. You pretend to be some innocent, miserable, weak-willed child, but you’ve always had something dark and mean in you.”

Lockwood was done listening to anything this shrivelled excuse for a man said. “Leave. I will only ask this once. One step further, and I’ll shoot.”

He meant it. He saw the monster he’d cowered before for years realise he meant it.

Lockwood had finally drawn his line in the sand.

Blackburn kept talking, spewing pleas, commands, and vitriol, but he also kept stepping back, descending. 

Lockwood kept his cool and his advantage, George and Lucy standing steady at his shoulders.

On the landing, the man glowered up at them. 

“You’ll pay,” he vowed. “Every moment of your life, know you will pay for what you’ve done to me, that I will have my recompense.”

And then he fled.

They stayed as they were for half a minute, just in case, and then Lockwood flipped on the safety and returned the gun to his pocket.

Lucy was watching him, questioning. “Why didn’t you shoot?”

“It wouldn’t be very classy now, would it? Besides, I’d rather he go the other way. The kind of death that has no warning, no meaning, no rhyme or reason. The Visionaries can’t make a martyr out of a man who falls in a ditch or trips down the stairs.”

-

Eventually Combe Carey Hall led them around a corner, and they were able to begin piecing together exactly what had occurred. 

“Those are DEPRAC vans,” Lockwood said, pressed against a window pane.

Lucy had her chin on his shoulder, so she could see. “Police, too, look.”

They backtracked. Lockwood sliced off a corner of his coat and they wrapped the silver locket with Annabel’s source, Fairfax’s gun, the bullets Lockwood had removed from its chambers, and the goggles George had taken from Fairfax’s body into a neat little bundle. It took some work, but they managed to budge one of the windows, opening it enough to toss the makeshift packet through.

They decided to keep their rapiers in the interest of being dealt with by DEPRAC as Agents, whose laws and practices they better understood, and not the police.

The dining hall they looked down upon through the second-floor balustrade was much different than the one they’d left. The tables had been forced to the walls, leaving a large open space in the middle. There was a row of four bodies lying under sheets in one corner, victims of whatever chaos had erupted here. The Visionaries were sitting on the ground in clumps, some cuffed and some under shock blankets, Police and DEPRAC officers threading in between them as they hurried around like ants. 

“Hey, you!” an officer pointed their way. “Down here, now!”

They went.

Rapiers were taken, pockets gone through, stern words spoken, and then they were deposited in their own little clump near the stairs. Lockwood didn’t find it any hardship, sitting on the floor pressed between George and Lucy, watching the activity around them. It became quickly clear that the authorities present didn’t know what to make of the trio of teenagers, casting them glances as they conferred with each other.

It should have been more of a shock than it was when ten minutes later Inspector Barnes strode purposefully through the door with a stern-faced woman and a pinched-looking Quill Kipps. He spotted them and made his way to their position.

He looked at Lucy, then at George who sparked some level of recognition if the extra degree to his arched eyebrows was to be believed, and then at Lockwood.

“Ready to tell the truth yet, Snook?” he asked.

“I suppose it is that time.” Lockwood smiled. “My name is Anthony J. Lockwood. I really do prefer my surname. I was framed for the murder of Danny Clough after Blackburn forced me to write a confession, but you won’t believe that. I’ve been kept in a basement and forced to conduct illegal Psychical investigations on threat of death. George and Lucy were abducted so he’d have more leverage on me. They haven’t participated in a single one.” Lockwood held his wrists out. “I’m ready to go.”

-

They didn’t cuff him when they led him out of Combe Carey, which was a small mercy. The biggest discomfort was trying to get George and Lucy to back down, to let DEPRAC take him away. Barnes assured them it was only until they had a better understanding of the facts, but it was only after Lockwood reminded the pair they needed to be free to fight for his acquittal that they subsided and let him go.

“That all true?” Kipps asked as he ushered Lockwood across the drive. “You didn’t kill anyone, and some cult leader’s been forcing you to work?”

“Why are you here, Kipps?”

 He shifted like he didn’t know if he should puff up or not. “I'm Fittes' special liaison. We help keep a lookout for… rogue agents.”

“How’s it feel,” Lockwood said, as he set his foot up onto the step of a boxy DEPRAC transport van, “having caught one?”

Kipps’s hand brushed his back, guiding him in. He stared up at him, unsure. A DEPRAC Agent closed the van door.

