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It took Lucy a couple days of being employed at Lockwood and Co. to realize it, but 35 Portland Row actually had a fourth occupant besides herself, George, and Lockwood. She was made aware of this on the morning of her third day with the company, when something furry brushed against her leg under the kitchen table, making her shriek and drop her spoon.
George immediately burst out laughing so hard milk came out his nose, while Lockwood clucked his tongue and stood up, reaching for a container above the fridge. “Are you done sulking then, Mittens? Decided to accept the new girl as one of our own?”
“What the…?” Lucy peered around the corner of the kitchen table to see a rather massive tuxedo cat waddle out from underneath her chair to sit at Lockwood’s feet, offering up a series of incredibly plaintive meows.
“Lucy, meet Mittens,” George said as he recovered himself, wiping his face with a corner of the Thinking Cloth. “Mittens, Lucy.”
Mittens ignored him, continuing to yowl until Lockwood pulled down a container of kibble and a ceramic dish, setting a small scoop of it next to a bowl of water.
“…You have a cat?” she said, staring as it proceeded to scarf down the food.
“No, that’s actually a Changer we like keep around,” George said, returning to his eggs on toast.
But Lockwood gave her a kind smile as he returned to the table. “Sorry about that, Luce. He would’ve avoided the living room during your interview— all the Sources out, you see— and has probably been sulking under my bed since you moved in. It takes him a little while to get used to new people.”
“It’s alright.” Lucy returned her focus to her eggs and tried to readjust her bearings. She was about to ask where he came from originally when Lockwood drummed his hands on the table and asked George about the plan to tackle their case tonight— a supposed cluster of Lurkers in West Square Gardens.
So she let the subject of Mittens drop, although her eyes followed him as he finished his breakfast and plodded out of the kitchen, where she saw him later sprawled out on the living room window seat, evidently attempting to bake himself in the sunlight.
Back home, most of the cats she knew had been farm cats. Lean and mean with nicks in their ears and scars on their noses, suspicious of human contact and liable to bite or scratch if anyone got too near. Her mother had referred to them as feral beasts whenever she caught a glimpse of one digging through the rubbish bins, and shooed away any beggars at the back gate with a broom kept there just for that purpose.
In comparison, Mittens seemed like a different species. Well and truly domesticated, his main hobbies seemed to consist of devouring his kibble at an alarming rate (prescription, she later learned, for weight loss), or sleeping on any one of the various cushions placed around the house especially for him.
“Don’t disturb him while he’s napping,” Lockwood warned her. “Or try to remove him from his cushion— he doesn’t take kindly to that.”
“Does he at least catch mice?” she said, as they watched Mittens wander into the library, flopping onto his side at their feet like he was a puppet whose strings had been abruptly severed.
“Not that I’m aware,” Lockwood said. “Given the contents of the high security storage room, he rarely goes into the basement, which is where the mice tend to show up if we have any. And even if they ventured up to the kitchen I’m not entirely sure he’d bother to give chase, unless perhaps they went after his food.”
“Well then what good is he?”
“What good is he?” Lockwood looked at her like she was quite dull. “He’s a cat, Luce. He’s keeps us company, helps us de-stress. See?” He pointed to the floor by their feet, where Mittens had rolled onto his back to do his best impression of a thick, fuzzy, black-and-white sausage. “That means he likes you,” he said, as Mittens nuzzled his nose against her ankle.
“How do you know he doesn’t just like my socks?” Lucy said, gently pulling her feet onto the sofa next to her.
“Because I know him,” Lockwood said. “I can tell when he likes someone.”
He didn’t elaborate, and soon after redirected their attention to the old newspapers they’d been poring through for their next case.
Lucy didn’t bring it up again. Like so many other things (the closed door on the landing came to mind), Mittens’s origins remained part of the shrouded mystery of Portland Row and its owner. When she asked George if she knew where the cat had come from, or how long it had lived here, she’d received a shrug and a blank look.
“He was here when I moved in, as far as I know. You should feel flattered. I don’t think he showed his face to me for over a week.”
Well, what was another mystery to add to the list? And for the price of establishing her place within her newfound agency, Lucy would’ve been quite happy to ignore this one as well, if Lockwood hadn’t been right about one thing— it seemed that Mittens had indeed taken a liking to her.
Two months into her employment, she was just settling into bed when she heard a faint scratching, followed my a muffled yowl at the door at the bottom of the staircase. Determined at first to ignore it, she closed her eyes and attempted to turn her mind to other things, but the scratching persisted, and eventually she threw the quilt aside in frustration and stomped down the stairs, intending to give the darn cat a what-for.
But when she opened the door to the attic, she was rather surprised to find Lockwood at the base of the stairs as well, kneeling by a petulant Mittens and stroking his back.
“Oh! I’m so sorry, Luce,” he said when he saw her. “He’s used to freely wandering the house. I was just trying to coax him back to my room. That’s where he usually spends the night.”
