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Chapter Text

There was no possibility of taking a walk that day. 

Lucy Carlyle took one regardless. 

Dark clouds had skulked low on the horizon all afternoon, threatening a rain that never became more than a fine, drifting mist. A sky full of spite, Norrie used to call it, a weather bent on caprice, intent on making misery in the lightest of hearts. 

Any other day she would have heeded the signs, the traded glances between the Vicar and his wife, the whispered warnings of spirits in the wood. 

Any other day, she would have turned back. 

But today she was expected. Today, for the first time in her dull, unimpassioned existence, she was wanted somewhere, and the thought was a prism of colour bowed across the sky. Hope had soared high in her breast when she set out from the inn at Hathersage. She ignored how, in the passing of the afternoon, the wax of her cherished hope’s wings had grown tacky and soft, the feathers loosened and disjoined. 

It was only when twilight found her wandering off forest path, no longer a buoyant, wingéd thing, but a lost and shivering girl, that she began to regret. 

Droplets beaded on Lucy’s cheeks. Her breath escaped her in small white clouds as she looked to and fro; Thornfield lay due west, the direction of the fleeing light.

Mud sucked at her kidskins, hampering her step as she continued uphill towards the yellowed line of the horizon. Shadows slunk through the undergrowth. Dead leaves whispered underfoot. Skeletal branches creaked overhead, black against the drear twilight. Her valise seemed to gain a new stone with each tree she passed, and her muscles, new aches.

Somewhere beyond the bramble and beech, a soft voice called to her. 

Lucy drew up short at the top of the rise, tilting her ear towards the sound. Perspiration mingled with the rain on her brow. Gooseflesh erupted across her skin like hives. She closed her eyes to hear beyond the ragged wheeze of her breath.

At first there was only the whistle of the wind. 

Then, the telltale whimper of a small child. A young girl perhaps, lost amongst the silent trees on a grey day such as this. Never to be found. 

The voice rose again, a tortured wail serrating through Lucy’s chest. She clenched her jaw lest the emotion drag her back into its past. She knew how it was to cry so, what drove a girl to sob into the nest of her arms, knowing no one was coming. No one cared. 

Psychic echoes fought for her attention as she clambered over fallen limbs. Roots snagged at her ankles, and she stumbled, catching herself on a low-hanging bough.

Lucy gritted her teeth and set off down the hill at a jarring pace. There was not a moment to spare on her personal phantoms. Not when the real ones were close at hand, just beyond the veil of the living. Another glance towards the sky confirmed her fears. Less than an hour till nightfall.

All that mattered was reaching the hall’s boundary before full dark, before the dead were roused by the wake of her passage over their graves, no longer bound by the confines of day. 

Her hand drifted to the rapier sheathed at her side, tucked beneath the sable folds of her cloak, taking what little comfort the steel offered. 

She’d been warned, of course, that the woodland between Hathersage and Thornfield Hall was haunted. But with the last of her funds drained on the long stagecoach ride from Lowood School to the village, she’d little choice but to enter its depths. The truth of it was plain; she’d rather brave the woodland and its dead than face a night at the mercy of strangers, penniless and obscure, with not a friend in the world to call her own.

Crack!

Lucy whirled, drawing her rapier, eyes locked on where she’d heard the branch break. Her heart thrashed against her ribcage. Wings suddenly beat desperately at the air, and a perturbed magpie shot past her, making her jump. She laughed in relief, clutched her cloak against the chill, and trudged on.

The chill.

Her boots skidded to a stop. Anyone with Talent worth their salt knew the difference between the crispness of October and the bitter bone-deep cold of a Visitor, and this was unfortunately the latter. The mist was more condensed, tendrils snaking around her ankles like tentacles. Heart hammering once more, Lucy Listened, straining to locate the danger.

Soldiers crashing through the wood, snapping branches in their wake, crying out a charge. Arrows whistling past, sharp blades rending flesh. Screams of agony. It was an ancient battle hundreds of years gone, but Lucy could sense the soldiers’ fear. Their rage…

She opened her eyes and gasped. The black trees were punctuated with silver lights drifting ever nearer, keeping a steady pace. When they were close enough for her to make them out, she saw they emanated from soldiers dressed in far outdated garb, perhaps from the Wars of the Roses.

Of course she’d chosen to traipse near an old battlefield; it was just the sort of death she was destined for. No one would be able to identify her ghost-touched body in this northern corner of the country. Not that her passing would be of consequence to her family if they were to discover it. Her mother and cousin John would merely shake their heads and declare the tragic affair a natural consequence, the result of her rebellious nature.

She drew her rapier in defiance regardless, the sharp blade gleaming in the other-light, her knuckles whitening as she gripped the handle tightly. If those fifteenth-century soldiers wanted another battle, they would surely get it. Her left hand gripped the homemade salt bombs in her pocket, and she adjusted her stance. Breathed in, out.

The soldiers drifted closer, their wounds becoming more visible. Ghostly arrows protruded from decaying chests, heads flopping to the side due to severed necks, missing limbs with plasmic blood dripping forever from the stumps. Their eye sockets gaped blankly at Lucy.

The whinny of a living horse clove the eerily quiet scene. The beast, its coat velvety black as the falling night, galloped into view between the trees. It drew up next to Lucy, and its rider slipped from its back, unsheathing his rapier and striking out at the nearest Visitor in one artful, fluid motion. Coat tails flaring, he spun, catching another in its gaping chest. Plasm coruscated from sickly gold to putrid green, splattering the wide brim of his topper and Lucy gasped, throwing herself into the fray. Her blade sliced through a Limbless flailing through the foliage as the gentleman fended off the tandem attack of plasmic limbs. The remaining spirits retreated; phantom hoofbeats drummed between her ears before dissipating into the rapid beat of her heart. 

Chest heaving, the stranger pivoted, and their gazes collided.

Something akin to ghost-lock stole over Lucy’s limbs, and for a terrifying moment she was incapable of motion. There was only her and this man and the gloom of the setting twilight. 

In these new shadows, his eyes had turned the rich umber of soil partaking of the first rains of spring. Like blooms pressed between the pages of a weighty tome, violet stained the skin beneath his lashes. Hollows were carved beneath his cheekbones, and his brow was ghostly alabaster, yet his proximity to death only enkindled the candescence in his kind eyes.

“Are you alright?” He called as he rushed to her side, the question rushing through her like a warm cup of chocolate on a bitter winter’s eve. “They didn’t touch you?”

Although she was unnerved by the feline grace with which he approached, she wasn’t about to let him know it. “Of course not. I’d be dead!”

“Fair point.” A wide, wondering smile played across his lips, revealing a pair of dimples that Lucy could only describe as devastating.

 It struck her like a millstone to the chest, sinking to the depths of her very soul. She’d never once seen this fellow before in her life, but in an instant she felt she’d known him all her days. So bewildering was the sensation that speech deserted her. 

Too late, a scurry of movement behind him caught her eye.

Fear bolted through her as shadow stole from the treeline. A mess of broken limbs and entrails. Scrabbling, dragging, across the ground. Fingernails curled into wicked blades. Growing longer and sharper and reaching, reaching, reaching…

“Sir, look out!”

Lucy hurled two of her salt bombs in quick succession, her aim flying true. Ectoplasm crackled and fizzed, and the phantoms circling them darted away, hissing in frustration.

The stranger spun, rearing back with a shout as the claws slashed once more. Lucy lost sight of him as thick fog blanketed the ground. 

Silence descended like a tide rushing over her head, drowning out all but the horrible thrashing of her heart, a wild thing in the cage of her ribs. She held her rapier at the ready, turning in a slow, unsteady circle.

The stallion broke through the mists, and Lucy screamed as he reared, hoofs pummelling the air. Tiny silver bells jangled from his reins, a net of the self-same links draped beneath his saddle. 

Lucy lunged for his reins and tangled her fingers their length. The creature bucked, hauling her through the tall grasses. Branches gashed through her skirts and scratched at her face. The muscles wrenched in her shoulder and pain shot down her arm.

“Sir?” She yelled, resting her hand free. She skidded to her knees, petticoats catching underfoot as she shoved up into a crouch. “Sir, where are you?”

Figures leapt from the fog, hands outstretched. 

Lucy spun, muscles screaming as she rammed her blade into the Vistor’s heart. Psychic howls assaulted her as the ghost reenacted his death throes, thrashing on the end of her blade before he crumpled back into shadow. His comrades took up the terrible scream, and it doubled in breadth, tripled. Pain drilled through her skull, cleaved through sinew and bone until her vision spotted white. 

With a cry she clapped her hands over her ears, blood streaming from her nose. Her rapier fell uselessly to the earth. 

Sensing weakness, the screams converged upon her, summoning echoes of her past. 

Mother and her vicious tempers.

Georgiana and Eliza, palming cruel laughter behind their soft, white, unblemished hands.

John.

This is where you die, rat, his hateful voice sneered in her head.

Behind it all she sensed something else. A prisoner, caged in the confines of the aspens and oaks. Agéd, wicked, held for centuries. Tormented and desperate and hungry. 

It was so hungry. 

She could give it respite, if she opened her mind and let it crawl within. Escape. 

Someone tapped at the back of her mind, searching for a crack, a sliver of space to slip inside.

“No,” she gasped, squeezing her eyes tight as the pressure intensified, sought to squeeze her soul from her skin.

Then the young man was there, lunging before her, shielding her prone form with his own. Lucy heard a howl of rage as the connection abruptly snapped, and she wrested her thoughts free of the alien presence. Through a veil of tears, she glimpsed the tails of the young man’s coat, lashing around his riding boots in the gale that cycloned around them. Debris battered her cheeks, scored her brow. Wind clawed at her bonnet, dragging at its ribbons until they twisted, strangling her neck. 

Lucy tore them free. Long braids of caramel hair tumbled over her shoulders, pins falling to the earth. Shielding her face, she floundered for her rapier through sodden clumps of decaying leaves before her fingers grazed the icy metal. She grasped the hilt, rising on trembling limbs. 

Teeth bared in a ferocious snarl, the man lunged at the circling ghosts, his wide swing cleaving through a spirit’s already gaping torso. Clenching her jaw, Lucy spun so that they fought back to back, parrying the lashing fronds of plasm. The twilight deepened around them, ghost lights flashing as they whirled in a mysterious dance, playing to each other’s strengths and compensating for weaknesses. 

But for every spirit they felled, two more took its place. The line advanced, driving them back towards the edge of the treeline. Branches snapped underfoot, mud rendering their retreat perilous. Lucy tore her gaze away from the Visitors, heart slamming against her ribs at the subtle shift in the blue of the evening. 

Where the ground abruptly ended, giving way to air.

A ravine.

“Oh God,” she breathed.

“Get out of here,” the man grunted, but strain cracked through his order, stealing its edge. His breaths sawed out in ragged gasps. Perspiration slicked his brow, clammy and sallow. “I’ll hold them off. Save yourself.”

“Are you alri—” Blood drained from Lucy’s face. From beneath the high collar of his coat, a bud of blackened veins flowered beneath his skin. Spreading with each of his sharp inhales like liquid rot. A tendril oozing up beneath his chin.

Ghost touch.

“No,” she whispered, fresh tears springing to her eyes. Something deep and primal tore in her chest, the resulting pain so acute she half expected to glance down and find a hilt driven into her sternum, blood soaking through the grey of her bodice. She didn’t know how or when or why, but the thought of this man dying—dying because of her—was unbearable. 

That smile again. Diminished in strength, but no less warm. Full of a half-remembered lifetime, one she’d never know.

This was his farewell. 

“Go,” he wheezed, and the black veins splayed across his cheek. “Please. At least I can die knowing you’re safe.”

Lucy set her jaw, adjusted her stance. She wouldn’t look at the drop. If she didn’t pay it any particular mind, perhaps it would be kinder to them. 

Perhaps it would hurt less.

“Like hell I am.”

With all the strength she still possessed, she rushed towards him. She had only time enough to register the shock on his face before she threw them both over the ledge.

Chapter Text

Down they tumbled, the thick grass of the embankment mercifully cushioning their descent. But they’d become entangled with each other, and when they reached the bottom, gravity had her say. The stranger landed on Lucy with his full weight, forcing the air out of her lungs. He breathed heavily against her neck, dazed and disoriented for a moment, his soft lips brushing against her skin and sending her nerves into an unfamiliar frenzy. She’d never had anyone this close to her, much less a man. He smelled of tobacco and Assam tea leaves, and the perfume of…her botany knowledge kicked in…vetiver and clary sage. She gasped for air.

“Beg pardon, miss!” The stranger heaved himself off of her and immediately hissed in pain, clutching his shoulder as he fell back against the withered heather. His hound bounded down far more gracefully and licked his face, whining worriedly.

Lucy pushed herself up, wincing at the bruises forming where her back and knee had bashed against a few rocks on the way down the ravine, and crawled over to her saviour. She dug in her pocket. The tin containing cream made from the ephedra plant—a necessity for anyone expecting to cross paths with a Visitor—was still there, and she gratefully snatched it out and set it on her lap. Her hands hovered hesitantly over his clothes. “Sir? I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to...er…remove some of your clothing.”

The stranger’s dark eyes flickered with panic, but he nodded his permission. It could have been the pain, but his breathing quickened as her small hands deftly pulled aside the coat, shrugged off his waistcoat and braces on his left side, and made quick work of his shirt buttons. Lean muscle rippled under his pale skin, equally mesmerizing and flustering Lucy, but the ghost-touch on his shoulder sobered her. It was an angry mass of inky raised nerves, forking jaggedly up his neck and toward his heart. Once it reached there, he would be gone.

Swiftly Lucy opened the tin and lathered ephedra cream across his map of irritated nerves, praying she wasn’t too late. Then she reassembled his clothing, her fingers gentle, not wanting to hurt him further.

The chills refused to go away. He trembled violently, spine bent with the spasming, and she briefly considered climbing into his coat with him so he could borrow her warmth. Her cheeks flushed. That, she decided, would be far too improper. Instead, she held out a hand to help him up.

“We need to get you in front of your own hearth,” Lucy said. “Where do you live?”

The stranger grimaced as he staggered to his feet. He leaned on her for support, his long arm draping over her shoulder. Lord, he was so much taller than her. “Thornfield Hall,” he rasped into her hair.

Thornfield Hall! Her destination. Was he its master?

“Come, Pilot!” The man said sharply.

The hound loped to their side, nudging his long snout against the man’s leg. Everything about the creature was narrow, from his great sloping chest to his high haunches. Grey as eventide, he seemed to be born of the mists, and Lucy eyed him warily. She had no experience with such a beast, and his height—like his master’s—unnerved her. Standing on four paws, the tops of his docked ears reached her hip, and in this light, he looked no different than the wolves rumoured to roam this far north. 

In need of a distraction, she asked, “Will the cluster follow us, sir? Should we expect another attack?”

“No,” the stranger said, finding the rhythm of her footfalls as they climbed. “They’re confined to the land beyond the creek. You’d be able to hear it if it wasn’t for all this rain. We’ve cleared the land from here to Thornfield, but that cluster’s been a puzzle. George, my colleague, thinks that it has something to do with—”

“Oh!” Lucy sucked in a breath as the hound rounded on her, approaching like a shadow. Her hand fisted into the stranger’s coat.

“Pilot won’t hurt you,” he murmured, brushing the back of her hand with his own. “He’s got it in that silly head of his that we’re his lost lambs and he’s to herd us back home. Feel free to utter a few bleats if you feel so inclined. I think he appreciates the charade. Keeps up his morale.”

Lucy blinked, nearly tripping as the ground bevelled sharply upwards. The man grunted in discomfort as they skirted a hillock of stone. “Is that normal?”

“Oh no; very odd. Deerhounds are hunting dogs, not herders.” Dipping his head lower still, he mock-whispered in her ear. “Don’t tell him I said this, but I fear he was dropped on his head as a pup. Scrambled up a few things. You’ll never find a more loyal dog, however, so we choose to ignore his foibles.”

His breath tickled her lobe, skated across her jaw. Scrambled up a few things in her head. 

“Um, who’s we?”

“The lot of us at Thornfield. You are familiar with it, yes? I’d hate to be taking you out of your way, but there’s really no help for it.”

She hesitated, debating how much to share. Instinct bade her to tell as little as possible, lest the information be twisted and wielded against her later. Practicality chastened the thought; if he was to be her employer, she’d do well to get into his good graces. 

