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As I walk downstairs from the first floor landing, Lockwood looks up and flashes his perfect smile, rough around the edges from the previous week’s events. His face still holding the fragments of bruising, I catch a flush dancing across his cheeks as I take the last step and shrug a jacket into position on my shoulders. His eyes lower to the delicate chain around my neck and the grin gets a bit brighter before he abruptly turns to inspect a bit of the wall that had yet to fall victim to George’s paintbrush.
“So,” Lockwood clears his throat and glances back in my direction, “I see you found the necklace.”
“I did,” I say, touching the bright stone above my collar. “It’s lovely, Lockwood. Thank you,”
“I meant to give it to you for luck before the siege, but Kipps interrupted that, albeit for good reason. Getting blindsided by Winkman’s unsavory associates would’ve given us need for a bit more than luck.”
“Are you sure about giving it to me? It was your mother’s, after all. Maybe I should only wear it for special occasions?” I offer, hoping he’s not offended by my question.
“No, no,” he says while my eyes follow his gaze to a rough patch on the floor. “I want you to have it, and not just for special occasions. I think my mother would like it better that way. I imagine she wished she had worn it more while she had the chance.”
“Hey!” We hear Kipps’s high-pitched exclamation, “Watch where you’re swinging that! I nearly died last week, you know. I don’t need some cracked bloke threatening me with a paint roller.” George grumbles a reply back at him, no doubt something snarky.
We glance at the kitchen, then at each other. “Right, well,” Lockwood starts, opening the door, “we’d best be going before we have to break up a fight back there.”
“Yeah, pretty sure I saw Kipps holding a spackle knife, too.”
“Ooh,” he shudders, slipping down the front steps behind me, “that could get bloody.”
“So, where’d you say we’re going again?” I ask, quickening my pace to keep up with Lockwood’s long strides.
“Well,”—he takes a slow breath—“I actually didn’t, but I had intended to go leave some flowers with my parents, if that’s ok with you?” His voice took a higher pitch at the end of his sentence, and he glanced at me, flushed from the wind. “It’s been too long since I properly visited them, with flowers and a clear head, and your company was so nice last time… I thought I might come back for a more relaxed visit, when we were more sure we wouldn’t get murdered on our way home.”
“Of course,” I say softly as we approach the flower shop, “I’ll go with you anytime you want.”
Lockwood pauses at the door and meets my eyes, voice barely audible as he appears to choke on his own thoughts, “Thanks, Luce.”
I nod and give him a soft smile before moving to go through the door he’s just opened. As I turn, a hand meets the curve of my back to guide me in, and all the signals going to my brain become electric. A shop attendant appears behind the counter and his hand drops, but I feel invisible indents lingering on my skin after his touch is long gone.
Armed with 3 bouquets of flowers, we trudge through the dwindling crowds of the shopping district toward the smaller, quieter neighborhood where the Lockwood family cemetery resides. Though it’s only mid afternoon, the streets in this area are all but abandoned as people wrap up their errands before curfew, and that may be best for our sakes, considering that getting into the cemetery requires us to hop a wall. Lockwood’s lanky arms have no trouble placing his bundles on top of the wall before he scrambles over himself, then reaches out for the bouquet I’m carrying. He offers a hand for support as I scale the wall, helping me gingerly down the other side. It struck me that his touch in these types of scenarios felt so normal, so comfortable, that I didn’t even notice. It’s normal because we’re agents and we’re a team and we help each other. It’s just what we do . But still, my mind slunk back to the flower shop. Why was that touch any different?
“Ahh, here we are,” Lockwood states, interrupting my thoughts, as he winds his way through some underbrush to the corner of the cemetery where his parents and sister lay. He stoops to wipe some fallen leaves off the headstones, and slowly traces his fingers over the engraved names. “Should’ve brought something to scrape the moss off, I suppose. It’s been a while since I’ve had time for proper upkeep.”
I stand a few feet back, watching him pick off a few bits of moss, unsure of how close I should get, or if I was meant to leave him alone for a while. He looks back and waves me closer, answering my question.