Trying to blink past the sight of Lockwood in his collared pajamas, Lucy shook herself and attempted to gather her thoughts. “Can you not shut him in your room until morning?”
Lockwood looked scandalized. “Like he’s some kind of criminal? I should think not. He’d just do the same thing he was doing to your door, but to mine. Besides, his litter pan is in the bathroom, and I’d hate to take away his access to that if he needs it.”
“So what am I supposed to do, then?”
He stood, running his hand through his hair. “Well… would you mind terribly leaving the door to your attic slightly cracked? He probably just wants to do a quick circuit— patrol the edges of his territory, you know— and then he’ll be right back down. Not a bother at all.”
Lucy squinted, glancing over at the door to the second bedroom. “I don’t see George leaving his door cracked.”
“Ah— yes.” Lockwood rocked back on his heels, looking slightly embarrassed. “Well, Mittens has never exactly expressed interest in going in there, you see. Go figure.”
Lucy huffed. She couldn’t exactly blame him for that one.
“C’mon, Luce. How could you say no to that face?” He gestured down to the cat, currently trying to figure out a way to maneuver its bulk in between her legs and the doorframe.
She gritted her teeth. “Fine.” She stepped aside, and they watched as Mittens ran up the stairs faster than she would’ve thought possible. “He’ll just be up and back, right?”
“Right.” Lockwood said confidently, pairing it with that wide, easy grin she was finding increasingly difficult to deny.
Indeed, Lucy should’ve known as soon as she saw that smile that Lockwood was full of shit. Just a quick circuit, my arse.
It seemed that, once given access to what Lucy had come to consider her private space, Mittens seemed determined to also make it his private space. Beginning with rolling around in piles of her clean laundry, and progressing, perhaps more disturbingly, to piles of her dirty laundry, over the course of the week Mittens did his best to cover nearly every surface in a fine layer of cat hair.
This included the bathroom, and to her utter confusion, he seemed to take her refusal to grant him entry to this space whilst she was also occupying it as a deep personal affront.
“It’s just downright weird!” she said over a rather late breakfast the following week. “What could he possibly want with being in there while I’m having a wee?”
George, in his endless maturity, could only snicker, while Lockwood said smoothly, “Perhaps he just misses you, Luce. He certainly seems to have taken a liking to you.”
Although he did his best to keep his tone light, Lucy detected a faint undercurrent of frustration. For the past couple nights, instead of retreating to Lockwood’s room, Mittens had claimed a spot on the wool blanket Lucy kept folded at the end of her bed. Although it was precisely where she would’ve liked to place her feet, no amount of nudging would deter him, and persistence in this only resulted in attempted removal of her big toe with his teeth.
“He probably just likes that wool blanket,” she said. “Maybe you should move it down to your room. I’m sure he’ll follow it.”
Lockwood brightened slightly at this idea, but three nights later the strategy proved unsuccessful. Wool blanket or no, Mittens simply preferred Lucy’s bed, and nothing could apparently be done to sway him.
Observing the situation with faint amusement, George simply snorted. “Cats, right?”
Cats, indeed, Lucy thought, as she resigned herself to being Mittens’s Chosen One, and Lockwood resigned himself to playing second fiddle.
Eventually, Lucy felt she and Mittens were able to develop an understanding. While she remained firm in her belief that he was a relatively useless animal with little apparent purpose besides lounging around the house, begging futilely for treats and table food (both strictly off-limits, under the direction of the vet, Lockwood informed them), and occasionally depositing hairballs directly on her bathmat, she had to admit he was quite a nice companion when he felt inclined. He kept her feet warmer than any blanket or heat pack she’d ever had, and had an amazingly loud purr that would reverberate through her entire mattress like she was in one of those fancy department store massage chairs.
She discovered this latter aspect after a night spent dealing with particularly vicious Wraith, when her heart refused to slow down and every noise was making her flinch in terror. Emerging from wherever he kept himself while they were out, Mittens jumped onto her bed as she attempted to settle down in a smooth, graceful leap that appeared to defy the laws of gravity, kneaded the now perpetually furry portion of her quilt until it was to his satisfaction, and curled into his usual black-and-white sphere.
Driven by who-knows-what, possibly the slow blink of his eyes as he regarded her from the foot of the bed, or possibly a desire to feel a little less alone, Lucy reached out with one hand and gave him a few gentle scratches on his chin. Immediately, he relaxed out of his tightly-curled posture to sprawl onto his side, twisting so his head was nearly upside down to give her better access and exposing the pure white of his belly and throat.
This, Lucy had been told many times was a trap— even when exposed, touching a cat’s underside was a way to guarantee a nasty encounter with teeth or claws— but for some reason, perhaps the rumble of his purr throughout the entire bed frame, or the way she felt he might be able to sense her stress and exhaustion, she decided to be bold. Slowly, she allowed her gently scratching fingers to move from his chin to his chest, and then further down to the softest part of his belly.