Lockwood took a moment. He closed his eyes, and breathed in as deep as he could, before letting it out again. He’d done the right thing. The only thing. He’d lost his chance to do anything noteworthy with his Talent, he’d be tied up in court hearings even if he managed not to be imprisoned, but George and Lucy were free. They wouldn’t leave him behind. He’d been promised.

“Karim’s research was enough for a warrant of Pamela Joplin’s flat.”

 Lockwood’s eyes flew open. Kippes had hopped up on the van bumper, face pressed close to the tiny window in the door.

“Bobby Vernon?”

“Alive, tied to a chair in her apartment. She’d been using him to help with research and was planning some kind of experiment with him as the test subject, but the mirror disappeared before she could start.”

“Lucky break.”

Kipps looked at him, searching. Lockwood’s gaze jumped past him, to the majestic front doors of Combe Carey Hall. George and Lucy were still in there. They’d be split up, making statements. Someone was going to call George’s family, soon.

“I need to know if you were telling the truth.”

“Why?” Lockwood looked back at Kipps. “I don’t think it would give you any peace of mind, in this case.”

“Because if I’m going to be taking your side with the press I want to know I won’t be made a laughing stock when it turns out you were pretending.”

“Everyone’s pretending. That they have it together, have control.”

“Tony.”

“It’s Lockwood. Why would you even want to do that, what’s the benefit?”

Kipps shifted uncomfortably. “Bobby’s alive. I’d rather not owe you for it.”

Well. Fair enough. 

Lockwood tried to think of it as a case, to shut the emotions away. “Danny Clough was a friend. A man named Jack Carver made him an offer, too good to be true. I saw them talking and followed them. They met with Blackburn. I saw the trap, stepped in and tried to talk Danny out of it, and I did. But they didn’t let us leave, and he was killed. They took me instead. Several more years of talent to use and a handy framing and faked death to keep me in line. That’s the truth of it.”

Kipps nodded. He opened his mouth, then closed it. “That’s– I mean to say, you–”

Lockwood winced. “Please don’t try and console me.”

Kipps sagged in obvious relief. “Right.” He stepped down and rounded the van, swiftly falling out of sight.

Lockwood spotted George running out of Combe Carey’s entrance at full speed, something suspiciously jar-with-a-Type-Three shaped clasped to his chest, and behind one of the Visionaries’ cars. None of the DEPRAC agents or shell-shocked cult members seemed to notice. A few seconds later George came back into view, sedate and empty-handed.

Lockwood ducked his head and smiled.

A few minutes later he noticed something new was happening. Police were being dismissed, and rushed off the premises. Boxes were being taken out of the hall and packed away in DEPRAC vehicles. Barnes was speaking with a man, both making large agitated gestures with their hands.

Eventually, Barnes stormed back inside. He looked irritated and was holding a file in his hand.

Several minutes later George and Lucy came bursting out holding papers, casting their heads around wildly.

Lockwood knocked his knuckles on the van door.

They turned his way. Lucy spotted him through the window and came running, George on her heels. They clambered up, pressing close to the glass.

“I found the third option!” George said, breathless. They were pressed cheek to cheek to see him, and both grinning like mad. He waved his fistful of papers. “It's a government coverup!”

Turns out you can ask for a heap of concessions when there’s an NDA someone desperately wants you to sign.

-

They let Lockwood out of the van. Barnes didn’t seem super happy about it, but he agreed to shuttle them back to London.

“Your families need to be notified,” he told them. They were nestled in the back seat of his sleek black car, legs and hands tangled, fiercely glad to be reunited. “And you’ll need to visit the hospital.”

“Do you know what’s being covered up?” George asked. “Is it Fairfax dying or the VYR being a front for a Ghost Cult?”

Barnes stared him down through the rearview mirror, but George wouldn’t have been bothered even if he could make it out. “I think that’s above both our pay grades. Be thankful you aren’t leaving in a prison truck and keep your thoughts to yourself.”

It hadn’t hit Lockwood quite yet that somehow he’d managed to squirm out from under the illegal Psychical investigation charges and have the murder confession dismissed as evidence. That he was going to be released back into the world the very same day as George and Lucy.

“I’m just bringing it up,” George said, “Because I have copies of a lot of Blackburn’s papers. Those would be important to have if the Visionaries are going to be prosecuted.”

“Oh,” Lockwood made his eyes widen, his tone innocent. “I just remembered. There’s a relic upstairs you might want to look at. Some kind of mirror?”

-

They reentered Blackburn’s neighbourhood sandwiched between several DEPRAC vehicles. They’d had to argue for the chance to return, but their ability to get DEPRAC in and out quickly eventually won over any other concerns.