“I am, actually. I’ve come about the governess position.”

“Governess position?”

Confusion hovered at the back of her mind, replaced quickly by panic. “Your, er, housekeeper?” She hedged, gaze on the uneven ground. “Ms Munro. She wrote my colleague, Miss Wade, inquiring if she knew anyone who’d be a suitable fit for the position. So, I’ve come.”

Had it all been a hoax, a cruel trick of fate? Was an escape from that horrid, loveless place too much to ask of fate or the universe or whatever god presided over it? Because she wouldn’t go back to Lowood’s. She wouldn’t.

“Miss—” he trailed off, a ponderous lift to his voice. “Forgive me, it seems I’ve forgotten to ask for your name. Terribly rude of me. I promise I’m not usually like this: Anthony Lockwood, at your service.” She felt him shrug. “What’s left of me anyway.”

Anthony Lockwood. Fine as the silk band of his topper, she let it settle into her mind, secretly loving how it flowed off the tongue. Full of vigour and life. As self-assured as its owner. She could get used to working for an Anthony Lockwood. 

“I’m Lucy Carlyle.” 

“Miss Carlyle.” When she risked a glance up, a constellation of stars shone in the midnight dark of Mr Lockwood’s eyes. He was grinning at her, beaming, as though she’d descended from one of the hangdog clouds, an answer to a fervent prayer. Heat flooded her cheeks, rushed through her chest. 

Please, she begged to any entity who might lend an ear. Please.

“You’re hired.” He laughed then, a surprised, bubbling sort that teased a small smile to her lips. “I'd never have guessed it. You, a governess.”

“What else would I be?” In what world could she have been anything different?

“Oh, I had this notion that you were waiting for your people back there.”

Lucy frowned, swiped her face as rain broke through the dense canopy of trees. “I don’t have any people, sir.”

“You’re not one of the Folk then?”

“The Folk?”

“Fairies and pixies and the like,” he agreed amiably. “You have that look about you.”

Maybe he’d hit his head harder than he’d let on. That or she’d just agreed to work for a madman. But tales of the Folk had always piqued her interest; they were her favourite subject to draw. She couldn’t help her imagination running away with the idea. “I fear their kind forsook England a hundred years ago. I don’t think even the summer, harvest, or winter moon will shine on their revels anymore.”

Mr Lockwood’s resulting laugh was cut short by a sharp intake of breath. The ghost-touch was still paining him and would for a while yet.

“Sir, you’ll catch your death of cold out here. We should make haste,” Lucy urged.

“Just so.” Mr Lockwood whistled. “Mesrour! Here, boy!”

The black stallion trotted into view from the swirling mist, but he whinnied nervously, as if expecting the ghosts to return.

“Bring me to him, if you’d be so kind,” Mr Lockwood entreated.

Lucy was starting to feel the man’s weight as he shivered and stumbled, but she steered him faithfully onward. Mr Lockwood reached out to stroke Mesrour’s velvety nose, muttering soothing words to him. The horse quieted.

Lucy watched with trepidation as Mr Lockwood shakily placed his foot in the stirrup. She offered her shoulder so he could push himself up, and he bit back a yelp of pain, making her heart clench. “Are you alright, sir?”

“Fine. I’m fine.” He forced a smile, but the agony carved into his brow, in the tightness around his eyes, said otherwise. He slumped forward, his hand flying out to knot in Mesrour’s mane and keep himself from falling off.

Lucy knew what she needed to do. Her face heated at the idea. “Sir, if you would be so good as to move back, I’ll sit in front. You can…hold onto me. For stability, of course.”

Mr Lockwood just stared at her for a moment, his cheeks, pale as snow, coloring to a rose-pink. The blush had to be a result of the chill. “If you think it necessary,” he said.

“I do.” Lucy cleared her throat awkwardly and grasped the pommel, hauling herself into the small expanse of leather saddle in front of him.

His ability to stay upright was waning. He snaked his arms around her waist and halfway collapsed against her back, grunting out an apology.

She stifled a gasp at the feeling. The warmth of his body radiated through her cloak, and his cheek rested against her shoulder, his thick dark hair tickling her neck where the hood had slipped down. It was a fortunate thing he couldn’t see the beet-red shade her face must have been now. She desperately hoped he couldn’t feel her heartbeat.

Focus on the task at hand, Lucy chastised herself. She breathed deeply and snapped the reins.

Across the landscape Mesrour galloped, his powerful hooves striking the earth in tempo to her heartbeat. No ghosts assailed them, not when the wind itself bore them homeward, the silver and iron on the horse’s bridle and saddle jingling a warning. Lucy might not have noticed if a Visitor did appear, unless it screamed bloody murder directly into her ear. The man holding her was a considerable distraction.

Emerging from a copse of scraggly trees, Thornfield Hall claimed their attention, its imposing Gothic towers piercing the steel-grey rain clouds above. Lucy paused only a moment before continuing; she could feel Mr Lockwood’s erratic shivers against her back. He could use a cup of hot tea, and maybe soup too, in addition to the fire.

When Mesrour cantered into the courtyard, a servant rushed through the deluge to grab the reins.

“He was ghost-touched. He needs to get warm, quickly!” Lucy told the other servant who came to help them down. She was thoroughly soaked as well, but she hardly noticed.

The servant nodded and began leading Mr Lockwood away.

“Wait!” Mr Lockwood turned. “Miss Carlyle, I would like to request your company in the drawing room later this evening.”

“Sir, you need to rest,” Lucy protested.

“I can rest enough in my armchair by the fire. We’ll discuss your employment.”

“If you’re sure you’ll be alright.”

“I will be, thanks to you.” Mr Lockwood’s smile lit up the murky courtyard. “Until then.”

Lucy dropped into a quick curtsy, and the servant took Mr Lockwood inside. Once he was gone, the rain suddenly felt like slivers of ice, and the cold of the night seeped into her bones. She held her dripping cloak closer and hurried through the entrance of Thornfield Hall.

She found herself in a square hall with high doors all around. Her slow, uncertain footsteps echoed to the eaves, for whereas outside servants had bustled, quiet filled the dim interior. Lucy eyed the door directly before her, wooden and banded with strips of iron. Seemed likely as any to lead to the main house. She reached for the knocker, a polished ring held firmly in a wolf’s snarling jaws.

Lucy sprang back with a yelp as the door swung open. A young man with dark, tousled curls barreled through.

“Lockwood?” He squinted at her, bespeckled and mole-eyed. He dismissed her with a wave of his hand, lip curling in annoyance. “You’re not Lockwood.”

“No,” Lucy agreed, self-conscious as the man shrewdly surveyed her torn skirts and tangled hair, though he was only marginally more presentable. Rumpled head to toe, shirt half untucked, braces hanging loose around his waist and a suspicious array of stains spattering his trousers, he was woefully out of place amid the elegant stonework arches and antique tapestries. 

“What in God’s name happened to you?” Apparently, they were of one mind. “You look like something Pilot dragged in.”

Lucy bristled. “I ran in with a cluster case on the way here. How else should I look?”

He ignored her question. “The one in the forest?”

“Do you have multiple cluster cases, sir? I was under the impression I’d arrived at civilisation.”

He scowled. “No.”

Grumbling under his breath, he peered around Lucy as though Mr Lockwood had folded up his tall frame and hid behind her skirts. Upon finding her alone, he muttered a curse. “Christ, where is that blundering bellend?”

Lucy’s mouth fell open in shock, heat washing over her cheeks. Not wanting to be accused of collecting flies, she closed it when the vulgar man glanced her way again. Though she’d heard crass and unsavoury terms bandied about by the servants at Lowood, she didn’t think she’d ever heard the master of any house referred to as a bellend before, blundering or otherwise. 

“What?” The man demanded when he noticed her expression.

“You’re an ape,” she decided. 

He shrugged, unfazed. “You’re not entirely wrong. Darwin had the scientific community in an uproar not three years ago with his theory of a common ancestor. He’s working on an essay, you know, ‘The Theory of Evolution’ or something like that. So really, we’re all apes.” He gave her another once over, as though she too was some theory presented to his scientific community. “Some of us are simply in denial.”

A pounding headache was forming between her temples. Lucy squinted at him. “Who?”

“Oh honestly, George, the way you go on.” The young man shuffled aside as a petite woman with skin the colour of ebony wood bustled into the entrance hall. Clad in a black silk gown and snowy muslin apron, she was neatness and propriety personified.

That is, until she fixed the young man with an impressive glare. “That’s no way to treat a guest.” Her fierce expression refigured into surprise at Lucy’s bedraggled appearance, before a warm smile reasserted itself. She took Lucy’s hand in hers and squeezed it in welcome. 

“You must be Miss Carlyle. I’m Holly Munro, the housekeeper here at Thornfield. And this bumbling oaf,” she eyed her companion’s rucked-up sleeves pointedly, “is George Karim, Mr Lockwood’s associate and friend.” She leaned in conspiratorially, mischief winking in her inkwell eyes. “You are a godsend. You can’t imagine what it’s been like managing the two of them.” 

“Hey!” 

Ms Munro ignored the objection, beckoning Lucy to follow her over the threshold to the main house. “You poor dear, running into that awful cluster tonight of all nights. You must think we’re terribly incompetent. That particular case has been giving Lockwood trouble for months, I’m sorry to say.”

“Oh no, it was…” Well, she couldn’t believably claim it hadn’t been any trouble, thinking of Mr. Lockwood’s injuries. “There were cases in the towns surrounding Lowood, so I’m plenty used to it. At least we’re alive.” Lucy hoisted her valise, tired arms protesting at the weight. 

Holly pursed her lips, as though personally victimised by the battered state of the valise. “You don’t have any others?”

“Just the one.” Lucy rarely begrudged her general state of poverty; that would be like resenting the turn of the seasons, her plain, rounded features, her overall obscurity. But to have it revealed so pointedly pricked her pride. “We kept rather…Spartan accommodations at Lowood.”

“You’re sure it wasn’t a prison?”

Lucy huffed a mirthless laugh. “I assure you, Mr Karim, that wouldn’t surprise me in the slightest.”

Holly nodded in such a way that Lucy imagined clockwork gears turning behind her elvish face. “I think I might be able to help with that.” 

“I really don’t think that’s necessary—”

“Nonsense. It’s the least I can do. You just leave it to me.” To Mr Karim she said, “Her room’s the third on the left on the second floor. The blue room. You know the one. See that her things get there smartly.”

Much like a turtle, the man drew down between his shoulders, affronted. “Why me? Someone has to make sure that idiot hasn’t gotten himself killed.” 

Holly sniffed. “The idiot in question was very much alive last I saw of him. Go to him afterwards, but take care of Miss Carlyle’s belongings first, if you please.” She rolled her eyes at Lucy. “It’s the least he can do, after that introduction.”

Despite his earlier rudeness, Lucy attempted a commissary smile, for Ms Munro’s efficiency reminded her quite acutely of the grizzled old colonel who passed by Lowood every morning with his spinster daughter. Mr Karim wore the same harried look that poor women had, heavy creases forming above his spectacles. For her part, she’d have much preferred to keep her sparse belongings on her person, namely her collection of sketchbooks that were sure to be all the worse for wear after the tumble down the ravine. Mr Karim didn’t return her smile, but simply stared at her, his face the precise shade and consistency of toffee pudding. 

“Mind the handle, please,” she said. “It likes to come undone if you don’t hold it just so.”

For all his complaints and raggedy appearance, Mr Karim held the handle with the care reserved for a tray of teacups, bracing the bottom with his other hand. “Noted.” 

“I’m terribly sorry I wasn’t here to greet you straight away,” Ms Munro said as the man rounded the corner, hurrying on ahead.

“Oh, it’s alright.” Lucy's attention was captured by the collection of shadowed oil paintings adorning the walls, all primaeval forests and fleetfooted Folk. Mr Lockwood’s deep voice teased her memory, the curl of his mouth, the mischief brimming in his eyes despite his pain. You have that look about you…

“I’d had a welcome all planned out,” fretted Ms Munro, “but then we’d gotten word of Mr Lockwood’s arrival in Hathersage and that threw the whole manor into a tizzy. We were expecting him two hours ago. And now the ghost touch…” She wrung her hands. “Thank God you were there. I knew I could count on Arabella to send us the person we needed. Heaven forbid, if Adèle had lost her uncle…”

Surprised, Lucy looked at her sharply, the puzzling pieces of information she’d gathered over the last fortnight readjusting, forming a newer, stranger picture. “She’s not his daughter?”

“Oh no, she’s the only child of his older sister, Mrs Jessica Varens. Arabella didn’t tell you?” 

Lucy bit back the bitter truth that there had been many things Arabella hadn’t told her.

“No.”

“Ah. Well, sadly Mrs Varens and her dear husband Olivier passed on two years ago, and Adèle has been Mr Lockwood’s ward ever since.” 

“The poor child,” Lucy murmured.

“Here we are!” Ms Munro stopped outside the room where Mr Karim had deposited Lucy’s valise. It had delicate pale-blue toile wallpaper offset by navy damask drapes and bed hangings. Heavy oak furniture dominated the space. A sizable window looked out onto the garden, pitch-black in the swathe of night, and the even blacker moors beyond.

“Bonsoir, Mademoiselle!”

Lucy whirled to find who she presumed to be Adèle standing there. The young girl had hair dark as her uncle’s, albeit curled in ringlets and tied up with purple silk ribbons, and the same gleaming brown eyes and pale skin. She was dressed becomingly in a lavender frock.

“Adèle! You’re meant to wait with Sophie until your uncle calls for you,” Ms Munro reprimanded.

“Waiting is a bore,” Adèle said, as if this was reason enough. “I wished to meet Miss Carlyle.” Just then she noticed Lucy’s valise open on the bed—Mr Karim hadn’t been quite as gentle as the handle required—and, most importantly, the sketchbooks that spilled out of it. She brightened and stepped forward, snatched one off the top, and raced out of the room giggling.

Ms Munro sighed. “My apologies; she’s a spirited young thing. I’ll ensure the book is returned to you.”

“Oh, thank you!” Determined to make a good impression, Lucy tried not to show her anxiety over its loss. Although she had surely filled every blank expanse of paper with a charcoal sketch or watercolour painting, her sketchbooks were like dear friends to her, and she preferred to keep them close.

“I’ll have a fresh pitcher of warm water brought up so you can wash,” Ms Munro said. “Have you another dress? Preferably for evening.”

Lucy looked down at her torn grey dress. It was kind of Ms Munro to not point out what a sight she was, but now she understood why the housekeeper was eying her like she was a poor lost puppy. She seemed moments away from scooping Lucy up and scrubbing off the dirt herself.

“I do have one more, yes. I’ll change right away.” Lucy pulled another dress out of her bag, this one also grey, but with pinprick black dots patterning the wool.

Holly wasn’t very impressed by this garment—perhaps she could see the patches—but no comment was made. “I’ll leave you to it, then! A maid will come to fetch you when Mr Lockwood is ready to receive guests.”

“Thank you, Ms Munro.”

“You may call me Holly, if you’d like.” She smiled companionably. “Lockwood does; it may seem like an affront to convention, but I was good friends with his sister before…well, I’ve been around for a while, and it sounded odd to suddenly change to Ms Munro. George doesn’t mind if you use his Christian name either; he’d answer to ‘Mr Bookworm’ if you used it.”

Lucy grinned. “Alright. And you may call me Lucy.” Something occurred to her. “You said ‘Lockwood’.”

“Everyone calls him that, even George and me. Only Jessica called him ‘Anthony’, and their parents.”

“And their parents are…well I assume they’re…”

“Passed on a decade or so ago; scarlet fever.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

“Nothing for you to worry about.” Holly’s voice was suddenly chipper to hide whatever pain she was feeling. “Well, I suppose I’ll see you shortly!” She turned to go, closing the creaking door behind her.

Lucy mulled over Holly’s words, noting how heavily the tale of Mr Lockwood’s life was punctuated with tragedy. She suppressed a shiver and shook out the charcoal grey dress. Most of the repairs were on the back of the skirt, thankfully, which meant there was less of a chance of Mr Lockwood noticing. And the cut was flattering, skimming her shoulders, offering just a glimpse of her rose-embroidered shift.