For a few glorious moments he allowed her hand to linger there, before pushing her fingers away with a gentle shove of his hind legs. But he didn’t roll back onto his front, or stop purring. Lucy felt strangely honored to be granted such trust, and when she laid down to go to sleep, it was with Mittens stretched along her lower legs, still purring to his heart’s content.
Slowly, Mittens’s preferred sleeping spot crept higher and higher on the bed. At first, the proximity of all those claws and teeth to her face made Lucy rather nervous, but as the weeks went on she came to learn how he preferred to be touched (chin scratches were his favorite), and the signs he was about to swat.
On their first night back in London after the fiasco at Combe Carey Hall, Lucy trudged up to her attic to find Mittens emerging cautiously out from under the bed. She wondered if he’d been hiding there the entire time. Arif, who’d stopped in while they were away, had reported zero sightings, although all food he’d put out had reliably disappeared, and deposits had been made in the litter box.
“Didn’t think much of your babysitter, did you?” she said, stripping off her clothes and kicking them into a far corner. Too tired to bother with a shower, she flopped onto the bed, stretching the train ride out of her limbs. Mittens jumped up next to her ankles, kneading the quilt and building up his roar of a purr. “You know, if you don’t appropriately greet Lockwood he’s going to be jealous.”
Mittens chirped, as if to say, I’ll get to it later, and made his way up the bed, tilting his chin to give her fingers better access.
Despite herself, Lucy grinned and lifted her arm so he could creep closer, eventually shifting so he was curled up against her chest, sending vibrations through her ribcage. It was a deeply pleasurable feeling, and she released a long breath, muscles she hadn’t realized were tense finally able to relax.
Alright, Mittens, she thought. Perhaps you do have a purpose after all.
Over time, Lucy came to think of Mittens as the unofficial fourth member of Lockwood and Co. Sure, he didn’t come on cases, and George had declared him next to useless when it came to detecting Sources, but he was always a warm, furry body and friendly face to return to after long nights in haunted houses. His shameless begging for food whenever George or Lockwood cooked midnight breakfast could draw smiles from them after the bleakest of cases, and through some sort of sixth sense he never failed to join any of them on the library sofa should they find themselves there nursing an illness or injury or simply catching up on sleep.
But one thing Mittens never did, to George’s amusement and Lucy’s consternation, was return to Lockwood’s room for an entire night. Not even after the battle on Kensal Green, when Lockwood was laid up with a bullet hole in his shoulder, did Mittens deign to play nursemaid.
“It’s bloody ungrateful is what it is,” Lockwood complained on his second night back home as George portioned out antibiotics and pain medication while Lucy attempted to arrange a small mountain of pillows to his satisfaction. “I’ve kept him housed and more than well fed for all these years, and now as soon as you leave, Luce, he’s going to abandon me in my time of need.”
“You don’t know that,” she said, stepping back to assess her handiwork. “Perhaps he’ll stay with you tonight.”
“Oh, don’t get my hopes up,” Lockwood said bitterly, accepting a small cup of pills from George and washing them down with a sip of water. “All I received yesterday were a few extra cuddles on the sofa.”
“Somehow I think you’ll survive,” George said, but Lucy worried her lower lip.
“Perhaps if I close the door to the attic he’ll have no choice but to stay with you?”
Lockwood chuckled. “Or we’ll all be treated to his protests throughout the night. And even if he did relent, I don’t suppose it would feel better knowing I’m a consolation prize.”
“Well, so long as you’re sure…”
“I’m sure,” he said, giving her the most reassuring smile he could from his place propped up in bed and already slightly hazy between exhaustion and pain medicine. “Really, Luce. I’ll be alright.”
To Mittens’s credit, it was rather later than usual when he finally joined her in the attic. Although Lucy felt a little bad that Lockwood had, as predicted, been abandoned, she couldn’t help but be grateful for the familiar weight at her side as she drifted off, attempting to banish all haunting images of Winkman, Bickerstaff, and the shattered Bone Glass. Not for the first time, she wondered why exactly Mittens had chosen her, of all people, when he seemed as woven into the fabric of Portland Row as Lockwood himself.
Two days later, she rather unexpectedly received an answer.
Perhaps thinking she was going up to the attic, Mittens followed Lucy and George up the stairs as Lockwood led them to the door on the landing. But as Lockwood turned the handle, revealing that it had never been locked at all, Mittens turned around and scurried downstairs so fast Lucy was shocked his rear legs never got ahead of his front.
“He doesn’t like this room,” Lockwood said, a bit ruefully. “You’ll see why.”
They certainly did. It was nearly unbearable to listen as Lockwood explained who his sister was, how she died, why this room had remained a sort of unholy shrine to her. She could see him trying to act relaxed, like all the pain of it was in the past, instead of right here in front of them.
Lucy tried not to let it bother her when Lockwood compared her to Jessica, or when he qualified this statement by calling Jessica gentle and kind. This was a sensitive topic, and the psychic pressure in this room was rather oppressive.