“Here, let me get those,” he says, taking two of the bouquets I’m holding. He places one, a bundle of small purple flowers and fresh greenery, delicately on Jessica’s grave. “I should probably branch out from getting just lavender for her grave, but her room was always filled with the smell, even before she died, so that’s what I associate her with. Purple was her favorite color, too, so it still seems right.”
He stands and takes a slow breath before turning to the stone with his parents’ names. It’s a large, light colored stone, with engraved patterns along the edges filled with dark iron. I notice a small hole with an inset cup in the middle of it, which is where he places the second bouquet, a larger one with white lilies and chrysanthemums in muted oranges and yellows. His hand lingers on the top edge of the stone and he falls silent.
I wonder again if I should give him some space alone, when he answers my unspoken question for a second time. “I regret not knowing them.” His voice is low, but comes from something that’s been building for a long time. “And I know, even more now than before, that there is nothing I could’ve done to change the outcome, but I wish I had just been able to know them. To know them as more than ‘Mama and Papa’. To know them as people.” After a pause he turns to look at his sister’s headstone again. “Jess told me about them, of course, but she didn’t know them as anything more than Mama and Papa, either. She was eleven when they died, so she knew more than I did about their research, and the stories they told of traveling, but still, only the bits that were light enough to share with a child. I wish I had known them long enough to hear about their struggles, and their opinions, and their past.”
He wrings his hands before looking across the grounds to the wall on the other side, though I can tell he isn’t really looking at it, only through it. “I have so many regrets about my sister’s death,” he admits, voice even softer and lower now, “but that’s the only regret I have about them.”
Unsure of what to do, or what to say, I take a slight step toward him. “From what I’ve heard of them, they would be proud of everything you’ve done with their family name.”
Apparently that was the right thing to say, because Lockwood gives a small smile toward the ground. “I hope so.” He turns to me and the silence fills the gaps between our thoughts. “I-“ he exhales and brings a hand up to rub the back of his neck, “I guess I usually like to spend some time talking to them… when I come here.”
Fully confident this time in my assessment of what I’m meant to do in the situation, I nod and start stepping back. “Right, I’ll just be over there, then?” I offer, gesturing toward the front of the cemetery.
A nod, and a quick, “Great. Thanks, Lucy,” and he has turned back toward the headstones, leaving me to wander on my own.
I am halfway back to the front wall before I realize I’m still holding a bouquet.
Lockwood’s tall form is easily seen over the overgrown weeds, especially from my perch atop the cemetery wall. He winds his way through the gravemarkers to the spot I’ve chosen, and climbs up easily with the help of a few broken stones. It seems natural that we both understand speaking isn’t necessary, and we savor the temporary peace as the shadows grow ever longer and the sun teases its set.
When I glance at Lockwood, he’s lost in thought, still looking toward his parents' graves, but he doesn’t let the silence last much longer. “I like to think that, were they here, they would’ve still let me run an agency out of Portland Row. They’d get along swimmingly with George and his research habits, right down to the clutter he tends to build up everywhere,” he says with some amusement. “I think they’d admire Holly, too, and even Kipps, for their dedicated work.”
I smile, thinking of our friends currently repairing the house. No doubt there was lots of clutter, but probably very little work, especially since Holly left early for the day.
“But you, Lucy, you’re more like Jessica,” his voice softens as he appears to digest this thought. “She was caring and responsible, because she had no other choice, but she was passionate, too. She had a fire that made everything frightening pale in comparison, because you knew she would do everything in her power to protect the people she loved. She wasn’t an agent—she couldn’t be, because of me—but she wanted so dearly to fight the Problem. I think she would’ve fought death itself if she could.”
“I’m flattered that you think I’m like her,” I confess, watching his expression.
He smiles, those characteristic Lockwood laugh lines appearing at the edges. “You are. And I don’t think I realized that until I found out why you actually left the agency. It hurt, because everyone I’ve let into my life has been taken from me, no matter how hard I try to protect them… but you left to protect me,” his voice trails off.
“I didn’t want to. God, it hurt me too, but you understand more than anyone why I couldn't risk another death falling on someone I cared about.”