The house with the basement looked different in the day, run-down, off-centre. The dark red paint on the siding had chipped, and the corners were dingy with water damage.

Lockwood led them inside. George was explaining to the stern woman, Wade, where to find the Bone Glass and why the knife stuck in Carver’s back most likely linked the killing to Pamela Joplin. Lucy had been mostly quiet since they’d fallen in with DEPRAC, but when Lockwood glanced his fingers over the back of her hand she smiled at him.

“We’ll get George’s records,” Lockwood decided. “It shouldn’t take very long. Wait here.”

“I’m coming down with you,” Barnes told him.

Lockwood frowned. “Why?”

“If the story you're telling is true it’s a crime scene.”

“If the coverup holds, no one will ever investigate it.”

Barne’s mouth twisted, sour. “That doesn’t mean we should throw all procedure away.”

He did come, in the end. Lockwood found himself unaccountably squirrelly about being followed down the steps by the man so he, Lucy, and George went alone while he used the key to unlock the doors and bars, with the understanding Barnes would follow after they’d reached the bottom.

The entrance to the secret room was still unblocked from Lucy and George’s mission. George and Lucy set to pulling the cans out of cardboard boxes and placing George’s notebooks inside instead. There wasn’t much extra room, so Lockwood sat with his back to the toilet and watched them for a while. It didn’t take too long for him to get curious.

Barnes was at the thinking wall when Lockwood approached. He was standing close, reading one of the notes untouched by the red paint. His hands were clasped in the small of his back, and he seemed to be squeezing them together with force.

“It isn’t usually this bad.”

Barnes turned to look at him. His expression changed from unsettled to the one he’d worn in the interrogation room, calm and imposing. “In what way?”

Lockwood cast a hand out, struggling to explain. In truth, he was rather fond of the basement. All the inconveniences and nasty necessities had lost their sting through unavoidability and sheer repetition. But here was Barnes, looking at the little room Lockwood had succumbed to calling his home ages ago, this place that had often contained every good thing about Lockwood’s life, like it was something horrid.

“We kept things pretty neat, for one. It was trashed a few days ago, as a punishment.”

Barnes regarded him levelly. 

“George’s notes are safe,” Lockwood assured him. “There’s a secret room under the stairs. I tunnelled through when I was fifteen.”

“You did well,” Barnes said, which was a bit of a nonsensical response. Lockwood nodded anyway.

Lucy came up behind him with the box, and George with his sleeping bag wadded up in a big ball in front of him.

“I know this is a crime scene,” George said, “But can I take this with me? Please. It doesn’t have blood on it or anything.”

Barnes’ frown got deeper.

“We can roll it up really small,” Lucy said.

Lockwood squared his shoulders. He’d fight him about it if he had to.

Barnes sighed, much too long and weary to be about a sleeping bag. “Be quick about it.”

The foyer was busy when they walked back up the stairs and someone immediately swept over to whisper in Barnes’ ear. Lockwood wasn’t sure how much deeper the man’s frown could get.

He turned to them. “I need you three to stay close.”

“Why?”

Barnes bristled at Lockwood’s sharp tone, then seemed to carefully reel himself back. “There are people coming out of the houses,” he said neutrally, “and they’re beginning to become agitated.”

George clutched the sleeping bag closer to him. “The Visionaries.”

“Yes. I need you to stick together and get back in the car quickly.”

Lucy took Lockwood’s hand and looped her elbow with George’s before nodding, resolute. “We can do that.”

-

When they stepped out of the house the crowd hadn’t become a swarm yet, but it was heading that way. Barnes walked quickly to his car, and the three tumbled in the back. As soon as the locks clicked they were pressed to the windows, watching.

“There’s so many,” Lucy whispered.

There was. The number had to be approaching a hundred, solemn-faced adults stepping out of the houses and walking towards the DEPRAC vehicles. The ones close enough were asking questions, some becoming agitated, others stepping away with lost expressions.

Lockwood spotted something. “Look!”

There were two girls, dressed in white shirts and cloth trousers, running down the street from the direction of the Children’s House. Their hands were linked. They ran straight to one of the DEPRAC vans and began rapping urgently against the window. 

“Do you think–”

“A lot of kids are just here because of their parents. They must be seizing their chance, asking for help.”

The back of the van opened up, and the girls began to climb inside.

From down the street, three more kids appeared.

Someone began to yell.

