Chapter Text
Holly blitzes the house for the second time in two months. She dusts and mops and tidies. Anything of Lucy’s she takes up to the attic and places neatly in the now empty dresser. The house looks almost exactly the same. A pristine new table cloth in the kitchen, fewer coats and boots in the hall, and an empty desk in the basement are all that show something is missing.
That and the way the boys won’t look at her. Won’t look at each other. Can hardly speak at all.
So she’s doing what she can: cleaning, rearranging, decluttering.
She reorganizes the filing cabinet, starts a new case book and refreshes all the lavender sachets. She’s surprised Lockwood even notices.
“Where did you put the old ones?” he asks, his hand brushing a vase full of fragrant purple flowers.
“I threw them out,” she shrugs.
A hollow desolation flashes in his eyes. She spies him later, pulling a dried bouquet from the bin. He carries it like a broken thing up to his room and shuts the door.
She asks George who used to pick the lavender for the house. His angry glare tells her everything she needs to know.