When the pitcher of water was brought to Lucy, she scrubbed diligently with it, wanting to present the best version of herself to her enigmatic new employer. Picking out the leaves and twigs, she made quick work of her hair, running a brush through the tangled strands before braiding and coiling it at the nape of her neck. Her hands were covered in thin scratches, which stung faintly from where she’d washed away the dried blood, but aside from treating them with one of her homemade concoctions, there was nothing else to be done for them. She risked a glance in the mirror propped against the vanity. The same round, homely face stared back at her, pale aside from the bruises purpling the left side of her forehead. Hair the colour of trodden flax, eyes the colour of pondweed. Lazy and strange, John used to call those eyes, ridiculing their slight asymmetry. His voice came to her now and then, the phantom of her childhood before Lowood. Try though she might, his visitations played at her insecurities, needling her fears. 

Lucy sighed, tilting her face side to side, wrinkling her nose. Perhaps that was what Mr. Lockwood had meant with his talk of the Folk. This could very well be his posh, elegant way of calling her odd, a curiosity he’d eventually tire of. Everyone always did in the end. 

There was nothing for it however, no use in wallowing. Giving her reflection one final look, Lucy squared her shoulders and marched from the room.

Chapter Text

Lockwood prided himself on being a man of logic, sense and iron-willed control. As the last surviving heir of Thornfield Hall, he could be nothing else. Tenants relied on him for their living and the protection he provided against the restless dead. Responsibility lay like iron chains across his shoulders, secrets like the net of silver mesh. He couldn’t afford to allow his head to be turned from his duty, couldn’t allow distractions to sway him for his promise to his parents, to Jess. For years, he thought himself impenetrable, stoic. 

Yet all it had taken was a trick of the gloaming; a living woman surrounded by a host of the dead and damned. 

Though he was loath to admit it, Lockwood was lost in that instant, deluged in a river of emotion he didn’t dare name. Never before had a woman captured his attention so thoroughly. Never before had he stared and wanted, only to keep staring and wanting. 

Anthony Lockwood, it would seem, was quite the fool. 

“You’re a very lucky man,” Dr Clark mused, prodding at the tender flesh of his shoulder with cold, knobbly fingers. “Any closer to your heart and I fear that young lady’s remedy wouldn’t have worked.”

Lockwood grimaced, working the bruised muscle in his jaw where Miss Carlyle’s forehead had struck him. Worry for her gnawed at his gut. Was she comfortable now? Had she eaten? She’d been shivering atop Mesrour, so violently that he’d allowed himself to hold her nearer, ignoring every rule of propriety, cocooning her small frame with his larger one. 

“I could’ve told you that,” George muttered under his breath, damming Lockwood’s stream of anxiety. “That’s what happens when you run headlong into a cluster case blind as a bat. In more ways than one.”

Midway through the doctor’s visit, George had stormed into the study with an expression as black as coal, equal parts irritated at his friend and relieved he was alive. Now he busied himself with hovering beside the bookshelf, pages rifling noisily as he thumbed through a dusty old tome that had belonged to Lockwood’s father. 

Lockwood exchanged a glance with the doctor. The man's wiry grey eyebrows drew together in reproach.

“I didn’t actually run headlong into it,” Lockwood said, and then, because Dr Clark clearly didn’t believe him, inclined his chin towards the rustling. “You should know he’s prone to exaggeration.” 

George snorted. Dr Clark hummed thoughtfully, drawing a slim, cylindrical instrument from the leather bag at his feet. He pressed one end over Lockwood’s sluggish heart, the other to his own ear. 

“Take a deep breath, please, then release it slowly,” he said. Lockwood did as he was bade, wincing as the doctor moved the instrument slowly across his bare chest, agitating the skin. He couldn’t help but think of how different Miss Carlyle’s hands had been, small, delicate, careful, as she’d massaged the ephedra balm into his injury. He wished it was she who was attending him now. Half-frozen, his blood heated at the memory of her removing his shirt, his fears subsiding as she worked, utterly mesmerised. Starved for touch for so long, his body had been petulant, greedy, and it had taken considerable effort not to lean in even closer. To breathe in the scent of lavender water and simple castor soap and a hint of beguiling orange peel, as though she’d eaten one for supper and the scent still clung to those full pink lips. 

He bit the inside of his cheek, acutely aware of Dr Clark poking at his back, of George still sulking in the shadows, and tried to wrest back control of his thoughts. He really shouldn’t be thinking about her lips. Not the way they shaped words to her lilting northern accent. Not the way they’d feel pressed against his, pillowy and soft, tasting of oranges.

“Not so fast, Mr Lockwood,” the doctor admonished. “Deep, slow breaths.”

Lockwood started, cleared his throat as the tips of his ears burned uncomfortably hot. “Sorry.” He drew in a long steadying breath, chastising himself in the exhale. Hell, he’d known her for all of an hour, if that. She was his subordinate, though he’d hardly cared for the rules of position. This had to end now. He might be a fool, but he was a gentleman above all else. 

Yet his mind was tired, his daydream indulgent, and so it conjured instead the adorable notch had appeared between her brows as she worked. The ghostly kiss of her breath dancing across his collarbones. Her hair had fallen quite spectacularly from its pinnings, braids half undone, ropes of caramel looping over her face. This too had proven a challenge; his fingers had ached to brush it from her round, cold-reddened face, to see if her cheek was just as soft and warm as those maddening hands. 

“Your pulse is picking up well.” The doctor concluded his examination. “A bit too quickly, actually. Are you feeling ill, Mr Lockwood?”

Had he been alone, Lockwood would’ve buried his head in his arms and groaned over the impossibility of it. 

He was ill, surely, terminally, chronically, whatever the medical community named it, but he seriously doubted that a cure existed.

So he merely offered the older man a perfunctory smile, the one he saved for days when his mind was stretched thin as the veil to the Other Side and his eyes smarted with the afterimages of ghost-light. It carried him through admonishments of bedrest that everyone present knew would not be obeyed, a fresh jar of medical grade ephedra that George eyed scornfully, and the assurances that Holly would see to the doctor’s account. Agnes, a mere slip of a serving girl, brought tea, turning the precise shade of a ripe tomato when she caught sight of Lockwood over George’s shoulder. Lockwood hastily donned his discarded shirt as George slammed the study door shut.

“Okay, have at it,” Lockwood said, sinking into the chair cushion with a resigned groan. “Just pour me a cuppa first, will you? I’ve a beastly headache.”

George sighed and raked a hand through his curls, making them stand on end. He picked up the elegant rose-painted teapot and poured amber liquid into a matching cup with a high-arching handle. Steam curved through the air like cat tails as he handed it to Lockwood. “What were you thinking, going into the forest at sundown when you know very well that your Sight is failing? What if that was one of the times it left you? You would have died!”

“If I hadn’t, Adèle’s new governess would be dead,” Lockwood shot back. He inhaled the steam from his cup, hoping to calm the fear he felt at the thought of his Talent starting to fade. It seemed cruel to have his one constant companion throughout life—and a powerful one at that—snatched from him simply because he had reached twenty-five years of age. Some of those who were Talented kept their abilities until closer to their thirties; why wasn’t he the same?

“Well you have more to think about than the new governess. Like the future of your estate, and the lives of your tenants. They all rely on you, Lockwood.” George poured tea for himself and sunk into the chair opposite. He hesitated before continuing. “As we’ve previously discussed, you would be securing their future if you married. Someone Talented, who can produce a Talented heir.”

Lockwood huffed. “And you’d have me choose Penelope Fittes.”

George’s small frown revealed his true feelings for the woman in question, but he refrained from expounding. “She is an incredibly strong Listener, even at twenty-eight. And her late husband left her an enormous fortune, which would be a benefit.”

Lockwood stared into the depths of the fire. There was another Listener on his mind, one he’d only just met but felt like he’d known far longer. The way she’d heard the ghostly soldiers so clearly, sensed what they were feeling, almost seemed to be able to communicate with them…a powerful Listener indeed. Even now as he tried to picture Penelope’s regal beauty, her raven locks were replaced with caramel ropes, her glittering, dark eyes with those that held a changeable seascape, her sharp, high cheekbones with soft, rounded ones…

“Lockwood!”

Lockwood cursed himself inwardly. He wasn’t supposed to still be thinking about Miss Carlyle in that way. “As I’ve told you before, I don’t know.”

“How could you not? As far as appearances go, from what little I know of beauty standards, she’s a handsome woman. Charming too, and pleasant company. Everyone who meets her is enchanted by her…well, except you.”

“She is as you say, but I have no special inclination toward her.”

“Love isn’t strictly necessary. You could approach it as a business arrangement.”

Lockwood imagined the proposed loveless relationship, where the marriage bed was nothing more than another desk where business was conducted. Cold and clinical and devoid of meaning. “I don’t wish to father a child with someone who’s just an associate.”

“How do you expect to form an attachment when I rarely see you spend more than five minutes in any eligible woman’s company? Now stop being a sodding idiot and marry one of them!”

Lockwood chuckled. “What kind words you always have for me, my friend. And after I gave you lodging and full access to my library.”

“In exchange for assisting you on ghost hunts.” George sipped his tea primly. “Which reminds me; the laboratory is in dire need of restocking. The ephedra is getting low, and there’s a chemical I want to experiment with for warding off Visitors.”

“I’ll speak to Holly about it,” Lockwood promised, grinning. “What would I do without you, George?”

“Probably die walking right into the arms of a ghost. Or be late to that meeting you have with the new governess.”

Lockwood glanced up at the clock in surprise. “Seven already? Damn!”

His teacup clattered loudly on the table, and he threw aside the blanket that was helping warm him. As soon as he stepped away from the fire, chills shook his body again, but he held himself up proudly as he exited the study, crossed the icy entry hall, and slipped into the drawing room. Pilot loyally slinked alongside him, laying down by his master’s favored leather chair by the larger hearth.

Lucy Carlyle hadn’t arrived yet.

“Hurry up and sit down,” George said in irritation, practically pushing Lockwood into the chair and tucking the blanket from the study around his shivering form.

“I’m fine,” Lockwood protested, even as his teeth chattered.

“Sure you are. I’ll have more tea brought. Or actually, hot chocolate. And before you say no, it’s because I want it.”

Lockwood brightened. “And Miss Carlyle might like some.”

“Of course.” George muttered instructions to the waiting Edith, and she quickly went to fetch the beverage.

“Uncle!”

Adèle burst into the drawing room at that moment, a large black moleskin-bound book clutched in her small arms. She deposited it on Lockwood’s lap. “Look at the pretty pictures! C’est magnifique! ”

Lockwood did look, his eyes illuminated with wonder as he flipped the pages. Delicate sketches and drawings, ranging from a recurring waif-like girl with red hair to fairies and nymphs dancing in their forest kingdoms. He knew in his soul that the hand that had brought these images to life was the same one that had rubbed lifesaving balm into his shoulder, but he needed confirmation. “Adèle, who drew these?”

“My new governess! She looks like an angel; tres belle. ” Adèle flapped her arms none too gracefully in the semblance of wings.

Lockwood smiled, leaning toward his niece as if to impart a secret. “The angel will be joining us for hot chocolate soon enough.”

Whether it was excitement over Lucy or the hot chocolate, or a combination, Lockwood didn’t know, but Adèle started cheering and twirling around the plush Persian rug. He watched her indulgently, but soon the motion made him dizzy, and he closed his eyes and pulled his blanket closer.

Lucy found her way back downstairs by the artworks lining the walls, following them like Hansel’s breadcrumb trail through a dark woodland. Upon seeing her bewildered expression, a servant gave her directions to the drawing room, the route taking her through another labyrinth of shrouded corridors. Nerves whiled away in her stomach, intensifying when she turned the corner to find a merry orange light spilling across the floor runner. Muted voices drifted along the beam, too low for Lucy to differentiate. She drew nearer, keeping at such an angle to the door that she could spy within, but so none of the occupants glimpsed her without. 

The large room seemed long ago to have been overtaken by clutter and bric-a-brac. Exotic masks lined the walls, gazing out with sightless eyes. A collection of twisted gourds filled one of the shelves, painted with tribal markings Lucy remembered looking at in one of John's adventure books, the one about fearless ghost hunters in the wilds of the African continent. It was the selfsame tome he'd struck her with when he caught her reading it. She stifled the memory, fingers grazing the faint white scar on her temple.

Statuettes crowded the mantle like a conspiracy of lesser gods. Long of face and stern of eye, they peered down at the young man huddled close beside the hearth, passing their judgments. Their verdict must have been kinder than their harsh expressions, because relief filled Lucy’s chest at the sight of Mr Lockwood. Adèle sat at his feet in a puddle of lilac skirts, her head resting against his blanketed legs as she flipped—carefully, Lucy was relieved to see—through her sketchbook. The child exclaimed gayly as she pointed at one of the drawings. Though his eyes were half lidded, a smile feathered Mr Lockwood’s lips as he watched his niece. Firelight danced over the hollows of his cheeks and the strong cords of his neck in a way that made Lucy’s fingers itch for her charcoals; not because he was exceptionally handsome, although his beauty was not lost of her, but because the chiaroscuro shadows created an otherworldly aspect of his features, no longer a mortal man, but something that lived in the heart of the wood.

Fabric rustled to her left and Lucy jumped, spinning. A serving girl appeared from the shadows at the end of her hall. Lucy flushed hot, mortified to have been caught in the act of… what was she doing? Ogling her employer? Idiot. What would the servants say?

The girl managed something of a bob as she passed Lucy, her tray of tea things rattling. She didn’t meet Lucy’s eye, murmuring a hasty ‘beg pardon’ as she ducked into the room. Lucy sighed. There was no help for it now, not if she wanted her new household to believe her competent and capable and not some moon-eyed Lurker. Summoning her courage, she wrapped her knuckles on the open door and strode into the drawing room.

“Excuse me.”

Mr Lockwood had just lifted a steaming cup of liquid to his lips, but his head snapped up at the sound of her voice.

And promptly choked on his drink.

Adèle gasped, the sketchbook tumbling to the floor as she sprang to her feet. “Uncle?”

Lucy dashed across the carpet to the fireplace, sliding the cup and saucer from his hands before he spilled the contents all over his lap. She hastily set them on the tea tray before slapping her palm against his broad back. “Sir, are you alright?”

“Capital, Miss Carlyle,” he wheezed, hunkering over as he coughed. Lucy eased her ministrations, rubbing steady circles between his shoulder blades until the fit abated. Heat blazed through her palm, and too late Lucy realised he wore only his linen shirt. Their heads hung low and close, near enough that Lucy could smell the tea leaves on his skin. The sweet cocoa on his breath as his breathing calmed, matching hers. A shiver coursed through his body, and Lucy couldn’t help but press closer, offering whatever warmth she could. 

Mr Lockwood stilled.

“Sir?” She ventured without quite knowing what she’d been about to say. Adèle hovered at her side, clutching the sketchbook anxiously to her chest.

“That’s the second time tonight you’ve saved me. I assure you I’m not usually so incompet—what’s this?” Frowning, his gaze swept over her bruised forehead and Lucy flinched when he lifted his hand towards her face. Remembering himself, his hand fell to his side. “You’re hurt.”

“Nothing I’m not used to.”

His frown deepened, eyebrows drawing low and perplexed, softening as his eyes moved from her bruises to her looping braids. Tender as a caress, they trailed down the column of her throat, lingered at its hollow. 

Had she missed a spot of mud? Lucy swallowed hard, drawing back discomforted.

Immediately Mr Lockwood’s eyes returned to her face, a blush the colour of raspberries ripening his ashen cheeks.

“Lockwood, are you finished almost dying again?” George asked offhandedly. “Once is plenty enough for one night. You’ll scare the governess away and clearly we need her. For your sake apparently, if not for Adèle’s.”

Lucy jumped, snatching her hand away. Holly and George were watching them from the far side of the drawing room, amusement shining on their faces, a board of chess and a plate of biscuits between them. 

“The governess has a name, George,” Mr Lockwood said stiffly.

“My apologies, Miss Carlyle.” George huffed.

Holly simply grinned, as if harbouring a secret knowledge she found prudent not to share.

Mr Lockwood held his hand out for the sketchbook, and his niece promptly surrendered it. “Adèle tells me these are yours,” he said, flipping carefully through the pages.

“Yes they are. She…borrowed it earlier.” Lucy cast a pointed glance at her new charge, who smiled sheepishly as she scratched Pilot’s ears. The hound stretched and flipped over to allow access to his belly. He was hardly threatening in that state, and Lucy chastised herself for being so wary of him in the forest.