“Mittens originally belonged to her,” Lockwood said as he tried to recover himself. “He was gifted to her as a kitten, oh, about ten years ago now. She’s the one who named him.”
“I see.”
“Perhaps… perhaps he sees some sort of similarity as well, and that’s why he likes you so much.”
Lucy wasn’t sure whether she should take this as a compliment, or if it was just another way for Lockwood to explain Mittens’s favoritism. Luckily, George saved her by launching into an interrogation over the broken pot, and she tried to put Lockwood’s words out of her mind.
With the burgeoning Chelsea Outbreak and the cold, dark of winter descending upon the city, she hardly had the time to ruminate anyway. Mittens, of course, was by her side every hour she spent catching up on sleep in the attic, and the night before she left on her trip to the north she found herself telling him to be a good boy, and maybe grace Lockwood with his presence at night while she was away.
“I’m sure he’d appreciate some extra cuddles,” she whispered, scratching Mittens in his favorite spot under his chin. “He’s just as tired as I am these days, if not more so. Perhaps when I get back I can finally convince him to start interviewing for new hires.”
Of course, this never came to be as Lucy returned to find the new hire already settled in, and took great satisfaction in learning Mittens had apparently taken her side in vehement opposition to said new addition. He was nowhere to be found when she first came upon Holly, Lockwood, and George in the basement, and in the first interaction she witnessed between them he hissed and spat before running away to the attic, presumably to sulk under Lucy’s bed.
“He was already upset that you had gone,” Lockwood said the following morning, only the slightest hint of tension detectable his tone. “And in one of his first encounters with Holly she was brandishing the hoover.”
“She better not have taken it to the attic.”
“It was dusty up there! And there was cat hair everywhere.”
“We were doing just fine before.”
Lockwood sighed, reaching up to run a hand through his hair before remembering they were meeting a client in a few hours and he’d just gotten it perfectly coifed. He shook his head. “I’m sure, after an adjustment period, he’ll come around. Don’t you think so, Luce?”
“Sure.” Lucy refused to meet his eyes, pressing her pen into the Thinking Cloth so hard the ink was in danger of bleeding through. “He’ll come around eventually.”
“I give it a week, tops,” Lockwood said confidently, filling a glass full of over-pulped orange juice. “Then she’ll see how sweet he really is.”
A week later, Lucy watched Mittens swat at Holly, claws out, when she tried to shift him from his favorite cushion by the front window.
“He doesn’t like being disturbed when he’s sitting there,” Lucy said, bustling past with a kit bag full of chains to be oiled.
“I’m just trying to dust,” Holly said tightly. “He can get right back on once I’m finished.”
“Dust later,” Lucy said, laying out the first set of chains. “Isn’t there inventory to take care of in the meantime?”
“Well, Lockwood said he’d—”
“Lockwood hired you as an administrative assistant,” Lucy said. “I’m sure you’d agree inventory is as administrative as it gets.” She raised her chin, wondering if Holly would continue to challenge her, and didn’t bother suppressing a victorious grin when she retreated to the basement. Nice job, Mittens, she thought, giving him a good scratch under his chin. We certainly showed her.
It felt nice to have at least one other member of Lockwood and Co. on her side— well, two if you counted the Skull. At some point, she took to bringing it up to the attic with her, telling herself it might be more inclined to share valuable information if it felt more included, although it seemed more interested in insulting her and making rude gestures at Mittens, who hissed at it and hid under the bed the first time he saw it gracing the windowsill.
For a while, Lucy felt bad. Cats didn’t like Sources, after all, and Mittens was probably justified in being angry that his safe space had been violated. But soon enough, Mittens seemed to realize the Skull wasn’t going to leave the jar, and even approached it for a cautious sniff once or twice when the valve was closed. The second of those times ended in him pushing the jar onto the floor, and after that they seemed to come to an understanding.
For Lucy’s part, it was quite a relief to have at least one source of tension resolved that winter. Between the irritating perfection of Holly, Lockwood’s fixation on the Chelsea Outbreak, and enough cases to drive a lesser agent to insanity, she felt herself quickly nearing the end of her rope.
Perhaps she shouldn’t have been surprised to find herself packing her bags a few days after the disaster at Aikmere’s, ignoring the Skull’s taunts and Mittens’s soulful looks from his place on the bed.
“Oh, don’t give me that,” she said bitterly, keeping her voice low. “Now you can finally go back to Lockwood’s bed for the night, and all will be right with the world again.”
Mittens gave a mournful chirp, continuing to knead the quilt under his paws, but Lucy turned her face away.
All was not right with the world after that. As the misery that was the Black Winter dragged on, Lucy missed Portland Row with a fierceness she hadn’t been able to imagine. Although she liked to think she’d braced herself for this, nothing could’ve prepared her for the gaping hole that formed in her chest without her former company. Not that she’d admit that to anyone who asked, or even to herself on a good day.