Barnes pulled away from the curb, moving carefully through the Visionaries standing century in the road. Behind them, chaos began to stir. 

“What happens now?” Lucy asked Lockwood.

“Now you go to the hospital,” Barnes said.

“That’s a good suggestion, really…” Lockwood started.

“That was not a suggestion.”

“...But consider this; I haven’t had a doughnut in three years.”

-

Barnes took them to get doughnuts.

He parked around the corner from the bakery, levelled them with a harsh stare and ordered them to stay in the car, and went to secure breakfast.

“Funny,” Lockwood said. “I was sure he’d put up a fight about it. At risk of speaking too highly of authority, I’m finding the man almost agreeable.”

George leaned against the window, eagerly taking it all in. Everything was fuzzy and unfocused, but he could still make out the shape of things; people were going about their morning business, strolling past on the pavement and coming in and out of shops. The clouds had parted and the light made everything bright and–

Wait a minute.

He pressed his hand against the window.

Yes. It really was.

He threw the door open. “Come on!”

“Wait- George!”

Lucy and Lockwood clambered out after him. He didn’t slow for them, searching for… there, a smudge of trees against the blue sky. That would do.

“Where are we going?” Lucy asked. 

George hummed and took her hand in his. She swung their arms back and forth.

Lockwood was scanning the nearby people, his hand hovering protectively over George’s elbow. “Did you see someone?”

“Nothing like that. I have something to show you two.”

Lockwood quirked an eyebrow, intrigued. George managed his own expression, holding firmly to his composure. If he waited just a bit longer he’d have two people, his two people, to share the growing feeling in his chest with. The only two people who’d know exactly why he was affected so, who would be affected in the same way.

“Show us what?”

“You’ll like it, I promise.”

George reached for him too, and Lockwood threaded their fingers together easily. Like it was natural.

He brought them to a stop near the trees, in a small park on a street corner. He picked a patch of brown grass and plopped down, his hold stopping the other two from moving forward without him. 

“Here is fine.” 

They blinked down at him.

“Well? Stop looming over me, sit down.”

“If you insist,” Lockwood said. They seated themselves. He and Lucy traded a perplexed look over George’s head. They didn’t feel it yet.

“Close your eyes.”

Lucy’s hand twitched. “Georgie?”

“Come on, I’m giving you a surprise. I’ll have mine open, I’ll be watching.”

“Lot of good that’ll do,” she joked, but she closed her eyes. Lockwood did too.

George watched them, leaning close so he could make out the eyelashes against their pale cheeks, the flyaway hairs about their faces washed in gold by the sun. A sound behind them had George twisting to look and his friends tensing. He shushed them, glaring as Barnes stormed over, pink doughnut box in hand. 

“It’s just Barnes, he’s not coming closer.” 

Barnes stopped his approach.

“When is this surprise arriving?” Lockwood asked.

“It already has, can’t you tell?”

“It's a bit difficult to do without opening my eyes.”

“That’s what you think.”

“Oh,” Lucy whispered, face loosening in wonder. She opened her eyes, looking at George with amazement on her face, pointing questioningly with her free hand. He nodded. “Oh,” she said again, eyes going liquid. “That’s nice.”

“What, what is it?”

“You’re lagging behind, Lockwood,” George teased. “Come on, I know Sight is your thing, but use your other senses. What’s different?”

“I hear birds, and cars, and people,” Lockwood said slowly. “I smell grass, lavender, and car exhaust. I feel…” he trailed off, eyes popping open, looking stunned.

“There it is,” Lucy said, bumping shoulders with George.

“The sun,” Lockwood said, dazed. “I can feel the sun.”

“Exactly. It’s warm.” They were both pressing close, then. George leaned back, letting them hold him up, and closed his own eyes. Warmth on his face and permeating up from the ground, warmth at both his sides, warmth in his chest.

Barnes let them stay that way for a long time. When he finally cleared his throat, George turned to see he was facing away. It gave Lucy the chance to press a kiss to George’s cheek, and Lockwood a moment to brush at the corners of his eyes.

“Hospital,” Barnes said, and for once his tone wasn’t even a little harsh. “Karim, Carlyle, as soon as you're cleared by a doctor we’ll contact your families.”

“Not Lucy’s,” Lockwood said.

Barnes shook his head. “There's a procedure. Unless you can give me a solid reason…”

“She knew where I was,” Lucy said. George squeezed her hand. “She knew what had happened and she didn’t do anything.”

George couldn’t see Barnes’ face well, but the quirk to Lockwood’s mouth told him it must have done something interesting. 