“They’re enchanting.” Mr Lockwood inspected a watercolour portrait of Norrie. “This young woman seems to feature quite prominently. She has something of the fey about her as well. Is she from your own mind, or someone you know?”

“Someone I know. Or knew, rather. My good friend.” Lucy settled in the chair opposite Mr Lockwood and smoothed her skirts, hands shaking slightly. “Lowood is an ancient school, prone to hauntings. Mr Jacobs—the headmaster—felt it could be handled by Talented students, and often called on us to eradicate Visitors. Norrie and I accepted a job that turned out to be a cluster case, and…well, she’s been ghost-locked ever since.” Lucy spared him the details of how Mr Jacobs had dismissed her concern that the Visitor wasn’t a mere Type One, or how the other students who’d joined them had died. There was no reason to concern her employer further.

Even so, Mr Lockwood’s expression softened. His hand made a motion as if to reach out and take hers, but then curled around the book instead, as if he had deemed it too intimate at the last moment. “I’m so sorry. Did your parents withdraw you from this hideous school after it happened?”

Lucy shook her head. “My father I hardly knew before he died. When I was young I lived with my mother and cousins in a fine house, but I was burdensome and they disliked me.” That was an understatement; it would have been more apt to say they loathed her existence.

Mr Lockwood was aghast. A dark look flickered across his pale countenance. “Well, Miss Carlyle, here you aren’t a burden, and you are welcome to spend the evenings with us whenever you wish.”

“Thank you, sir.”

In their corner, Holly and George had grown sombre, casting sympathetic glances toward Lucy, who was suddenly self-conscious. She poured a cup of hot chocolate and busied herself with sipping it. The thick liquid was pleasantly sweet, and she couldn’t help noticing the rich colour was not unlike Mr Lockwood’s bright, dark eyes. She felt them on her now, studying her anew in light of her recent tale of woe. She blushed under his gaze.

As the night wore on, Mr Lockwood leaned his head back in his chair and closed his eyes from time to time, clearly exhausted from his ordeal in the forest. Holly noticed.

“My my, it’s already nine o’clock! Adèle’s bedtime,” she announced.

Lucy understood the implication. She rose, beckoning to her charge. “Come, Adèle.”

Mr Lockwood roused. “Will you come for tea tomorrow evening?” He asked hopefully.

“If you wish it.”

“I do.” Mr Lockwood flashed a brilliant smile as he gave her the sketchbook, and she almost lost her grip on it.

“Then I will,” Lucy promised, hoping the redness of her cheeks wasn’t visible in the firelight. Good night, sir.”

“Good night, Miss Carlyle.”

“Bonne nuit, Uncle!” Adèle kissed his cheek.

“Good night, Adèle.” Mr Lockwood’s smile for his niece was so gentle that Lucy’s heart melted a little at the sight.

“Here, I’ll show you to Adèle’s room,” Holly invited, bustling toward the door.

Lucy took Adèle’s hand again and followed Holly, but her thoughts remained in the drawing room, centred on the kind, selfless man who shivered before the fire because he had saved her life.

Lucy awoke to perfect stillness.

Moonlight sliced through the wide gap in the curtains wafting around her bed, falling across the quilt in a wide silver band. An icy breath tickled the loose strands that had escaped her braid.

Her eyelids fluttered, leaden, tempting her to drift back to sleep. Slumber had taken her as soon as her head had hit the pillow. Muscles bruised and aching, she’d drawn the curtains tight, burrowed beneath the mound of blankets. Her dreams had been strange, but not unpleasant, featuring a teasing smile and a pair of soulful dark eyes…

She’d drawn the curtains tight.

Her own eyes snapped open.  

Through the gap in the curtains, Lucy glimpsed the bedroom's single window. The evening’s rain had ceased some time ago and pale mist curled along the glass pane, slipped beneath the crack.

That window hadn’t been ajar when she’d fallen asleep.

Pulse skittering, Lucy slowly propped up onto elbow. Despite her efforts to remain silent, the blankets rustled. She froze and strained all her senses. Out on the moors, the wind whistled, monotonous. The house creaked softly, settling into its bones. Lucy closed her eyes and reached out, tuning into the hidden world beside their own.

Tap.

Tap, tap, tap. 

The sound met her ears like a water droplet falling from the eaves. From somewhere above her, high amidst the parapets she’d glimpsed when she and Mr Lockwood had ridden into Thornfield. So quiet, she believed it to be a trick of her own mind. Stress and fatigue ran rampant, creating phantoms where there were none. 

Yet she found herself at the foot of her bed, drawing her rapier from the top of the chest. She paced to the window and forced the sash down, gritting her teeth at the terrible chill. Frost glazed the metal latch, blistering her fingertips. She snatched her hand back.

What on earth…

Lucy didn’t know the moment when the trajectory of the sound changed. When the tapping was no longer far above her, but close behind, thudding through the wall at her back. Knocking along the panelled wood, seeking a weak point, an entry. 

She unsheathed the blade. 

Tuneless whistling filled her ears. Ponderous and cruel and so reminiscent of John’s that Lucy’s mouth went dry, a thin, helpless noise escaping her. However impossible, he was here, just beyond the room. If he found her now, he’d make her suffer, bruise her black and blue. And if she made him wait, if he had to hunt her down…

A door creaked open down the hall. 

Her arms shook, rapier thudding to the carpet. 

Knuckles wrapped against plaster, drawing closer. 

Lucy stumbled back, retreating until she fell into something hard and solid. Her hands scrabbled, clutching at the vanity as its small bench toppled to the ground with a crash.

All at once the noises stopped. 

Lucy stared wild-eyed around the bedchamber. Cold bit into her bare feet as the silence stretched into minutes. Her ankle smarted from where she’d bashed it against the wooden leg on the bench. Finally, cautiously, she stood.

“It’s nothing,” she told herself, retrieving her rapier. “It’s all in your head. You're safe.” 

But she lay her blade beside her as she crawled back into the bed, curling her fingers tight around the hilt as she waited for sleep to reclaim her.

She waited until the first thin rays of dawn brightened the sky and her demons settled, retreating for one more day.

Chapter Text

“It isn’t fair! I want to draw like you, Miss Carlyle.” 

Lucy couldn’t help but grin as Adèle plopped down in her lap and snuggled against her, pouring over the sketchbook for what must have been the hundredth time that week. It had become their habit over the last few days after their lessons had come to a close. Despite her bent for mischief, Adèle was a thoughtful, quick-witted girl, and she’d warmed to Lucy’s presence with a speed borne from a lifetime of knowing love and affection. If only all children knew such kindness from their kin… 

“We’ve only been at it a week.” Lucy chuckled, for the girl had pleaded to be taught from the moment she'd stepped into their makeshift schoolroom. It had once belonged to an ancestor who was fascinated with maps and star charts, and he had painted constellations on the high ceiling; Ursa Major and Cassiopeia, Andromeda and Gemini. The maps and charts were still there, filed away on shelves, but plush furnishings had been brought in from the many surrounding spare rooms, and a cozy Persian carpet retrieved from storage. The seven narrow windows that looked out onto the grounds provided ample light, even now when the sun bobbed just above the treeline, soon to descend into the depths of night. Rosy dusk spangled the carpet, illuminating one of Adèle’s sketches. 

Biting back a smile, Lucy held it up for inspection. 

“It’s supposed to be Uncle,” the girl huffed. “C’est hideux.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that.” What Adèle lacked in skill she made up with enthusiasm, and there was a certain frenzied energy to the drawing Lucy had come to associate with the master of the house. When Lucy said as much, the girl only sighed and rested her head mournfully on her shoulder. She flipped a page in the sketchbook, tracing the curve of Norrie’s watercolour face. Lucy had painted her as one of Mr Lockwood’s Folk. Auburn hair bannered into the mists as she peered out from behind a harebell.

“Mine look nothing like yours,” Adèle said, pouting.

Lucy tweaked the girl’s pert nose, drawing forth a giggle. “Patience, little one. You can’t expect to learn all there is to know after so short a time.”

Soft footsteps approached from behind.

“I should get mademoiselle ready for supper,” Sophie said, draping a pile of Adèle’s frocks over one arm, having spent the hours mending in the light of the windows. “Your oncle will be back soon,” she told Adèle. 

“Oh, Sophie, just a little longer, s’il vous plaît. ”

The two women shared a knowing glance. While not spoiled—not excessively at least—Adèle was used to getting her own way, and knew only too well the scope of her many charms; It was abundantly clear from their harried first conversations that Sophie had been near her wit’s end before Lucy arrived at Thornfield. Mr Lockwood, she’d observed, was incapable of saying ‘no’ to his angelic charge. A lost cause, that one, thoroughly wrapped around the girl’s finger. Though it warmed Lucy to know that the girl’s confidence had been nurtured under her uncle’s care, left without a gentle hand to guide, the girl might turn into the petit tyran Sophie had affectionately christened her. 

Just like Georgiana and Eliza…

Lucy shoved thoughts of her elder cousins aside. The schoolroom was no place for her demons to resurface. 

“Sophie’s right, Adèle,” Lucy said, smoothing her ringlets and adjusting the marigold bow at her crown. “Ms Holly will be expecting us as well. Up you go.” When the girl resisted, slumping more deeply into her lap, Lucy tickled her sides until Adèle shrieked with laughter, scrambling to the safety of Sophie’s waiting arms.

Lucy made short work of tidying the school room after their departure, knowing she too would be expected to join the others for supper. It still unnerved her, this disregard for rules and propriety. Being treated not just as an equal, but as a valued member of the household, raised her suspicions. Life had taught her to be wary of such casual kindnesses; the hand that fed a girl like her, after all, was so often the one that struck, without warning or reason, but simply because she was smaller and weaker.

She feared the others sensed her trepidation, and despite her best efforts thought her provincial and odd, as though she were a puzzle with mismatched edges. George especially watched her with outright distrust, as though he suspected her of stealing the silver or smuggling Sources past the household defenses. Strangely enough, she felt most comfortable with his waspish ways, for George, at the very least, was a predictable grouch. 

Thoughts thus occupied, Lucy walked along the narrow gallery, gazing down at the hill country beyond. Golden hour glazed the distant moors, stippled the grounds ochre and sienna. She clutched her sketchbook to her chest, wishing there was time enough to tarry and capture the way the light fell. One day, perhaps Sunday, when she’d have the day all to herself to dream. 

Resting a palm against the stonework, she sighed, eyes drifting closed. The sensations were soft upon her mind, little more than brief impressions, but they filled her with peace. A gentle presence, radiating love and care. A younger, smaller one clutching her hand, standing on tiptoe to peer out the window. She swept the unruly flop of hair from his brow, pressed his cheek to her side as his little arms wrapped around her middle.

“This was one of my mother’s favourite places in the house.”

“Oh!” Lucy whirled around, ignoring the shiver that tripped down her spine at the sight of Mr Lockwood standing in the doorway. Pilot was at his side, but a second later he bounded to Lucy, his wiry tail wagging furiously. She held out her hand, unable to help the smile he teased from her lips. His exuberance made his whole body wiggle with glee. When he nosed her fingers, whining piteously, she scratched behind his ears. With a little grunt, the creature butted his forehead against her leg, perfectly content to squash his face.

“Careful, that’s how he entraps you. You’ll never have a moment’s peace now,” Lockwood said, grinning boyishly as he joined her at the windows. He kept an arms length apart, a decorous distance, yet Lucy was acutely aware of his every movement. Dusk glazed his skin a ruddy bronze, transforming him from the white-faced stranger in the forest, the wan invalid of the past week. “Pilot, heel. You’ll bow her over. And please forgive me, Miss Carlyle, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“Oh, it’s alright,” Lucy hedged, looking to Pilot for some sort of direction. He’d thoroughly disregarded Mr Lockwood’s order and instead continued his odd grunting as she applied her nails to his scruff. “I’m sorry, I was just…um…” What could she say? Not the truth, that even after he’d saved her life and a week of taking cocoa and biscuits with him every night, she still searched for cracks in his goodness. That conversely, the more time she spent in the house, drawing its remembrances from stone, the more Thornfield seemed to be the haven of her childhood dreams. She shook her head. “I was lost in my own thoughts.” 

“Ah, communing with your own kind again.” Mr Lockwood eyed her shrewdly, mischief stealing across his face. “And what do the Folk have to tell us today?” 

“Are the Folk not allowed to keep their own council?” Lucy countered, raising an eyebrow. “We can’t give up all our secrets. How would we trick unsuspecting humans otherwise?” 

With a chuckle, he leaned a touch closer. “Alarming how quickly you get into character. But please, don’t feel the need to apologise to me. I’ve intruded on your time.” He hesitated, sheepish. “Although I’m afraid I must intrude further. I was hoping to find you up here.” 

“It’s no intrusion, sir. How may I be of assistance?”

“I was hoping to consult you on a certain matter.”

“Adèle’s education,” Lucy guessed, dread pricking her nerves. “If I’ve done something wrong—”

“Oh no, you’ve been doing a marvellous job with her. I couldn’t have asked for anyone better.” His smile deepened, its tenderness reminding her of the bygone presence she’d felt beneath her fingertips. “This one has to do with a haunting.”

Lucy frowned. “Don’t you have Mr Karim for that? He’s the expert in such things.”

“Off to London this afternoon. I’ve been abandoned. Pity me,” he quipped before sobering. “George is wonderful, but he can be a bit… shall we say, single-minded at times. You’re a newcomer with a different perspective—not embroiled in our many woes.” His eyebrows rose, matching his teasing tone. “Besides, I like the way you think. I’d have the honour of your opinion, Miss Carlyle.”

Warmth flooded her cheeks. He’d drawn a smile to her mouth without her noticing. If she was to him a fairy, she suspected he was a druid. “Yes sir.”

He winced, biting his lip. “About that…well, I trust you’ve seen how informal we are here.” 

“Hard not to.”

“Excellent. So there’s no need to call me, sir. Or Mr Lockwood. Just Lockwood would do, if you don’t mind.”

Shock drew her gaze back to him, paranoia whispering unease in her ear. “But—that wouldn’t be proper…”

“If I’m being perfectly honest,” he said, rubbing at the back of his neck, “it’s for the sake of my own vanity. My father and uncles were always ‘sir’, and frankly being addressed so makes me feel as though I were an old man. Eighty or so, at the very least.” 

“Eighty.”

“Indeed.”

He appeared genuinely put out by the prospect of ageing before his time, and Lucy couldn’t decide whether he was still teasing her or being perfectly serious. She’d seen the care he put into his appearance, the crispness of his suitcoat and trousers, the perfect knot of his sage green cravat. He was the sort of young man who knew full well of his endowments and their effects. Like how sunset was especially kind to him this evening, conspiring against her, carving out the strong angles of his jaw and cheekbones, dyeing that boyish forelock a rich shade of chestnut. 

Heaven knew he looked nowhere near eighty.

“You see my problem,” he prompted, and Lucy startled, realising she’d been staring. There was something about his eyes that reminded her of Pilot, how they drooped just a bit at the corners, pleading with her, broke down her resolve with a single sweep of his long lashes.

Gracious, she imagined he could convince a girl of far too many things with eyes like those.

“Well,” she began sternly, “I suppose if it’s for the sake of your own ego...” 

Lockwood nodded gravely. “It’s considerable, I fear. Overinflated to the point of no return. I’m quite hopeless.”

“Alright,” she said slowly. “Lockwood.” An illicit thrill rushed through her at the sound of his name ridden of formality, another when he beamed, those damnable eyes crinkling with delight. Perhaps she should have been alarmed how natural it felt to put aside decorum for the sake of…friendship? Was that word she searched for? She’d never had a friend beside Norrie, and the possibility of connection stirred a longing so deep she’d thought she’d buried long ago. One that only grew in height and breadth when his smile stretched wider, as though this insignificant act meant all the world to him. His expression left her flustered; she could hardly believe herself the cause of such joy. 

“What is the nature of the haunting?” She asked, changing the subject before she told him that she took it all back. 

“Ah, trust you to keep us on track.” He offered her his arm. “Walk with me? Pilot will keep. For now, at least.”

“Very well.” She gave the dog a final pat and slipped her hand through the crook of Lockwood’s elbow, resting her palm on his upper arm. His muscles tensed beneath her touch, as though he too felt the sparks flitting beneath her skin, driving the chill from the gallery. Clary sage filled her lungs, a whiff of tobacco clinging to his suit coat.