Generally, she found that throwing herself into work was the best distraction (besides being necessary to make rent on her shabby little bedsit), and the Skull took care of the rest with a constant stream of sarcastic, vaguely insulting, and often murderous commentary. It was generally in the wee hours of the morning, as she was falling into an exhausted sleep after a night on the job, that she allowed her thoughts to linger on what she’d left behind.
George, Lockwood, and even Holly all made regular appearances in these hazy half-dreams, so perhaps she shouldn’t have been surprised to see Mittens among them— begging for scraps at George’s feet as he cooked, settling down by Lockwood’s elbow as he read gossip rags tucked into the newspaper centerfold. Curling up on her bed as she settled in after a case.
Before coming to London, Lucy never would’ve described herself as an animal person, let alone a cat person, and might’ve rolled her eyes at the idea of growing attached to such a creature. But more than once she awoke suddenly from a dream and reached out to feel for that soft, vibrating presence, to find only her stiff quilt, somehow chilled despite her own body heat.
Idiot, she thought later that morning as she pulled on layers of clean-ish clothes and double-checked the address of that night’s contract. That cat probably forgot about you the moment you left Portland Row.
When she finally returned to Lockwood’s house under some of the least graceful circumstances imaginable, Lockwood all but herded her to the base of the attic stairs, one hand hovering inches from the clumsy wrap on her arm.
“I’m sure you remember your way up,” he said again, almost awkwardly. “George has been storing some of his things up there, but I’m sure you’ll find it mostly as you… well…”
He trailed off there, but Lucy didn’t need him to finish. As you left it. She wondered if it would’ve sounded as accusatory as it did in her head.
“There is one thing that’s been consistent though,” Lockwood said suddenly.
Lucy jumped, nearly swaying on her feet from exhaustion. She thought he’d turned and gone to bed already. “What’s that?”
“Mittens,” he said, eyes drifting towards the door.
For the first time, it occurred to Lucy that besides an empty food bowl she hadn’t seen any sign of Mittens during their entire conversation in the kitchen.
“If I had to guess he’s probably curled up on that quilt at the end of the bed.” Lockwood finally looked at her, lips twitching faintly. “Waiting for you.”
Lucy’s stomach turned over, and she wondered if she could attribute it to the effects of blood loss. A thousand questions were crowding to the front of her brain— if Holly hadn’t slept in the attic, where had she slept? Did Mittens seem to register she’d been gone at all? Did he spend every night on what used to be her bed or was tonight a fluke?
But she kept her mouth shut, and Lockwood soon disappeared into his room.
In the end, she got the answer to one of her questions five hectic days later, as she and Lockwood were walking the churchyard at Aldbury Castle, dancing around the subject of her return.
“We’ll have to come to some kind of arrangement,” Lockwood said, gesturing vaguely in front of him. He hesitated, wetting his lips. “I should mention Mittens is confused, too. He never came back down after you left. To sleep, I mean.”
“Really?”
“Not for a single night. It was rather annoying, although I suppose one must admire his… optimism.” He was silent for a moment, then shook himself, and returned to discussing technicalities Lucy couldn’t bring herself to listen to.
When she did agree to come back, several hours later while standing in a haunted circle, Lockwood’s grin could’ve melted the ice on the iron chain between them. “I’m sure the others could be persuaded to take you back. Though George will have to find somewhere else to store his pants. But one thing’s for certain— Mittens, at least, will be positively thrilled.”
“Do you think he’ll forgive me?” Lucy said, unable to quite meet his eyes.
“Oh, all too readily,” Lockwood said. “He’s really quite forgiving. More so than is good for him, really.”
“Really?” She ventured a glance at him, trying to get a good read of his face.
To her surprise, he caught her gaze. “Really.”
Naturally, Lockwood was right. As Lucy reincorporated herself into her old agency, Mittens acted as if she’d never left. If there was any difference, it was only evident in a sort of vague smugness, as if he were saying, See? I always knew you’d be back.
For his part, Lockwood no longer seemed the least bit bothered that his nights were still spent alone, as Mittens continued to favor Lucy’s bed overwhelmingly. After Lockwood took her to the site of his parents’ graves, Lucy did everything she could think to communicate to Mittens that Lockwood needed him more, even carrying his not insignificant dead weight down to the first floor in the wee hours of the morning to place him outside Lockwood’s cracked bedroom door.
“Go on,” she whispered, gently nudging his haunches. “Just for one night.” Remind him what he still has to live for.
But Mittens simply turned around and trotted right back up the stairs, leaving Lucy to plod after him. By the time she reached the top, he was already curled up in his usual place on her quilt, appearing to have settled into a deep sleep.
The night after the case at the Palace Theater, Lucy didn’t even bother. Lockwood seemed to have shaken the effects of ghost lock under La Belle Dame with an annoying amount of grace, and even after the Skull’s comment about his supposed death wish, Lucy refused to give in to the impulse to once again attempt to coax Mittens back into Lockwood’s room. Cats were supposed to be sensitive to people’s mental states, weren’t they? If Mittens judged Lockwood to be perfectly stable, perhaps she should believe him.