“You’ll be willing to make a statement to that effect?”

Lucy looked at George, then Lockwood. “Will they keep her away from us if I do?”

“I will do everything in my power to see you safe,” Barnes said.

“Brilliant,” Lockwood grinned. “See Luce, it’ll be fine. We’ll look after you.”

There was still a lot to do. George could see it stretched before them; joys and stresses and hard days as they found out what parts of the lives they’d had they could reclaim, and what pieces were lost forever. But they’d done it, they’d caught their chance. They could make it from here.

They walked back to the car with their heads high, hand in hand in hand, the warmth of the sun on their backs.

-

Several scenes played on the television screen. Children playing, the exterior of several brick buildings and large houses, people in handcuffs being escorted into yellow DEPRAC vans. A man’s voice spoke over them all.

“Nearly three months ago a series of arrests were made at locations like this, all over London. A joint force of police and DEPRAC agents discovered that the VYR outreach, catering to children with Talent and their families, had strong ties to a previously hidden Ghost Cult, the Visionaries, run by erroneously titled Dr. Timothy Blackburn. A major effort was undertaken to bring those involved in Blackburn’s many fraud operations into custody and to relocate the affected children.

The cult came into the light when employee Ellie Grege phoned police to report that a contingent of Visionaries was trespassing on the country estate of her employer, renowned Iron tycoon Sir John Fairfax. Coincidentally, Fairfax had died in his sleep in his Central London home only hours prior to the call.

When confronted with authorities the cult entered the building, where four were ghost-touched. The cult split at this point, many approaching the DEPRAC agents on the scene for protection.

While nearly fifty arrests were made on site, Timothy Blackburn evaded authorities. His status remained unknown until sightings were reported at the estate, Combe Carey Hall in Berkshire, of a Visitor meeting his description. Which brings us to today’s update on the case.”

The image changed to a reporter standing in front of the illustrious Hall with a teen in a button-up shirt, a tie, and a long black coat.

“Here with me,” he said into the microphone, “is the founder of the new central London Agency credited with securing Timothy Blackburn’s Source. Now, Mr. Lockwood–”

“Anyone home?”

Lockwood sprang from the kitchen chair at the sound of George’s voice. He ran his hand over Lucy’s shoulders as he passed her, unthinking and electric. She followed slightly slower, lingering in the doorway so she could split her attention between the Lockwood bounding down the hall and throwing open the front door of 35 Portland Row and the Lockwood grinning through their television screen.

“Let me in, this is heavy.”

“Do I smell what I think I smell?”

“ Ghormeh sabzi with an absolute shedload of rice.”

“Brilliant, tell your mother I love her forever.”

“Oh. This one’s all me, actually.”

“Well in that case–”

“Lucy!” George grinned over Lockwood’s shoulder at her. He had snazzy new glasses, a healthy warmth to his skin, a newspaper tucked under his arm, and a large pot held in both hands with a smaller one balanced carefully on top. “Help me get through the doorway, would you?”

Lockwood ended up holding the rice and Lucy the stew as George took off his coat. It was made of an achingly familiar black and orange. One of his brothers had helped him turn his sleeping bag from the basement into a puffer jacket, old comfort in a form he could more easily carry with him. The kitchen was bright. Sunlight filtered through its large windows as they entered and began setting the pots on the stove. George went for the bowls and Lucy began picking her coloured pencils up off the thinking cloth, stacking them on a counter to be later carried up to her attic bedroom. Lockwood snagged the remote, powering off the TV in the middle of his own voice recounting how the hunt for Blackburn’s Source had been drastically aided by a consulting researcher.

“You don’t have to turn it off,” George protested.

“Nonsense. I already said it, so I don’t need to hear it again.”

George crooked an eyebrow and looked to Lucy, sceptical.

“The VHR is set to record,” she said.

“Yes, that makes more sense.”

“I’d rather talk with you anyhow,” Lockwood continued as if they hadn’t spoken, “it’s been too long.”

“It’s been two days. Speaking of, you still haven’t got to the doors.”

Lockwood looked behind him. “Ah. Right, you are.”

It had been a weekend project. With the exception of the room on the landing and the basement, one for personal reasons and the other due to Agency regulations, the three of them had gone through the house from top to bottom and removed all the interior doors, hanging curtains in their stead. There were currently seven doors leaning against the kitchen wall, waiting to be lugged down into the basement.

“Curiously enough, something has come up I’d like to speak with you about,” George said.

Lockwood turned to him, posture straightening. “Oh?”