“The haunting began a little over a fortnight ago,” Lockwood began. They reached the end of the gallery and started down the spiralling stone steps, Pilot pattering ahead of them. “It was on our ledger to investigate last week, but well, you know the rest. There’s an old gristmill just outside of Hathersage that’s stood empty for years. No disturbances to be heard of or seen until recently.” 

“That’s ominous,” Lucy murmured.

“Isn’t it? One of the village children said she heard the sound of weeping coming from the interior just as the sun was setting. She didn’t see a trace of any spirit; just sensed a presence watching her from within the darkness.” His free hand swept through the air as he spoke, artful and elegant, illustrating his tale. “It was trapped and she couldn’t bear the thought of it breaking free. She was sure it meant her harm if it did.”

“A Type Two then,” Lucy said, her grip tightening on Lockwood’s arm as shadows took to knocking, knocking in the back of her mind. “Did she mention what kind of weeping it was? A woman’s?” She swallowed. “A child’s?”

“The former. George thinks that it could have been one of the workers, come to a terrible accident.”

“You think otherwise.” It wasn’t a question. She read it in the rigid set of his shoulders, the darkness ringing his under eyes.

“There’s something too…convenient about the timing.”

“Convenient?”

He sighed wearily, raking a hair through his hair. “The mill’s been treated. We reinforce our defences every few months, even more so with winter coming. There shouldn’t be a possibility for a strong haunting, and yet here we are. I can’t believe it's simply the ghost of an accident victim.”

“Unless it wasn’t an accident. Perhaps it was deliberate,” Lucy mused, unable to fully keep the bitterness from her tone. She felt Lockwood’s attention shift to her, and when she looked up, he wore that thoughtful frown that always made her think that he saw more of her than he ought, as if her face was an open book. Afraid he might pry into her past and loathe to lose his good opinion, she blurted, “you asked me for my opinion. I think you should take me with you.” 

“What?” Lockwood halted at the foot of the stairs, thick brows furrowed. “No, I can’t ask that of you. You’ve been working all day and it’s much too dangerous.”

“Too dangerous?” She snorted, tugging her hand free of his hold and retreating a step, sudden annoyance driving away her usual reserve. “Tell me, is that because I’m a woman or because you think me so Untalented?”

His eyes widened. “No! God, no, I didn’t mean—”

“Then I’m good enough to ask for an opinion but not enough to take seriously in the field?” Lockwood’s mouth parted once more in protest, but she didn’t give him the opportunity to speak. “You need my help. Who else is there to assist you? Mr Karim is busy with his experiments, and no one else in the manor is half as equipped as I am. It’s reckless to go out alone so close to the last attack. Need I remind you that you’ve been next to bedridden for the last week?”

Lockwood scoffed, turning away with his hands on his hips. “Bedridden is hardly an apt—”

“And you’ve just intimated that this is a case that calls for an experienced Listener. Has anyone else volunteered for the job?”

“Well, no.” 

“Not any of the village children?” She asked, her irritation ebbing slightly as genuine curiosity replaced it. Her entire life she’d been told that she was disposable simply for being young and female. It was the same for all the girls at Lowood School.

For once Lockwood scowled, clearly affronted. “No. I would never put a child in harm’s way. It’s something the other landholders and I staunchly disagree on. But…” He sighed, slowly turning back to face her. She was surprised by the anxiety pinching his features, drawing his mouth into a thin line. “Miss Carlyle, I truly don’t mean to offend, but this isn’t part of your job description. I hired a governess, not a field operative. I can hardly ask you in good faith to—”

“You’re not asking. I’m offering. As… as a friend.” She took a deep breath, holding tight to her sketchbook. “We are friends, aren’t we?”

“Yes,” he said it so swiftly that heat suffused not only her cheeks, but set the kindling in her breast abloom. And inexplicably they were, as if all it had taken was speaking the words aloud.

“Alright then.” She lifted her chin, braving a small smile. “Please Lockwood, let me help you. Let me show you what I can do.”

He studied her for a while, weighing her request. It seemed like an aeon before he responded.

“If I decide the risk is too great and tell you to get out of there, go back to Thornfield Hall, you go, alright? I won’t lose you.”

“Understood.” Lucy pinked a little at the last sentence. Well of course he didn’t want to lose the governess he had only recently engaged, especially now that she and Adèle had bonded. There was nothing unusual about that, or the gentleness pervading his voice.

“Right then, we’ll go after supper.” Lockwood started for the dining room. “You still have your rapier, I trust?”

“Naturally.”

“Good. We’ll need salt bombs and chains from the laboratory first, as well as something George has been working on.” Lockwood’s eyes sparkled. “It’s a truly remarkable invention. Magnesium that explodes in a bright flash of light, like a stronger, more effective salt bomb. He’s calling it a flare.”

“Might that also be likely to catch something on fire if used indoors?”

“Er, yes, we’ve had some close calls with the experiments, but out of doors it’s completely fine. He hopes to patent it. Might save an agent’s life one day.”

“It’s an excellent invention then,” Lucy said, impressed.

“Quite.” Lockwood opened the broad oak door that led to the dining room, allowing Lucy entry first.

“I was starting to wonder if you two would be joining us at all.” Holly grinned at the pair as they took their seats.

“I had to speak to Miss Carlyle about the gristmill case. We’re heading there tonight to clear it.” Lockwood glanced at an empty chair. “Is George not back from London?”

“Not yet. I expect he took lodging in town; that man can never spend just one day at the Archives. And you know he’ll return with a carriage-full of whatever he collected from all the booksellers.”

Lucy had learned that, even though her employer’s library was extensive, George was constantly studying rare and specific topics, and a journey to London to supplement it wasn't uncommon.

“I don’t think you’ll need him for this case. You two work well together,” Holly said, looking like a cat that got the cream. That might have been influenced by the bowl of white soup in front of her, and Lucy didn’t pause to question it further.

In truth, she was eagerly anticipating the case. Dealing with the dead was unnerving, but the prospect of having Lockwood’s tall, reassuring presence next to her, of fighting in harmony alongside him once more, gave her a thrill she didn’t fully understand.

“Uncle George is bringing me books about princesses!” Adèle announced, kicking her feet.

“How fitting.” Lucy smiled. The child was practically royalty to the members of the household. “I suppose I’ll be reading all of those to you.”

“Yes!” Adèle stated confidently. “And Uncle Anthony! He does funny voices.”

“Does he?” Lucy cast a curious glance at Lockwood, who suddenly looked bashful.

“You can read to me together! Then he can do the boys’ voices, and the funny ones! And you can do the girls’.”

Lucy suddenly imagined sitting with Lockwood in the drawing room, or by Adèle’s bed, reading in tandem with him. The scene seemed intimate, and it made her blush.

“Only if you complete your studies and are good for Miss Carlyle at all times,” Lockwood promised with light severity.

“I will! I promise!” Adèle bounced a few times before settling down to eat her soup.

Lucy caught Lockwood’s eye, and in the same moment received a dose of the sweet devotion he always directed toward his niece. Her heart fluttered. It seemed to be doing that as of late; she hoped she wasn’t developing a condition.

When supper concluded and Holly took Adèle off to Sophie to prepare for bed, Lockwood and Lucy adjourned to the laboratory. Lockwood procured two sturdy leather satchels for their supplies, tossing in lengths of chains. Lucy stopped to marvel over the flares, which were rudimentary brown paper-covered cylinders stamped with George’s initials in ink, lest anyone forget their inventor.

Lockwood snatched up a handful. “Here, keep a few in your pockets; you’ll want them just as accessible as the salt bombs.”

Lucy nodded and tucked them safely away. Once everything was packed, they bundled up in their coats. Lucy noted that, besides the ectoplasm burns, claw marks marred the back of Lockwood’s.

“What made that mark?” Lucy asked in surprise.

“That’s a souvenir from the tomb of Mrs Barrett, a late tenant.” He winced at the memory. “You don’t want to know.”

“Oh.” Lucy knew better than to press the matter; some ghosts could be quite gruesome. She sheathed her sword instead.

“Ready?” Lockwood asked, shouldering both bags before she could protest. He opened a door that led outside.

Lucy nodded, tying on her bonnet as she looked out. It was a peaceful night, the great curve of the indigo heavens embroidered with stars, the moon a bright orb suspended, as if to light the way.

“It’s such a lovely evening for a stroll,” Lockwood joked.

“Said no one ever,” Lucy countered, though if ghosts didn’t exist she would admit it was.

As they made their way through the gardens and along the avenue that led to the gristmill, she stole glances at Lockwood’s face, the angles of which were alabaster in the moonlight, the shadows in sharper relief, like the classical Greek statues they’d passed on the garden path. If she focused on him, on the way he stayed protectively close to her as they walked, she could almost imagine they truly were out for a scenic stroll. That thought sustained her all the way to the mill.

Chapter Text

Wind rustled through the reeds, a dry, crisp sound that reminded Lockwood of pages being rifled between hasty fingers. It should have been comforting; George filled the library with that very sound most evenings, another idiosyncrasy woven into the fabric of the estate. Lockwood, however, couldn’t shake the sensation that something besides the stiff autumn wind skulked through the river grass, watching them invisibly, that it was not the breath of the wind, but long, spidery fingers trailing through the rushes. 

Impossible, for the proximity of running water should have dissuaded the haunting. 

And yet…

He resisted the urge to tuck Lucy’s arm through his, settling instead for positioning himself so that he walked between her and the river. Only when her wide skirts brushed his calf did he realise how near he’d drifted. Lucy glanced at him apologetically, hurrying several steps ahead of him as they crested the hill and the gristmill came in view. Built in the time of the Saxons and refurbished in the centuries afterwards, it stood unsuspectingly in the moonlight, a long-time fixture of Hathersage. Lichen spread its pale fronds across the grey stone. Moss edged the base of the old wooden door. 

Lucy frowned at the iron bands bisecting its length.

“Are those a recent development, or…Lockwood!” 

They moved in tandem, seizing their rapiers, and the ring of metal pierced the night.

“Looks like she’s saying ‘hello,’” Lockwood murmured, eying the dark window above them. For a moment a darker, arachnid shadow had skittered along the panes, long fingers unfurling across the glass. 

A shudder ran down Lockwood’s spine. “And no, the door’s been the same since I was a child.” He handed Lucy the lantern, fishing a pair of lockpicks from the pocket of his coat.

“Why would someone plant a Source here?” Lucy asked after a moment.

Lockwood returned his focus to the lock, hesitating. “I shouldn’t burden you with my troubles.”

“You aren’t. I ask you to. And we are friends now?” Her voice turned up in a question as though she still didn’t quite believe it. That wouldn’t do at all.

“I’ve been put under much pressure by my peers to marry.” He said, stifling a curse as one of the pins slipped from his picks. “Namely because my Sight is fading and apparently I’m next to useless to the county unless I produce an heir.” 

“That’s hardly fair,” she murmured. “Surely there are other Talented in Hathersage who could help you. Besides the children, I mean.”

He sighed. “There are and they do. This is largely for political machinations. Try not to become the sole inheritor of a vast estate, Miss Carlyle. It comes with a beastly slew of playacting.”

“Are you so opposed to marriage?” Came the soft reply, drawing him up short. No censure filled in her voice, only curiosity, and Lockwood was suddenly, maddeningly desperate to know what she thought of that particular union. If she’d ever pictured herself as he had in the privacy of his chambers, veiled in diaphanous white, a bouquet of daisies and bluebells in her shapely hands…

“Not as a general rule.” Tines of the lock aligned with his picks and he increased his pressure, shoving aside his wayward thoughts. Allowing his fantasies to run rampant when he was alone had been a mistake, for they’d taken leave to plague him at all hours. “But the options presented to me run the gamut of mild indifference to outright loathing, so I can’t say I’ve been swayed as of yet. I’m convinced that only the greatest passion will induce me to marry.” 

It slipped out without his meaning that it should, and it occurred to Lockwood that this was a terribly inappropriate conversation to be having with a woman who’d only so recently agreed to become his friend, and was still technically his subordinate. Compelled by her steady, open face, his secrets unearthed themselves. 

Awkward, he cleared his throat. “However, my superiors disagree. Thus, we have a bloody epidemic of conjured spirits to either expose my stunning incompetence or force my hand.” 

The lock finally gave, the door swinging abruptly inward. Lockwood sprang back, heart pounding erratically. 

“What is it?” Lucy breathed, rapier in one hand, the lantern in the other, held aloft.

“Nothing, apparently,” he muttered, staring into the void of the room beyond. Through the crack, he was certain he’d seen a face. Cavernous, ravenous eyes. Temples dented, cracked like porcelain. 

“Lockwood.” The gentle weight of her hand settled on his forearm, warming him despite his layers of clothing. “If there’s anything I can do to make things easier, you’ll ask me?”

Even if I asked you to marry me? Darting across his mind like a mouse in the foodstores, the thought slipped into his head unbidden. Heat sparked across his cheeks and he willed the shadows to hide his flush.

“You already are. More than you know.” He pressed her hand briefly before nodding at the door. “Come on. Best to never linger on a threshold.” 

The scent of raw flour filled his nose as they crossed into the mill, powdery and thick, coating his lungs. Beneath it, however, something foul lurked. Grimacing, Lockwood slipped two peppermints from his pocket, offering one to Lucy.

“Helps with the malaise,” he whispered. 

They made quick work of laying out the iron chains at the centre of the floor and propped the heavy oak door open with a millstone. Though not iron, unless their ghost was a wildly powerful Poltergeist, Lockwood felt certain it would hold. Static shivered along his limbs as the night settled into its bones, stretching into witching hour. Death glows patterned along the stone floor, barely visible to the naked eye. Old, quiet deaths, the souls of which had already passed on. The ruined face at the door was nowhere to be seen. 

“Sense anything yet?” He called over his shoulder as he completed another circuit of the room.

“No…it’s the same as—wait!” Lucy held up one hand, the other grazing over the hilt of her rapier. “It’s faint, but there’s a voice.” Bird-like, she cocked her head, eyes drifting shut. “I can’t make out what she’s saying…” Lockwood strode to her side, shielding her while she was vulnerable. Shadows darted along his periphery, taunting him with their lack of clarity. He spun in a slow circle, forcing himself to breathe through his nose, even. Only a year ago, he’d have seen them clearly, but now…

“Please…”

He swung his attention back to Lucy. Brow furrowed in confusion, she backed up a step.

“What is it?” 

“She’s pleading with…someone,” she murmured, eyes snapping open. Anger brimmed in their stormy depths as she unsheathed her blade. “Her tormentor.”

Lockwood stepped closer so that his arm brushed hers. She glanced up at him. 

“Do you want to go?” He asked, unable to resist sliding his hand down to entwine with hers.

“No.” She shook her head fiercely, though her grip tightened in his. “We’ve already come this far. We can’t turn back now that—”

They felt it at once, the static fizz in the air vestigial after a lightning strike. Clasping fast to one another, they turned. 

A pinprick of other-light bloomed in the stagnant air, circling aimlessly. The hairs on the back of Lockwood’s neck stood on end, and he drew in a long slow breath, lest his heart batter and beat itself from his chest.

“That’s where the voice is coming from.” Colour blanched from Lucy’s cheeks in the sickly blue light, but she set her mouth in a determined line. 

“Nothing for it then.”

They advanced on the shining globe. Coy, it retreated, then shot sharply upward, exposing a rickety staircase before the mill was plunged into darkness once more.

“Is it just me,” Lucy muttered, “Or does this feel like a trap?”

“Probably is.” Lockwood tested the first step with his boot. Though the wood creaked under his weight, it held firm. “I’d rather not use the lantern just yet, so hold onto me, alright?”

The upper floor of the mill was black as pitch, the other-light winnowed away. Floorboards groaned beneath their boots. Moonlight filtered dully through the grime coating the windows, patterning strangely across the mill floor. A short, warped rail provided little protection from the fall. 

“I’m getting something,” Lucy’s soft brogue broke the silence. “A woman’s voice. And…” Her fingers clenched in his. “A man’s…he's angry with her. She’s frightened….”

Lockwood scanned the darkness, unease sweeping through him as Lucy’s breathing grew laboured, panicked. She gave a soft gasp before wrenching her hand away, rushing towards the rail.

“L—Miss Carlyle!” Floundering in the dark, he caught the fabric of her sleeve. “Stop! It isn’t safe.” 