Well, cats are also supposed to be sensitive to Sources, she thought darkly, eyes drifting over to the Skull. It was currently sitting, valve closed, on the floor, as it had become somewhat of a sport for Mittens to push it off any surface she attempted to store it on. Its taunts had begun to feature Mittens on occasion, mostly centered around Lucy’s apparent willingness to let that useless animal walk all over you, which were fairly easy to counter as she could safely say she had absolutely no control over what said useless animal did, and if it were up to her Mittens would return to sleeping on Lockwood’s bed.
As it was, Lucy hardly ever saw Mittens venture into Lockwood’s room these days. To be fair, they were hardly ever in the house. If Mittens wanted time with Lockwood he was more likely to be found brooding in the library, or in the basement preparing for their next case. Oddly, the next time Lucy witnessed Mittens approaching Lockwood’s bedroom door, Lockwood wasn’t even occupying it.
It was the day George came home from the hospital, and Lucy was desperate to see him awake. By the time they were making their way upstairs, Mittens had finished inhaling his breakfast, and to Lucy’s mild surprise, followed them up to the first floor. When Flo attempted to intercept them at the door, her eyes narrowed at the sight of their follower.
“Don’t disturb him! And keep that thing out of here.”
“Come off it, he doesn’t mean any harm,” Lockwood said, careful to keep his voice below a whisper. “You know how he hates a closed door.”
“This ain’t no place for animals,” she said, trying to nudge Mittens away with the toe of her boot while simultaneously leaning away.
Lucy had to bite her tongue at the irony of this statement as a mysterious substance fell from Flo’s trouser leg as she gave her boot another threatening shake. “Oh, just let him in,” she said.
“George needs his rest!” Flo said indignantly, then leaned away to sneeze as Mittens expertly dodged the makeshift barricade and all but disappeared into the gloom.
If she hadn’t been so worried about George, Lucy might’ve laughed. Flo, perpetually covered in seaweed, river mud, and God-knows-what-else, was allergic to cats.
“I know he does,” Lockwood said to Flo, ignoring the altercation at his feet. “How is he, Flo? Has he woken?”
As they talked in hushed tones, Lucy watched in nothing short of amazement as Mittens jumped onto the bed and approached the lump that was George. He even went so far as to put his paws on what was approximately his left hip and gently kneaded his side through the sheets before settling down and emitting his roar of a purr.
“That’s a good cat,” George said hoarsely as he recovered from his outburst over losing the book.
“Right. You’re exciting him. Time’s up,” Flo said, stepping forward to hustle them away. One arm was halfway outstretched, clearly desiring to shoo Mittens away as well, but unwilling to make contact.
But when Lucy and Lockwood finally retreated, Mittens followed, haughtily turning his backside upon Flo as if to say, I’m leaving because I want to, not because you’ve asked me to.
Once Lockwood had talked her down from her murderous impulses regarding Rupert Gale and his henchmen and they were settled in the kitchen with a pot of strong tea and biscuits for breakfast, she finally took a moment to marvel at Mittens’s earlier behavior.
“It’s as if he knew,” she said. “Mittens doesn’t even like George half the time, but right there it was almost like he was trying to heal him.” It sounded silly to her own ears, but she couldn’t think of another way to put it.
But Lockwood didn’t look the least bit surprised. “Cats have a sort of Talent about that, you know. And scientists think the vibrations produced by purring can actually speed healing.”
Lucy could only sit back in shock. Lockwood had quickly returned to scribbling furiously on the Thinking Cloth, and given the circumstances she didn’t think the subject was worth belaboring, but when Holly arrived and they all stood up to refresh the tea and retrieve additional snacks, she reached above the fridge and graced their furry companion with a few extra pieces of kibble.
Whatever Mittens’s preternatural sensibilities regarding the treatment of injuries, this didn’t seem to extend to other sorts of stressors. He seemed blissfully unaware of the steady rise in tension in his household following the raid on the Orpheus Society. As Lockwood showed Lucy his parents’ last lecture, Mittens slept peacefully on his lap, and when he informed them all of the impending attack on Portland Row itself, Mittens simply sat at their feet, pawing at Kipps’s ankle for treats.
Rather inconveniently, the first sign of of emotional disturbance Lucy saw in him came during a lull in the fortification process, when Lockwood pulled a soft-sided cat carrier out of the back of his wardrobe, placing it on the coffee table besides Kipps’s toolbox. One look at it had Mittens fleeing as fast as his legs could carry him up three flights of stairs and into the attic, where Lucy could imagine him diving deep under her bed.
Lockwood sighed. “That’s why I had to pull this out now. He always does this upon first sight of the carrier, but eventually he’ll get hungry.”
Lucy chewed her lower lip. “Does he really have to leave?”
Lockwood gave her a patient look. “I know it’s not what anyone wants, but given what I think is likely to happen, it’ll probably be best for him to be out of the way so we can focus on defending the house.”