Lucy rounded the table so they were standing in a long triangle, brimming with anticipation.

George held up the newspaper he’d brought, laying it out on the table. He flipped pages until he reached the classifieds. “You put an ad in for a researcher.”

“That’s right.”

“Get any bites?”

“Not so far, no.”

“Might be your requirements are too narrow.” George began to read. “Lockwood and Co. the prestigious Psychical Investigation agency; required, Head Researcher. Duties will include case research, independent research, kitchen management, and active haunting assessment and containment. Successful applicants must be Sensitive to supernatural phenomena, nearsighted, and have a first name beginning with G. Lodging provided.” He looked up. “You could have just asked me.”

“I believe I just did.”

George rolled his eyes aggressively, but a smile was sneaking into his expression. “You could have asked me when I came over for the weekend, or over the phone during one of our thrice a week calls, like a normal person.”

“Do you think I’m a normal person, Georgie?”

“If I had, this,” he thumped the paper, “has definitely laid that misconception to rest.”

They smiled at each other for a moment, openly fond.

George cleared his throat, pulling something from his pocket. “In any case, here. It’s my CV.”

“You’re hired.”

“What– you have to look at it at least!”

“I don’t, it’s my agency. I can hire based on any criteria I want.”

“You can’t run a business like that, Lockwood, you have to look at the CV and not just decide on a whim!”

“I thought the ad made it clear, this is the farthest thing from a whim. I know everything I need to know about you, and I know what Lockwood & Co. needs, what Lucy and I need. It’s you. You’re hired.”

George wavered. “I don’t- I’m not sure-” He pulled off his glasses, rubbing them on his shirt before returning them to their place.

Lockwood’s good humour began to bank. “What is it?”

“I don’t know if I can do this. If it would be right to do this.”

“It’s not going to be like it was. I’m in charge, which means the best equipment, time for research, paychecks, always having backup-”

“I don’t mean that, of course that will be better, I mean-” George hunched in on himself, looking away. “I mean the relationship part.”

Lockwood swayed away, just a little. “I don't know what you're –”

“Oh come off it, we were going to have to stick a name on this eventually.”

The kitchen was silent for a long moment. Lockwood looked at Lucy. She shrugged at him. “He's right.”

Lockwood’s expression turned guarded. “Alright, fine. Relationship. What about it?”

“I saw plenty of people who were dating when I was with Fittes. They weren’t supposed to be, strictly speaking, but they were anyway. And it made sense at first, but the longer people were together, it just got-” he stopped, shaking his head.

“George?”

“They’d stop talking about holding hands, and first kisses, and nice surprises, and being known by someone, and start to only talk about the other stuff. It was like all the nice things were just steps they had to take to get to something else, and I just couldn’t understand it. I don’t want to start with you two, making something that could be simple so much more complicated when I might want to, this is a metaphor, just set up shop somewhere along the way and stay there. It doesn't work if you're gung ho for a specific destination and I-”

Lockwood made two large steps forward and took George’s face in his hands. He froze under the touch, awed, but also a bit too close to panic. Lockwood leaned in slowly and pressed his lips to George’s forehead. He lingered. George exhaled shakily. Lucy stepped closer, placing her fingertips against the palm of George’s hand. He chased her touch when she pulled away, gripping on tightly. Lockwood pulled back and rested their foreheads together.

“We can make it work,” he said, voice ringing with absolute faith. “We’ve untangled worse knots. Everything good that has happened is because we broke the rules, we relied on each other, and we decided for ourselves. All I want this to be is what works for all of us, and I’m sure Lucy feels the same.”

She nodded at him, then again at George when he peeked her way. 

“The destination is just together,” Lockwood whispered, low. “Is that what you want?”

“Yes.”

“Then that’s that. I mean if you-”

“Your fridge is way too empty. If I’m going to live here that has to change. And you’ll have to take the doors down to the basement, honestly.”

Lockwood pulled back and beamed at him, then at Lucy. She found herself doing the same.

“Wait no, would you just– you have to read the CV first, you arse, I agonised all day over getting it right–”

In the coming years the three at 35 Portland Row never quite managed to be normal people, but they did manage free. They filled their lives with chosen things; with biscuits, tea, doughnuts, and Italian whenever they fancied, with long black coats, stuffed frogs, fluffy jumpers, open doors, their own rooms, and eventually one big bed. They chose new friends, adversaries, and battles, and they chose each other. Over and over and over again.

And really, what good is normal compared to something like that?

THE END