“He wants her,” she wheezed, hyperventilating, twisting from his grasp. Lockwood lunged, seizing her waist. “Let me go!” She cried, driving her elbow back into his gut. He grunted, but held fast. “ Please, this isn’t right!” She was screaming now, kicking and mad. “Sir, please !” 

“Miss Carlyle!” Panicked, he spun her to face him. Eyes rolling back, she struggled against his hold, beating at his chest, her cries growing higher, more primal. He jerked away as she lashed out at his face. Nails raked his cheek, breaking skin, but the pain was dulled by the nausea roiling in his gut. “Lucy!” He bellowed.

With a strangled gasp, she jolted forward, collapsing into him. Heart thudding in his chest, Lockwood wound his arms around her back. Violent tremors coursed through him. Sinking with Lucy to the floor, he bundled her into his lap. Hot breath shuddered against his high collar, punctuated by hiccups of pain. Her fingers scrabbled over his forearms, seeking purchase before digging into his biceps. 

“Oh God,” she rasped, face only centimetres from his own. In the dark, he glimpsed only the whites of her eyes, the kiss of her peppermint breath on the tip of his nose, then his jaw.

“It’s alright. You’re safe. I’ve got you. No one will hurt you. I promise.” Hesitating only for a moment, he began to rub circles at the base of her neck. Tension strung through her muscles, rendering her brittle in his arms, a girl spun from glass, liable to break. Protectiveness welled in his chest of the depth and ferocity that he’d only felt for Adèle. It barrelled into him, knocking what was left of the air from his lungs. 

He couldn’t, wouldn’t let anything happen to her. 

After a moment, Lucy relaxed, resting her head against his chest. In their struggle, her bonnet had fallen back, dandling from her neck by the ties of its ribbon. The stitches of her braids lay beneath his chin. With effort, Lockwood resisted the urge to draw her closer, to caress her crown with his lips. 

“She lost her footing trying to flee his advances.” The admission escaped Lucy in a dry, bitter sob. “She fell over the rail and bashed in her head on the stone.” 

“Bastard,” Lockwood growled, resting his chin on the top of her head as he scanned the swathes of gloom for any signs of the woman. The mill was silent again, the ghoul’s presence hidden behind the veil. Only the white eye of the moon peered through the single window where they’d seen her face. Lockwood surveyed the floor beneath, squinting at the muddle of grey. In daylight, he’d brush it aside as the pattern trees limbs beyond the window. Now he swore he glimpsed a silhouette crouched in the dim, poised like a spider in her web, preparing to spring.

“I’m sorry,” Lucy gulped, drawing his attention as she pushed away from him, swiping at her cheeks. “I didn’t mean to—” Cutting off abruptly, her head snapped to the window. 

“Luc—Miss Carlyle?”

She scrambled from Lockwood’s lap and hauled him up by his forearms. “She’s back.” 

A flicker of movement dragged his attention back to the window. Shifting beams of light. The hem of a ragged skirt…

“Miss Carlyle,” he said, slipping his free hand into hers, tugging her towards the stairs, “we ought to—”

“Behind you!” She flung her weight back, sending them careening towards the ledge. The spectral wind that rushed overhead only pushed them closer. Lockwood seized his rapier, stumbling as clawed hands struck out from behind the support beams. He parried, plasm sizzling as his blade connected. The hands retreated and condensed into a hunched figure. Long white hair cascaded over her boney shoulders, shifting idly. 

“Lucy, get behind me,” he ordered.

The woman looked up. 

Once beautiful, the right side of her head was crushed, cracked like china. Black pools filled the cavities where her eyes should have been. She drew her lips drawn back, exposing a mouth of needle teeth. 

“At my count,” he breathed, not daring to tear his gaze away. “One, two—”

Snarling, the spirit lunged, skirts flaring behind her like the wings of a falcon. Lockwood ducked and scored his blade down her belly. Serpentine, she twisted midair, striking the beam above his head before diving down. Lucy yelped, springing back, blocking a series of lashing fronds. Relentless, the ghost redoubled her efforts, and Lucy cried out in pain, clutching her side as she crashed into the wood.

“Lucy, the rail!” Lockwood screamed, charging through the fog, driving the point of his rapier through where the ghost’s heart would be. 

Wood splintered underfoot.

A deafening crack rang through the mill.

Time stood still, suspended in amber. Lucy’s terrified gaze collided with his, jagged shadows flung across her face, lips parted in the beginnings of a scream. Arms reaching, grasping, finding only air.

He hit the ground in a roll, swinging over the ledge. Pain stabbed through his ghost-touched shoulder. Tears sprang to his eyes, but he clenched his jaw, finding purchase as he turned his head.

Wide-eyed, Lucy clung to one of the beams beside him. Lockwood nearly sobbed, flooded with relief. She was alive. Whole. 

But not safe.

Not yet.

“Do you trust me?” He gasped.

Strands of hair whipped around her ashen face. “Yes.”

Muscles straining, he walked his hands along the ledge until he’d dragged his body over hers. “Let go. I’ll break your fall.”

“Are you insane?” She gasped. “You’ll break your neck!”

“Better me than you.”

“What is that supposed to mean, you eejit! ”

The crown of the hideous, dented skull appeared over the ledge. A tumble of silvery hair, matted with blood. 

Then her eyes, boring into his. Amphibious fingers reached for his face, joints swollen, nails hooked.

“Lucy!” He yelled, swinging against her as he tore one of George’s magnesium flares from his belt and hurled it over the ledge, praying it would work. Stars burst before their eyes as it met plasm and exploded, raining burning salt and iron on the Visitor. A ghastly, clarion screech rang through the mill, echoing off stone, vibrating in their bones.

Lucy let go. 

They tumbled together, wind tearing at their ears, the floor rushing up to meet them. Lockwood fought against gravity to swing his limbs around Lucy mere seconds before they hit.

There was a stack of burlap sacks left over from when the mill had once ground grain into flour, and it was mercifully onto those that Lockwood fell, rolling to take the impact, Lucy tumbling with him, limbs and skirts in a knot. He cursed when his shoulder wrenched, his vision going black for a moment. A staggered attempt at breathing that wasn’t his own returned him to consciousness.

“Lucy! Sorry!” Lockwood heaved off of her. “You alright?”

“Fine,” Lucy said weakly. Cradled by the flour sacks, she seemed perfectly well, if not for the way she clutched her side.

Lockwood’s heart thrummed an anxious staccato. Had she been ghost-touched? He’d seen the Visitor reach toward her…She’d cried out in pain… Oh God.

He dragged himself into a sitting position and scrambled for their discarded lantern, bringing it close and turning up the flame so he could inspect her middle. Ectoplasm had burned away a section of dress and corset cover. He could see her corset—the sight sent warmth tingling up to his ears, surely tingeing them pink.

It took him a moment to realize that he was seeing her corset because it was still intact. There were blackened marks patterning the cream fabric, exposing cording, but the silver-threaded flossing was heavily applied, and it appeared to have protected its wearer from serious injury.

“It felt cold, when she touched me.” Lucy’s voice was small, worried, her eyes wide. She didn’t know the extent of the damage.

“You’re fine. You’re safe,” Lockwood reassured. His thumb danced over the detail. “Silver thread. Genius.”

Now it was Lucy’s turn to blush, coloring becomingly in the gilded glow of the lantern. The way they were, the way his hand gently cupped her waist, was incredibly intimate. They both knew it, but neither could seem to break the spell.

Until a sudden cold snap indicated their prey’s return was imminent.

Lucy made to push herself up, preparing for defense, and hissed in pain. She snatched something off the floor where her hand had been. Soil dirtied her skin—the salted, iron-strewn flagstones had been pried up and tossed carelessly aside in that spot—but in her palm lay a small pair of sewing scissors, the kind that might be suspended from a chatelaine. Initials were engraved in scrolling letters along one of the steel blades, just barely visible under the creeping ice.

Ice.

“Her Source,” Lucy muttered, echoing Lockwood’s realization.

There was a shadow, darker than deep night, standing just out of reach of the lantern light.

Watching them.

An unnatural wind picked up, the candle in the lantern guttering with it, waves of icy chill washing over the couple. They shivered as it raked at their clothes, stabbing to the bone.

Lucy’s eyes closed, and she whimpered. “Her—her mother gave them to her as a birthday gift. The scissors. She loves them. Loved her.”

The flame extinguished.

Lockwood felt psychic pressure against his eardrums, but whatever noise the Visitor was making must have been excruciatingly piercing, because Lucy started screaming. She burrowed her head into Lockwood’s chest to try to block it out, and it was a wonder he had any presence of mind to rip a silver net from his kit belt and shove the scissors in.

The ghost’s claw of a hand was centimeters away from his nose when it fizzled out into nothing. He sighed in relief, but instinctively held Lucy closer, stroking her hair until she returned to herself.

“I’m sorry, I should have moved faster,” Lucy murmured into his waistcoat.

“No, you did well. You found the Source, and it’s contained now.” The ropes of her hair had worked themselves free in places, and Lockwood resisted the urge to snarl his fingers in the caramel threads and tug them even looser. He was already crossing lines as it was, holding her like this, touching her like that. Just to calm her, he told himself.

When Lucy’s breathing regulated, she pulled back, observing his face in the ivory moonlight that spilled over them. The guarded strongholds in her eyes seemed to be lowering a measure of their defenses. She trusted him.

Would she still trust him if he pressed his lips to hers and tasted the moonlight that kissed their curves?

The surge of desire behind the thought alarmed Lockwood. Staying here would be unwise if he wanted to remain a gentleman. He cleared his throat and hurried to stand. “Well I’d say that was a very productive clearing. We should get the Source and ourselves safely home.”

“Oh, yes.” Lockwood hadn’t been the only one entranced, apparently. Lucy accepted his hand and got to her feet, modestly wrapping her cloak around the tear in her dress. “What about the tampering? Someone dug up that Source and left it exposed to create a haunting.”

“Quite, but they’re sure to have fled far by now.” Lockwood held her shaking hand in his. “We need to focus on getting you home.”

Chapter Text

Their journey back to Thornfield proved uneventful in its course, eerily so. 

Wind knocked through the boughs overhead, rattling the branches like bones in a crypt. Fog scudded over their boots like a tide, obscuring the path to a grey, swirling haze. Night creatures scuttled through fallen leaves, rustling the underbrush. But of human assailants, they saw none. Their perpetrator, it would seem, meant to leave them in peace now that the trap had been sprung, if they’d even hung about to see the fruits of their scheme.

Lucy was glad of it, for both she and Lockwood kept their own council. Gallant as ever, he’d offered her his arm when they’d left the mill, but she’d declined, telling herself that she needed the cold and the wind between them, lest he muddle her senses any more than he already had. 

A kind gesture, the gentle touch—apparently that was all it took to turn her mind to mutton and mash.

She’d forgotten what it was like to be worried over, and the sudden return of it left her disquieted. Norrie had, once upon a time, offered a corner of Lowood in which Lucy could lower her guard. That had been novel enough, after having lived under John’s creeping shadow for most of her childhood. Since Norrie’s death five years ago, she’d been forced to gather up her shattered pieces and mend them the best she could, keeping one eye fixed on the shadows lest threat or tragedy emerge to swallow her whole.  

Until now.

She stole surreptitious glances at Lockwood as they walked, struck anew by the sensation of having known him all her life, despite only a week of seeing each other face to face. He’d drawn his rapier, scanning the treeline, holding their lantern high in an effort to pierce through the mists. Dishevelled from the fight, he was no less handsome, no less noble, and any woman would be lucky to have him as a husband. Yet to be held at the end of a proverbial blade, forced to consider a loveless future when he deserved the world... 

It was of course different for him, being a man, not nearly so frightening nor half so threatening. He’d never know her own fears of being bartered and sold for the sake of estate, counting herself lucky to be only used and unloved rather than beaten besides. Nevertheless, she imagined she could understand his dread, the pressure he was expected to bear simply by consequence of birthright. Caged in a ring of iron when all he yearned for was to be free.

Only the greatest passion would ever induce me to marry…

What did she know of great passions, let alone how one went about inducing them?

“You’re quiet, Miss Carlyle,” Lockwood said, breaking the grey hush of the night. 

Dear God, was she forever to be blushing in his presence?

“I’m communing with my people,” she said, keeping her eyes on the path. “It’s just past the witching hour. They’ll be about, if you know where to look.”

“Oh?” A grin enlivened his voice, shaking off its weariness. “And are they finally willing to share their council this evening?”

“That all depends on what you want to know. And what you’re willing to pay in return. You of all people should know that the Folk drive a steep bargain.” 

She expected a witty rejoinder, quick as his swordplay, but silence stretched between them. Little eddies appeared in the fog. Droplets fell from the rim of Lucy’s bonnet, laved her face with damp. Raw chill settled into her limbs and she shivered. The ghost’s touch lingered on her stomach, and she found herself wishing that she’d put aside her pride.

She had just made up her mind to tease him when he asked quietly, “What would you do in my place?” 

Lucy swiped her sleeves across her face, blotting away the mist. “In what sense?” 

“Is it…do you think it’s selfish of me to prioritise my own happiness over the good of the community?” The grounds of Thornfield emerged from the mist, rising sharply from the hills. A candle glowed in one of the second story windows, shining like a beacon in the shifting, ghostly sea. 

“It…it hardly seems fair,” she allowed, awkward even as part of her thrilled at being consulted so seriously by him. “You never asked for this position, even though you’ve taken it on without complaint. I’ve seen how tirelessly you work day and night for the good of the community. It’s more than any one person should be expected to do, but you do it anyway. At the very least,” she made the mistake of looking up. Lockwood’s gaze was fixed on her with such intensity, she imagined that he could see down into her very soul, unearthing the secrets that had begun to take root without her knowing. Heat kindled in her cheeks. “I—um…well, I think that at the very least you deserve to marry someone you love, regardless of Talent. Someone who’ll…” the words skipped across her tongue, “love you in return.” 

Lantern light made an alchemy of his eyes, turning earthen brown to honeyed gold. The shadows of his lashes drifted like feathers over his cheekbones in a way that was so romantically Icarian, she longed for her  sketchbook and charcoals. The sketches she might make of him, a man of feathers, stoic against the churning night…With a jolt, Lucy realised she’d drifted nearer to him, caught up in the spell of conviction. She ought to say something, apologize for letting her tongue run wild, even though she was at a loss to find the words.

“Thank you,” Lockwood murmured at last. “That means the world to me.”

“It’s no trouble.”

“I should let you argue my case to George next time he brings it up,” Lockwood said as they wove back through the gardens, the mists draping over the statuary like Grecian chitons. “I’ve been in need of someone to champion my cause.”

“Mr Karim wishes you to marry?” 

Lockwood grimaced as they reached the back door. “Holly as well. Best keep a wary eye out for her. Next thing you know, she’ll turn her matchmaking wiles on you. Shall we form an alliance now while we’re both still standing?”

Lucy snorted. “I don’t expect I’ll ever marry.”

“Oh?” He leaned against the door jamb, genuinely perplexed. “Whyever not?”

Lucy fiddled with the ribbons of her bonnet, twining them around her fingers.

Because I’m small and plain, little and obscure. 

Because no one has ever once looked at me in such a way. 

“Sorry,” Lockwood looked away, shouldering open the heavy oak, stepping aside so she could pass. “You don’t have to tell me, not if you don’t want to.”

Because I think I'm in very real danger of falling in love with you.

“I don’t think I could bring myself to trust anyone that much,” she finally said, forcing a little laugh. “Seems too much of a gamble, in my estimation. Lucky for me, no one ever expects a governess to wed.”

But she knew even as she swept into the Hall that that was no longer true.

There was one man she trusted now. 

But she also knew that he could never, ever be hers.

The weeks whiled away in a blur, dragging them headlong from October to November in the blink of an eye. Lucy’s nights and days interweaved, and soon became tangled in threads of silver and gold, night and day. No sooner had she ended lessons than she was preparing for their hunts; no sooner had her head touched the pillow than sunlight was streaming through her window, ushering in a new day. The strain began to manifest in the lavender thumbprints pressed beneath her eyes, the familiar, groggy veil wafting down over her mind. She stole naps between Adèle’s lessons, in the quiet moments before she was expected for meals, hiding her weariness as she’d learned to do at Lowood’s, knowing full well that she couldn’t keep this up forever. But how could she sleep at night knowing Lockwood patrolled the land alone? How could she deny the singular pleasure of his company, despite all the while knowing it would one day cause her pain? One day soon, he would marry and she would leave, for even the thought of seeing him with another made powder of the shards trapped in her chest. Under the moonlight, however, she could pretend that nothing ever had to change between them. 