It was hard to disagree with that, but Lucy wasn’t ready to give in. Portland Row without Mittens would feel wrong somehow, like a piece of it would be missing. “But where would he even go? Could Arif take him, perhaps?”
Lockwood shook his head. “I thought of that, but no. It’s too close by, and potentially known to our enemies. The further away he is, the better.”
That made her feel even worse.
Lockwood glanced at her. “…If you’d like, you can come with me to drop him off. I’ve planned a bit of a complex route to throw off any potential tails, but we should be back well before curfew.”
“Alright,” Lucy agreed readily.
An hour or so later, when Mittens cautiously descended the stairs in search of a snack, Lockwood dropped what he was doing and swooped him up, marching over to the carrier left open in the living room, and shoving him inside before he had a chance to protest.
Of course, much protestation was heard as Mittens realized he’d been zipped inside, but Lockwood steadfastly ignored it, slinging the carrier’s strap over his shoulder with a vague oof. “Almost heavier than a kit bag.”
Lucy gave a weak chuckle, trying not to make eye contact with Mittens through the mesh as he pawed at the sides, practically begging her for a way out. “It’s for your own good,” she said, as if he could understand, but Lockwood looked sympathetic.
“He’ll forgive us,” he said as they descended the front steps.
After careful glances in both directions, Lucy followed as Lockwood walked to the nearest Tube station. There, they boarded a train heading west and rode for three stops before Lockwood got off. After exiting the station and reaching the surface, they crossed the street as quickly as possible and re-entered through another staircase, catching the next train going east.
Lucy was confused, but didn’t ask questions. This time, they rode for much longer, before Lockwood again got off and they transferred to a train heading south. When they got off again, Lucy almost expected him to get back on a train heading in the opposite direction, but instead they headed west again.
At that point, Mittens had settled into a sulky silence, seemingly resigned to his torment, and Lucy’s curiosity got the better of her. “Now can you tell me where we’re going?”
With a glance around them, Lockwood nodded. “We’re almost there, I suppose it’s alright.” He glanced down, and pressed a finger against the mesh near Mittens’s face. “Normally, I would’ve asked George to accompany me on this errand, but given the circumstances…”
Lucy nodded grimly.
“We’re going to his brother’s flat,” Lockwood continued. “He and his wife rent a place in Brixton, and they’ve watched Mittens before when Arif has been unavailable.”
“Oh.” Lucy had met Mrs. Karim on a number of occasions (although it occurred to her that none of them had been since her return to the agency), and although George occasionally mentioned siblings, she’d never met any of them. “I suppose I always got the impression he wasn’t particularly close with his family.”
Lockwood drummed his fingers on the ridge of Mittens’s carrier. “He’s been trying to pull away a bit, ever since the business with that mirror at Kensal Green.”
Lucy winced. He hid it well, but she’d always guessed at the shame George harbored around that incident.
“I think part of it is that he doesn’t want them to get hurt because of him,” he said. “But another part is that he’s always felt a bit different from them, and living with us has made it easier to create distance.” He sighed. “It’s complicated. To be honest, I don’t fully understand the dynamic. It’s never been a problem for me.” He said that last part casually, as if it were simply another observation, but his eyes were fixed out the window of the train car, and the flashing lights lining the inside of the tunnel.
“But you’ve met this brother before?” Lucy said.
“A couple times,” Lockwood said. “His name is Kourosh, although George calls him a nickname I’m not sure how to pronounce. His wife’s name is Evangeline. They’re nice. They think they’re watching Mittens while Portland Row undergoes some planned renovations.”
“Do they know about… what happened to George?”
“They know he was injured,” Lockwood said. “But I downplayed the severity of the incident quite a bit. They think he’s not coming with us because he’s busy doing research for a big case.”
Not technically untrue.
“Their mother doesn’t know,” he admitted. “I suspected no matter what story I told she’d insist on visiting, and we absolutely cannot have that.”
Lucy whole heartedly agreed.
When they reached their stop, it was a ten-minute walk to Kourosh and Evangeline’s building, Lockwood walking ahead in long strides, cat carrier held carefully against his hip to keep Mittens comfortable.
Kourosh and Evangeline greeted them warmly at the door when they arrived, Evangeline even embracing Lockwood, taking the carrier off his shoulder and freeing Mittens as soon as the door was closed behind them. She declared him a precious creature and Lucy suspected he’d be receiving many more treats than he did at home.
They watched as Mittens made his way cautiously around the small, one-bedroom flat, sniffing and head-butting every available surface. To Lucy’s mild surprise, Lockwood sat on the floor at the base of the couch during this process, taking every opportunity to pet Mittens when he came in range. Towards the end of their visit, Lockwood even knelt down and gathered Mittens into his arms in a gentle hug, a rare display of open affection.
Evangeline awwwed and assured Lockwood that he’d see Mittens again in no time, but Lucy found herself tearing up. She and Lockwood didn’t speak as they departed, taking a much faster route back to Marylebone, but she knew they were thinking the same thing.