“I know,” he assures me, meeting my eyes, “and that’s why you’re so much like Jessica. She would do anything for the people she cared for, even when she had to sacrifice her own happiness for it.”
I nod understandingly, and let the air hang still until I notice the flowers I had set beside me. “Hey, what are these for?” I prod, turning the bouquet in my hand to admire the bright yellow daisies mixed with pink and red carnations. It seemed much too cheerful a bouquet for a grave.
“Well,” he clears his throat, “I got them for you.”
I look up, surprised. He darts his eyes away. “Or for us. For the house I mean, for everyone. To celebrate everything being finished, and us still being alive.”
“They’re beautiful,” I admire. “I’m sure you have a much better eye for that type of thing than I do.”
“You’d be surprised,” he laughs, “I’m more versed in funeral flowers. I had to ask Holly what kinds of flowers are cheerful.”
“Well, this is an excellent selection. I love them,” I gush, then catch myself and quickly add, “I mean, I’m sure everyone else will love them too.”
“You can keep them, if you like,” Lockwood offers. “George is allergic, and I don’t take Kipps for the flower type.”
“Thank you, Lockwood.” I look up at him, and see something happy flit across his face when I do. I smile and tease him, “Two gifts in one day? I don’t know what I did to deserve all this.”
“You deserve so much,” he replies, “You saved the lives of countless people, all because of your talent. You’ve been incredible, Lucy.” His voice lowers gently, and he glances around my face as if he’s unsure of something. “I don’t know if I, or the agency, would be here if you hadn’t come back. You saved me.”
I feel a blush rush to my cheeks, but before I can answer, I hear the first of the ghost lamps click on and look to the darkening street. “It’s getting late, we should probably head back,” I say while swinging my legs to the other side of the wall.
“Yes,” there’s a catch in his voice as he agrees, “better make sure the house is still in one piece.” I hear an exhale and catch him looking at me, but he swiftly pushes himself off the edge and hops the short distance to the ground.
I watch Lockwood turn and feel myself relax into his gaze. He offers a hand, and I take it, catching myself thinking about how the curve of his fingers fit perfectly into my own.
My foot hits the ground and I bring my hand in to let go, but Lockwood holds on firmer, “Luce?” he starts, and I swear his hand gets sweaty. “What I said about you saving me when you came back…” he swallows, contemplating his words carefully, “I sometimes worry I’ll put you or both of us in more danger than we can get ourselves out of, or that you’ll feel pressured to keep me alive, which should not be your responsibility, and…” his eyes lock on mine, pupils dilated under the darkening sky. “Are you happy here?”
“Of course,” I assure him, a bit taken aback by the question. “I love being here. I’m just relieved you still want me after everything I’ve put you through.”
Lockwood leans closer, and pulls my hand to him. “I would go through hell and back for you, Lucy. You know I’d do anything.”
My heart jumps in my chest when I meet his eyes again—eyes that could pierce through the densest London fog, eyes that have greeted me with edges crinkled in a smile more times than I can count, eyes that have seen me in my most vulnerable moments. Those eyes, and the boy behind them, have watched me narrowly escape death. And I know he’s right, he would go through anything for me, including death.
“Luce?” he whispers.
“What?”
“Would you be afraid if I loved you?”
The world goes quiet; the air is still. I can smell the salt and magnesium on his coat. The muscles in his hand twitch, and I tighten my grip on them without even thinking. “No,” I admit, “I would love you back.”
“Good,” he breathes, then his lips are on mine. The warmth is intoxicating in the cool evening, and the kiss is patient and slow as his lips envelop me in a comfortable embrace. Every thought in my brain takes a seat as I sink into both the kiss and the reality of the moment. We slip apart, mere inches between our mouths, and he whispers, "Very good,” then cups a hand on the side of my jaw. “Was that ok?” he hesitates, searching my face for a sign.
“Very ok,” I smile, and squeeze his hand again. He pulls me closer, body against body, heartbeats mingling together and breaths unsteady. A hand on my back restarts the jolt of anticipation coursing through my veins, and the next kiss lasts until the curfew bells ring.