She ought to be resting now, but despite her exhaustion, her fingers had itched to take up her watercolours. Perched on the gallery ledge overlooking the grounds, she lay down washes of blue and violet, slowly revealing a cloak of fog, the hazy impression of trees. 

A figure emerged from the mist, all shadows and angles and alabaster hands. Feathers grew from his skin and hair, swirled through the stormy scene. He might have been an angel or a demon or a dream crafted from feathers and wax. She fell into a trance as she captured the sharp, spade-like curve of his cheek, the bladed ferocity in his umber gaze...

“There you are. I’ve got a surprise for you.” Lucy jumped, slapping her hand over her heart. Hastily she tilted her sketchbook away from the voice, mortification blazing in her cheeks.

Holly stood in the doorway, her crooked smile matching the curious tilt of her head. “I half-expected you to be out with Lockwood.”

“Oh, um, I’ve never cared for riding.” Lucy glanced towards the hills where she could just make out two black figures silhouetted against the persistent autumn grey. Lockwood had come to fetch Adèle from the schoolroom well over an hour before, having promised to take her riding on the downs. He’d invited Lucy, too, his expression hopeful, but though Adèle had pleaded, Lucy had declined, too self-conscious to admit that though her family had had horses of their own, she had never been taught to ride. Truth be told, Lockwood’s black beast of a stallion made her nervous. She’d only just gotten used to Pilot’s wolfish form materialising around corners, but Mesrour... 

“Ah, well,” Holly shrugged, “I suppose that’s for the best. Now come with me.”

“What sort of surprise is it?” Lucy hedged, unable to help thinking of her cousins; their surprises had always erred on the side of cruelty.

“Pish, that would ruin all the fun.” Holly beckoned, wriggling her fingers. “Come on. I promise it won’t bite you.” 

Lucy sighed, setting her sketchbook and paints on the sill, not willing to risk the pages sticking together. She’d return later to collect them, she told herself, well before Lockwood returned. “Very well.”

The route to the surprise wound them through the halls of the East Wing, up a narrow servant’s staircase Lucy hadn’t yet discovered—“Best place in the house for avoiding unwanted company,” Holly told her conspiratorially. “Lockwood often escapes here when the vicar comes around looking for him”—finally coming to a halt outside a white door. Someone had painted its lintel with trailing vines of wisteria.

Smile dimming slightly, Holly touched the brass knob before them. “This was Jessica’s room.”

Lucy drew up short, casting a wary glance over her shoulder, half-expecting Lockwood to appear, frowning at their presumption. 

“Oh, I shouldn’t—”

“Nonsense.” Holly hooked their arms, pulling Lucy into the bedroom. Unlike the cream of the corridor, the walls here were the soft pink of peonies, lending a whimsical air. Diaphanous curtains draped down the high argyle windows, and the sun had mustered through the clouds, alighting on delicate Rococo furniture.

And at the centre of the room…

Lucy drew in a sharp breath. “What is this?”

“Eh, voila, my surprise! ” Holly gestured grandly at the four poster bed where a pile of gowns had been displayed in every shade of blue. Elegant midnights and afternoon ceruleans, vibrant beryls and pale aquamarines. Bold stripes of ivory and sapphire. Florals in delicate pastels. Swiss dots and gingham, lace cuffs and satin trim. And the crown jewel of them all, a cobalt evening gown trimmed in silk camellias, the decolletage wide and coquettish, meant to drape low across the shoulders. In the golden hour, the fabric shifted between blue and amethyst, a changeling gown, fit for a fairy queen. Entranced, Lucy drifted forward, brushing her fingertips along the sheer overlay of the skirt, unable to keep from imagining how Lockwood might look at her if she appeared before him in such a gown. How he might gently tease her, how his long, slender fingers might feel wound around her waist as they glided through the steps of a dance…

A lump formed in her throat. Overwhelmed, Lucy turned to look at Holly, finding the other woman beaming back. “Where…?”

Holly smoothed her palm over a smart striped dress. “They were Jessica’s. You’re about the same build, though a fair bit shorter, so it was just a matter of taking the hems.”

“Jessica’s…” Snatching her hand away from the delicate silk, Lucy retreated a step. “Oh, Holly, I can’t wear her things! Especially not that. ” She pointed accusingly at the fairy gown. Ridiculous, really, absurd. Who was she to wear such finery?

“Sure you can, what with the way you’re going through dresses on cases. What are you on, third this week?”

“Well, there were just the two…” 

“Precisely. Two dreary grey frocks that no one is going to miss.” 

Lucy blinked, not knowing whether or not she should be offended. They were dreary and grey, compliments of Lowood School’s strict economy, but Holly didn’t have to put it quite so.

“And after all the hours I spent hemming—oh, there’s no need to thank me. I’m saving us all the eyesore of grey. ” Without looking up, she thrust the bodice of a powdery blue day dress at Lucy. “Try this on.” The matching lace collar followed, then the wide, pleated skirt. “Jess had a lovely collection of silk stockings. They’re all in that box over there. Petticoats and chemises, too.”

“But—” 

“Don’t argue.”

Lucy reverently draped the skirt over the back of the vanity chair, averting her gaze from the mirror above. “That is…what will Mr Lockwood say?”

Both of Holly’s brows rose, sly as a vixen among the hens. “Why should he care? They were his sister’s, not his wife’s. It’s not his place to decide what we do with them.”

“But—” 

“All they’re doing here is collecting dust. He’ll be glad you’re putting them to good use. Besides, he mentioned the other day that he was worried you’d run out of dresses at the rate you were going. In very complimentary terms, I might add. Now hurry up and change. He’ll be back soon.” 

“He…wait, Holly—” 

With a pointed look, Holly glided from the bedroom, pulling the door shut behind her. Lucy had a sinking suspicion that she wouldn’t be released until she complied. And truth be told, she was curious.

She changed as quickly as she was able, half hoping Holly’s stitching wasn’t quite so meticulous, confirming her suspicions that something so beautiful could hardly be meant to fit her body. But as she fastened the hooks and eyes, did up the dozen or so buttons on the front of the bodice, she noticed how the seams moulded to her, far more tailored than her usual grey wrappers.

Hesitantly, she crept into view of the mirror. 

She noticed her eyes first. Eliza and Georgiana had called them many things: changeable, muddied, eerie and odd like the scales of a fish. The blue of the dress turned them the precise shade of forget-me-nots. Golden hour threaded strands of amber through her braids, painted terracotta and rose across her pale cheeks. 

And for once in her life, she felt…pretty. 

Actually, genuinely, undeniably pretty . 

“Oh, Holly…” she breathed, giving into the childish notion to twirl. Blue fanned around her ankles, a bluebell unfurling. Her worn black boots clashed spectacularly, but a bubble had already risen up through her chest, and she was carried away on its weightless current. floating above the towers and trees. 

Until she heard the voices carrying down the corridor, one high and girlish, prattling in French. And the other…

Intoxicating as cabernet, deep and dark as black velvet as he laughed. She could well imagine his crooked smile, the words she might say to delight more laughter from him. Shivers coursed down her spine, swiftly followed by a bout of nerves.

If he saw her now, wearing his dead sister’s clothes… 

“Lucy, are you decent?” Holly hissed, cracking the door ajar, grinning wickedly when she caught sight of her. “He’s coming!”

Lucy wondered if she’d lose all of Holly’s good opinion if she dropped to her stomach and shimmied under the bed. “I should—”

“Oh no, you don’t.” Holly sprang after her as Lucy retreated, somehow graceful as she chased her around the vanity chair. “After all that work, I get to show you off. You look simply enchanting , by the by.”

The voices drew nearer. Panic swarmed in Lucy’s chest, a humming hive of wasps. “Holly, wait—” But quick as a Phantasm, she’d snagged Lucy’s wrist, dragging her into the hall. “I don’t think—”

“Shush!” Breathless, she elbowed Lucy hard in the side before calling. “Lockwood! Adèle! I need your help with something.” 

“Holly,” she pleaded, but her gaze was riveted to the floor runner.

Holly hauled her forward, ignoring how she dragged her feet. “I need your opinion. Lucy and I were trying to decide whether or not blue was her colour or not.”

“Oh, mademoiselle!” Quivering with delight, Adèle dashed forward, skipping and dancing around the two women. “C’est magnifique. Vous êtes comme une princesse!” 

Lucy forced a tight smile, flinching as the girl threw her arms around her waist. 

“Adèle.” Lockwood clapped his gloved hand on the girl’s shoulder. Gone were the jovial, laughing tones from moments before. “Don’t smother Miss Carlyle.”

She couldn’t make herself raise her eyes higher than the lapels of his frock coat. Deepest evergreen today, and his cravat a contrasting sky blue. Nearly the same shade as her gown. Jessica’s gown. Bother. She stole a suspicious glance at Holly and found her beaming between them.

“Oncle, is she not beautiful? Just like Maman. ” Adèle seized Lockwood’s hand, pulling him forward until Lucy was forced to lift her gaze. She braced herself, expecting anger, or at the very least, stern reproach. 

Anything but the wonder widening his eyes, the admiration parting his lips into a smile that showed all his pearly teeth. Lord, but a woman could be struck permanently blind by a smile like that.

“Come along Adèle.” Holly said, throwing one last triumphant glance over her shoulder. “I’m sure your uncle and Miss Carlyle have important business to discuss.”

Once Holly and Adèle were gone, a heavy silence descended around Lucy and Lockwood like a mantle of iron that only grew heavier as words remained unspoken. Lockwood scratched the back of his head, Lucy her ankle with her other foot.

“I hope you don’t mind me wearing your sister’s dresses,” Lucy said quickly, if only to ease the weight.

“No, not at all! They might as well get some use again. It’s like they were made for you.” He smiled crookedly. “Sometimes, when I see you out of the corner of my eye, I almost think…not that your countenances are alike, just…you’re spirited, and stubborn, like she was.”

Lucy’s stomach twisted tight as a sailor’s knot. Was that how he saw her, as a sister? Like Jessica? Not that she should be expecting any differently, of course. He was her employer. Perhaps she imagined that his eyes followed her religiously whenever she walked by, or that the pleasure they shared in each other’s company—more than anyone else, it seemed—was anything but friendship. Intimacy wasn’t always amorous in nature.

Lockwood cleared his throat, shattering her reverie. “Anyway, er, I thought you might want this. I found it on the sill. There’s a storm moving in, and that window sometimes leaks under heavy rainfall.” He pulled a sketchbook from his breast pocket.

Her sketchbook.

The one she’d left open to a rather dashing depiction of Lockwood, his pearl-toothed grin shining from the page, a lock of hair jauntily sweeping across his forehead, and a sparkle of romance in his dark eyes. This would have been all good and well if he wasn’t in the guise of a fairy king. Leaves, acorns, pinecones, and berries adorned his scandalously-gaped shirt and trousers, and a regal bramble crown crested his head.

The last rays of sun before the storm cut through the bubbled panes of the window at the end of the hall, painting the real Lockwood with a goldenrod hue, brushstrokes contrasting with the violet shadows of his eyebrows and nose. If there was a pigment that matched Lucy’s face at that moment, it was surely cadmium.

“Did you, erm, did you look at it?” Lucy kicked herself beneath her voluminous skirts. The fantastical likeness was practically displayed for the world to see; he couldn’t have missed it. She reached out to accept the sketchbook. Her motion was jerky, and her hand overshot, clasping over his instead of the linen cover.

Lockwood gasped involuntarily at the unexpected touch, even with his glove between, then chuckled low. “I confess I did. It’s…incredibly skillful. Your painting talent is superior to anything I’ve seen.” Slowly, hesitantly, his thumb rubbed a circle into hers. “I think I’d quite like to be one of your people, if only to secure the hand of a beautiful fairy princess.”

The sunlight vanished, and goldenrod and violet were replaced by deep indigo and plum that transformed him into the very fae prince Lucy had painted. A mysterious man of the wood, skilled at melding with the shadows, umber eyes glimmering out of the dark, watching her. His hand had entwined around hers like the roots of a tree, holding her captive. There was an earthy fragrance to him, from his ride across the moors, that completed his new essence.

“I don’t believe I’m acquainted with this princess,” Lucy murmured. If he led her away now through the mists into Avalon, she’d go willingly, and stay forever with him there. Whatever notions she’d had of propriety had flown far from her mind.

“Do you not? I was sure you knew her quite intimately.”

What a funny little curved bow his lips made when closed, the scar like a wayward brushstroke of a painter who had, upon seeing beauty in the imperfection, decided to leave it. The smell of earth and sky and bracing Northern English wind was stronger—how did he get so close? He was towering over her even more now, both grounding her and making her dizzy, though how she didn’t know. What would it be like to be closer? Between the branches of his arms, pressed against the sturdy trunk of his body? One with the king of the fairies, no longer a princess but a queen…

Thunder crashed mightily outside, rattling the window like a jealous rival. The spell broke.

“Um, thank you, for saving my sketchbook.” Lucy pulled it toward her as his fingers fell away. She tucked a stray strand of copper behind her ear, cheeks burning.

“Of course. Oh, and your watercolours.” He extracted the little walnut box where the paints were stowed, presumably with their brush.

Lucy took it quickly. “I should—I should probably go to Adèle. Holly can’t mind her all day.”

“Indeed, yes. I’ll see you at dinner, then.”

Lucy nodded. She set off down the corridor before he could draw her back with his curious magic.

Chapter Text

After several harrowing cases led to a frustrated Lucy expressing her desire to improve her rapier skills, Lockwood suggested regular practices in the dusty old ballroom. It had been a marvel once, high, arched ceilings soaring into frescos of sunset clouds and plump cherubs, supported by marbled, gilded Corinthian columns. Now shadows obscured the ceilings, for only one chandelier bore a few guttering candles, and spiderwebs and dust motes formed their own natural decoration on the unused sconces and crystal pendalogues. Half of the room contained George’s overflow laboratory supplies, and the rich walnut of the parquet floor was in desperate need of polishing, but it suited their purposes well enough.

One afternoon following Adèle’s lessons, rain lashed steadily against the windows as they dueled, the sky’s steel-grey dreariness in stark contrast to the life and energy bursting within. At last Lucy succeeded in pinning her opponent against the wall with her blade at his throat, their breathing coming in staccato gasps.

“Well played, Lucy!” Lockwood said proudly.

She smiled, basking in his praise, but her attention was soon diverted. He’d removed his cravat before practice to avoid drenching it in perspiration, and at the moment the top buttons of his shirt were undone, exposing a narrow slice of pale chest. It expanded as he tried to catch his breath.

Lucy missed his devilish grin, which would have served as a warning. His blade cut up to leverage hers away, propelling him towards her. She lost her balance. He tried and failed to catch her, and their rapiers clattered across the floor as they fell together.

Lockwood’s forearms stalled his descent, bracketing Lucy’s head, the tip of his nose brushing against hers. His sweat-curled forelock tickled her brow. They stared into each other’s eyes, shocked into immobility.

“If you two aren’t terribly busy, there’s going to be tea and cakes in the drawing room soon. Unless you’d rather I eat all the cakes; I’ve done it before, if you recall.” George leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms lazily as he surveyed them.

“Er, yes, there was an incident with a sparring move, and you see…” Lockwood’s chuckle was airless, his cheeks pink as cherry blossoms. He scrambled to his feet and helped Lucy to hers. “We’ll just get washed up first.”

“Sparring move. Right.” George smirked and shuffled off.

“Sorry for, erm, almost flattening you,” Lockwood apologized to Lucy, retrieving their rapiers and returning them to the stand.

“It’s alright; not like it’s the first time,” she answered jokingly. But things had changed since that first time; there was no danger of dying to distract them, and their relationship had shifted from new acquaintances to…whatever they were now. His weight bearing down on her had stirred up deeper feelings that she had never experienced before and couldn’t quite articulate. 

“I’ll try not to make a habit of it.” Lockwood’s lip curled as he strode off in the direction of his chambers.

I wish you would, Lucy thought, surprising herself. She hurried to her own room and splashed a good amount of cold water on her face from the rose-painted china ewer, hoping it would clear her head.