What if we never see him again?
“…Luce? Lucy, are you awake? I’m sorry if you were sleeping.”
Lucy wasn’t sleeping, although she was supposed to be. An hour ago, Lockwood had practically dragged her up to the attic in the middle of re-painting the trim in his bedroom.
“Remember, the doctor said you must take it very easy while you continue to heal,” he’d said. “Now don’t lie, I’ve noticed you wincing twice in the past five minutes, and that means it’s time for a break.”
Lucy hadn’t fought him. Her side did hurt, after all, even though it didn’t feel like there was time for lying down in between all the repairs that still had to be made at Portland Row. While she hadn’t slept, the ache in her side had temporarily subsided, and she pushed herself up to sit. “No, I was awake.”
“Good.” Lockwood’s voice floated up as he slowly climbed the stairs. “I’ve got a surprise for you.”
Madly, Lucy’s mind jumped to the sapphire necklace he’d shown her the night of the attack. Against her will, her heart started to race. “What is it?”
He laughed. “No need to be frightened. Just an old friend.” He reached the top of the stairs and she realized why he’d been walking so slowly— clutched against his chest with both of his arms was the massive, fuzzy shape of Mittens.
Lucy’s heart stuttered, then she shook off her foolishness and laughed as well. “Of course! We finished repairing the doors this morning.”
“Portland Row is secure again,” he said, coming up to her bed and placing Mittens at her feet. We’ve just been to see Kourosh and and Evangeline— George is actually still over there. I think they’re working out how to relate the story to their mother— but I thought I’d personally deliver Mittens to his rightful place.”
“To the relief of all involved,” Lucy said, grinning as she reached down to scratch under his chin. “Are you happy to be home again, Mittens? We’re so happy to see you.”
“Indeed we are,” Lockwood said, sitting at the edge of the bed so he could pet Mittens as well. “Now you can take good care of Lucy while Holly and I finish painting. Treat her to some of those lovely purrs, now there’s a good cat.”
As always, Mittens’s own special Talent had beaten them to it, and he was already settling himself against her uninjured side, a rumble emanating from the depths of his chest.
It was impossible not to relax into the sensation, and Lucy barely protested as Lockwood adjusted her pillows and guided her back down.
“I’ll let you know when we’ve got dinner prepared,” he said. “You’re welcome to come down and join us, of course, but I can also bring up a plate if you’re not feeling up to it.”
She tried not to roll her eyes. “I think I’ll come down.”
Was it just her, or did his eyes sparkle a little bit? “I look forward to seeing you.”
Then, as always, he disappeared before she could think about it any further.
Epilogue
“No, Mittens, stop that. Bad kitty.” Half-awake, Lucy tried to swat Mittens’s paw away from where he was batting at the gold chain on her collarbone.
“Mrow.” After some protestation, Mittens retreated in a huff back to his position at her waist.
Lucy rubbed her eyes, squinting in the light streaming in from the window. Normally, she would not have worn the sapphire necklace to bed, but she’d been so exhausted after their case last night she’d forgotten to take it off.
“Mph. What time ’s it?” Brought to wakefulness by their exchange, Lockwood stirred next to her, bringing a tired hand to his face.
“I’m not sure,” she said. “Nearly midday, probably.”
“Mm.” Lockwood stretched, joints clicking and one arm sliding under her torso so he could draw himself closer to her. “We’ve slept in.”
“We had a long night.”
His lips twitched. “But another successful case.”
“Indeed.” She grinned at him, and he tried to move even closer, although there remained an obstacle between them.
“Why, good morning, Mittens,” Lockwood said. “I don’t suppose you could be convinced to shift over?”
Mittens graced him with a slow blink, then settled himself even more firmly into the quilt.
Lockwood chuckled. “I don’t know why I bother.”
“We could always bring the Skull down here,” Lucy said. “That might be enough to drive him out.” She’d seen no more flickers in the months since Lockwood had given her the necklace, but Mittens had been wary of it ever since his return, and he’d given its place on the windowsill a wide berth. Perhaps it was desperate, but Lucy couldn’t help but cling to that last bit of hope.
Lockwood was shaking his head, a teasing grin on his face. “Not a chance. That was our deal, remember? The Skull can have the attic to himself.”
“I remember,” she said. “But I think that means we’re stuck with the other non-human member of Lockwood and Co.”
Lockwood sighed and drew her awkwardly halfway onto his chest, the best he could do with Mittens planted firmly between them. “A state of affairs I suppose I’ll accept,” he said. “This seems to be the only way I can tempt him back to my bed, after all.”
“Well, if that’s the only reason you invited me here…”
“One of many,” he said, tightening his grip on her ribs and pressing a kiss to the side of her head. “Although I shan’t complain that you and him seem to be a package deal. It’s almost as if this is what he’s wanted all along.”
Lucy reached down and scratched Mittens’s back. “Smart cat.”
“Indeed,” Lockwood said. “A very smart cat.”