After patting her face dry and fixing her hair, Lucy inspected her dress. Though plain, and made of a sturdy linen designed for work, evening loomed near, and tea called for different attire. Hesitantly she chose Jessica’s zaffre watered-silk dress which, when she slipped into it, skimmed the tops of her shoulders. Pleats and tassels adorned the sleeves, accentuated by jet beads gleaming in the candlelight. The dress exuded elegance in every stitch, and she felt woefully inadequate arrayed in it. She considered changing, but the bell for tea had already rung, and she didn’t want to keep Lockwood and George waiting. Rallying her courage, she swept downstairs to the drawing room.

Lockwood already sat in his usual armchair, dressed in a fresh shirt, an azure brocade waistcoat, black trousers with a blue check, and black coat. He’d raked his hair becomingly away from his face, without the merest suggestion of sweat. Drawn into deep conversation with George, who slumped on the sofa nearby, he didn’t immediately notice her presence. But with a hesitant step and a rustle of silk, he trailed off, his eyes fixed on her. He stood quickly.

“Lucy! You look…that dress suits you,” he murmured.

George simply watched, sipping his tea with more noise than was generally acceptable.

“Thank you.” Lucy settled in the chair opposite, arranging her skirts self-consciously. She reached for the teapot, but Lockwood was already pouring her a cup and delivering it to her. “Oh, thank you again.”

Lockwood smiled indulgently and sat in his chair, returning to his own cup and cake. His gaze, however, never left Lucy. She attributed his regard to Jessica’s dress, and hoped she did it justice.

“Well, I suppose there’s not much reason for me to talk anymore,” George said pointedly.

“What? No, I’m listening!” Lockwood protested. He set aside his empty cup and withdrew a meerschaum pipe, tobacco tin, and matchbox from his breast pocket, then set about packing the pipe, tamping crushed tobacco leaves expertly into the bowl. It was a beautiful pipe, carved intricately with leaves and a dog that looked rather like Pilot, who was snoozing at his master’s side. Lockwood struck a match. The white phosphorus tip flared to life, and with a fluid gracefulness in his tapered fingers, he lit the tobacco and shook the match until it went out.

Lucy watched avidly as he took a restorative puff, the crisp smoke curling around him, drifting towards her to tease her nose. There was the scent she’d smelled on him whenever they were close, the one she couldn’t get enough of, distinctly his. Wood, spices, and a hint of sweetest vanilla, mingling with the aroma of the hearth fire and the earthy, mineral tang of wet leaves and dirt from outside.

Rain tapped gently on the windows, the prismed drops glittering in nearby candlelight. The drawing room was pleasantly warm. Tired from exerting both her mind and body, Lucy leaned back in her chair and watched Lockwood in a haze, trapping him tight between her lashes. How he managed to look so good whilst fatigued was beyond her; she knew her own exhaustion wasn’t doing her any favors. Her gaze followed his boots, crossed on the footstool, to his long legs, to his relaxed, slumped posture. One arm was slung over the chair’s arm, the hand of which held the pipe. His head was tipped back, exposing that tantalizing sliver of skin above his cravat. True to his word, his eyes focused on George, but occasionally they drifted to her, their hickory depths smouldering in the firelight. Whenever he exhaled smoke, his mouth formed a perfect ‘o’. Lucy squeezed her eyelashes tighter.

“So basically, both the laboratory and library are quite well stocked now, and I won’t be needing to make any trips to London for a while. I can join you on ghost hunts,” George announced, downing his fourth teacake.

“Oh?” Lucy’s eyes snapped open, her mind refocusing on the conversation. She’d grown so used to it being just her and Lockwood on hunts, and though they worked well as a team, there were often times when they were dealing with an especially difficult ghost or cluster and had to work double time to survive. A third person would ease the burden.

She met Lockwood’s gaze and imagined she heard him say We need him, though his lips didn’t form the words. Even so, she nodded in return.

“You’re more than welcome. The cases have been quite difficult as of late,” Lockwood said aloud.

“Yes, I noticed you two have been looking like you should be haunting graves yourselves.” George licked sugar from his fingers.

Lucy shook her head. “Always so complimentary.”

“A saint, some would say,” George said primly.

He rambled on about his latest experiment involving using extreme temperatures on Sources to gauge their reaction, but Lucy wasn’t listening. She was back to studying Lockwood, puzzling over how their silent communication hadn’t seemed so quiet. It was almost like how she heard ghosts in her head, though the presence wasn’t cold or invasive. It was…agreeable, comfortable. Like it belonged there.

In all likelihood she was probably just tired, her imagination inventing fantasy. That night she went to bed hoping that sleep would provide a cure.

As luck would have it, Holly had rightly predicted the fate of Lucy’s old dresses. Winter’s encroachment stole sunlight by the minutes, until they lost whole hours to the creeping dusk. Ghosts that might have only troubled them once or twice a week took up a nightly assault, so much so that George soon begrudged his decision to accompany them. Lucy couldn’t help but share his ill-mood. Gone were the days of her clandestine hunts with Lockwood and Lockwood alone, and part of her couldn’t help but mourn their loss. While he treated her no differently with George in tow, remaining as cavalier and thoughtful as ever, it was painfully obvious that he realised the weight of his friend’s disapproval. Whatever had blossomed between them, soft and green as spring shoots, she suspected George wished to pluck, roots and all, like he might one of the specimens in his laboratory. In vain, she endeavored to ignore him. In dismay, she found herself making amateur mistakes, conscious of every look and touch she shared with Lockwood, however brief and however chaste. The following Wednesday saw her spare floral grey shredded at the sleeves, the work of a particularly wily highwayman haunting the dirt road in and out of Hathersage. A vicious Limbless on Saturday sent her sprawling over a bed of tree roots, gashing her favorite black skirt open at the knees, forever ruining the drape. Though she mended the tears and plasmic burns as best she could, her ghost hunting kit soon resembled the garb of the vagabonds who occasionally crossed the wild moorland. Much as wearing Jessica’s old clothes made her deeply self-conscious, she couldn’t help but thrill a little every time she passed a mirror, or when one of the servants looked her way admiringly. 

She also couldn’t pretend to miss the way Lockwood looked at her when they met in the halls or happened upon one another in the school room or the gallery, which seemed to occur with increasing frequency, as though he actively sought her out, desirous of her company. 

Whenever they met, he had a word and a smile for her, often regarding that night’s case, but with greater frequency, anything that struck his fancy; conversation was in his nature, and she could have listened to him talk for hours. He not only saw her, which was already more than she’d come to expect from her position in the world, but liked and admired her as an equal. Every time they departed, he left her with a ball of giddy cheer swelling in her chest, light as a hot air balloon drifting above the clouds.

Foolishness, Lucy chastised herself that evening as she readied for bed, tying off a loose sleeping braid before climbing beneath the covers. She blamed it on the approaching Christmas season and a palpable cheer that filled the halls of Thornfield. The holiday proved a perilous time of year for those given over to dreaming, when the spell of mistletoe and holly wove its wily magic. Already the servants strung garlands of dried oranges and cranberries from mantles and doorframes, perfuming the air with citrus. There were even rumors of cutting down a fir from the forest like Queen Victoria and Prince Albert had done just the year before. Lucy had always heard the German tradition described as pagan and strange, but she couldn’t help but be a little romanced by the idea, having their very own piece of the forest in the house. Lockwood would no doubt tease her if he could guess her thoughts, seeing it as irrefutable evidence that she belonged to the Folk. But she could just imagine them all, singing carols beneath the boughs, faces aglow. Lockwood would be there, of course, candlelight glazing his face in gold. And when he caught her eye in the midst of the chorus…

With a groan, Lucy drew her legs up to her chest, resting her cheek on the shelf of her knees. She reminded herself that his affection for her was only that of a brother for a sister, as he’d intimated. It was understandable, natural even, that he should seek her out so regularly. 

To remember his sister. 

Nothing more.

She wielded the conviction like a knife, tearing the silk envelope of her silly balloon before circumstance had the chance to do it for her. Better now, and by her own hand, than later by his word or action. Better now, and feel the jolt of falling only metres instead of leagues.

With a huff, for she knew her own dramatics when she saw them, Lucy leaned over to the bedside table and blew out her candle.

Slumber, however, evaded her, and she was left alone with her thoughts well into the long hours of the night. 

Lucy hardly knew whether she’d slept for hours or had only just nodded off minutes before. She knew only that when she woke, a needling chill had stitched its threads into every inch of her flesh. Moonlight sliced through the gap in her bed curtains. At the back of her mind came the sound of vague, peculiar murmuring. She groaned, pressing her face into her pillow, trying in vain to muffle the noise. Who in hell was talking so loudly in the middle of the nigh—

The murmuring rose, coming from just above her. 

Lucy sat upright, clawing loose tendrils of hair from her face. The sound hushed. 

Far down the hall, the clock struck two. 

Tap. 

Tap-tap-tap. 

Fingers drummed on the far side of her door, rapping hard and swift across the panels. Lucy bit the inside of her cheek to keep from crying out, seizing her dressing gown and rapier as she slid from her bed. Cold seeped into her soles as she crossed the floor, each rap jolting through her like a blow. 

“Who’s there?” She called, hating how her voice warbled. 

The knocking ceased. 

Nothing answered. Outside her room, nothing moved. Fear sank into her very marrow.

Pilot, she thought, grasping at any scrap of logic to piece together an explanation. Whenever the kitchen door chanced to be left open, whether by accident or pity, the deerhound always found his way to Lockwood’s chamber door; often, Lucy had seen him lying upon its threshold when she passed it in the morning. 

Further down the hall, the knocking began anew, slow and ponderous. Then, a demonic laugh, low and deep, as though tucked behind a hand to suppress the sound.

Taunting her.

Just like John. 

A hound couldn’t make such a sound, not unless it was sired in the very depths of hell.

Something gurgled and moaned, followed by another spill of the awful laughter. The steps danced further away, towards the third-story staircase. A door sighed open, then shut, before all was still again. 

She stared down at the knob, heart thrashing in her chest. Then, with a curse, she withdrew the bolt and rushed into the hall, rapier in hand. 

The air surrounded her in a haze, shifting oddly in the moonlight pouring through the mullioned glass. A cough built in her chest as she watched the strange blue wreaths unfurling before her. Involuntary tears filled her eyes and she scrubbed at her lashes, the sting worsening. She fanned the air before her hand, growling in frustration before she became aware of the smell of…

Burning. 

She tore down the corridor, bare feet slapping across the stone. The smoke condensed as she reached the cross section, billowing thickly from the right.

She pressed her dressing gown to her nose, entering the cloud. Blind, she floundered, feeling for the wall.

Something creaked: another door, left ajar.

And that door was Lockwood’s.

She thought no more of the knocking, laughing thing.

A scream escaped her as she wrenched the door fully open.

Tongues of fire leapt round his bed, cavorting like beings from the ninth circle of hell. Hungry, ravenous things, igniting the curtains, devouring the sheets.

“Lockwood!” She shrieked. He lay sprawled above the covers, stretched motionless, consumed by slumber. “Lockwood, wake up!” Smoke seared her lungs as she dashed across the carpet, flung herself between the blaze. She seized him by the shoulders, shaking him roughly, his skin reflecting the heat of the fire. A low murmur escaped him, and his head lolled limply to the side; his muscles remained slack, stupefied by the smoke. Cursing, Lucy flew to his basin and ewer, finding both wide and deep, filled to the brim. Water sloshed over the sides as she lifted the basin in her arms and staggered towards the bed. With a primal shout, she heaved the contents upwards, dousing the bed and its occupant. The basin slipped from her hands, splintering as it hit the floor. She paid it no mind, racing back for the ewer. This she hurled at the last of the flames eating up the canopy. The fire hissed as it extinguished, plunging the room into blackness. The ewer hung slack in her arms as she stood, trembling, scanning for embers she might have missed.

Her head snapped around as she heard Lockwood rouse, groaning. “What the devil…”

“Lockwood!” She groped blindly, crying out as porcelain shard speared her foot. Blood welled beneath her step, but she plucked the shard free, tossing it aside. Stumbling, her hands collided with first the sodden mattress, acrid as she struggled to breathe around the sob lodged in her throat.

Shock and sleep roughened his voice. “In the name of all the fairies in Christendom…Lucy? Why are you—”

Her hand inadvertently brushed his hip and his voice cut off abruptly. At first sluggish from the smoke, his inhales grew staccato as she followed the fine ridges of his stomach, the smooth swell of his shoulders, slick with water, but mercifully unharmed. Her fingertips swept over his jaw, coarse with stubble, and his breath stilled completely, a harsh intake in the smouldering dark. 

“Lucy,” Lockwood mumbled, sounding dazed. The tip of his nose grazed the cluster of veins at her wrist, his lips inadvertently caressing the base of her palm. Reality reasserted itself; propriety followed suit.

Dear God, what was she doing?

“A fire!” she blurted, snatching her hands away, retreating across the carpet, blood and water squelching between her toes. Embers sparked in her cheeks, igniting as swiftly as the curtains. “I heard laughter in the halls and it led me to you. Whoever it was must have set the fire!”

She heard the rasp of a drawer being opened, the contents fumbled, retrieved. The whisk of match, the flare of sparks enlivened. 

Candlelight bloomed between them, revealing the bed, all blackened and scorched, drenched and dripping.

Lockwood’s eyes widened with horror, jaw growing slack as he stared at the tattered remains of the curtains.

“Dear God,” he whispered.

Lockwood’s attention moved swiftly from the destruction to Lucy. Lucy, who stood in his room, a mere metre away, wearing nothing more than a nightgown. Well, there was a brocade dressing gown over it, but he could see her natural curves, further emphasized by the cinch of the tie belt around her waist. Her unspooling braid tumbled over her shoulder, every escaped strand fascinating him.

He became suddenly and acutely aware he’d removed his shirt before falling asleep. Thankfully he wore trousers, but that didn’t stop Lucy’s eyes from roving over the expanse of his bare skin, as if memorising every detail. Her tongue flicked nervously over her lips, and his heart stuttered in response. He needed to master that unruly organ before it convinced his brain and the rest of his body to abandon propriety and drag her into his arms. He snatched up his shirt, mercifully only singed on one sleeve, and pulled it over his head.

“Wait here,” he ordered, slipping on boots. She nodded, clasping her arms around her torso, and he realized she was shivering. He tossed his coat about her shoulders. “I won’t be long,” he promised, retrieving his rapier.

The corridor was empty, but there was a lingering frigidity, ice cracking over the windows from the inside as if a Visitor was near. Despite these indicators, his search of the halls and nearby rooms proved fruitless, the cold dissipating in the wake of the recent flames. 

He didn’t understand why she had attacked him. Not to mention burning the bed…two years faded away like dust scrubbed from a mirror, and he saw clearly in his mind’s eye another bed, this one charred beyond recognition, and the two forms who had been sleeping peacefully within. Despair clawed at his chest as he remembered how he’d been asleep himself, how he’d smelled the acrid smoke far too late, but raced toward it anyway. He shuddered. Why would she be reenacting her own death?

The walls and furniture of the hallway had no answer. Dejected, he returned to his room and the living, breathing Lucy.

And found her nursing a bloody foot in his wingback chair.

“Lucy!” Broken porcelain crunched under his boots as he went to her, revealing what had done the damage. He knelt down and inspected the gash.

“It looks worse than it is,” she said.

Lockwood gave her a hard look, the depth clear enough to him. “I’ll get something to clean it.”

Once again he left, flying down to the kitchens to pump water into a pot. Stoking the fire in the stove until it boiled the water took more time than he would have liked, but at last he was racing back upstairs with a steaming basin, a cloth for cleaning, and linen bandages. Holly would have his head for the amount of water that splashed onto the floor, but he didn’t particularly care. Lucy’s welfare was his priority.

“This is going to hurt a bit,” Lockwood said, kneeling before her again and gently wrapping his hand around her ankle.

“Thank you for the warning.” Her cheeks bloomed with a comely rosy blush at his touch, but she breathed in sharply when he began cleaning the wound, pain evident in her wrinkled brow. “Did you—did you catch whoever was responsible?”

Lockwood set his jaw. “No. Erm, Lucy, don’t tell anyone about this.”

“Why? If there’s a Visitor roaming free, we need to find it immediately.”

Lockwood studied her confused face, with its pursed lips and ruffled brow, and wished he could tell her. Eventually he would. “I’ll handle it, alright? This one is entirely my responsibility.”

“You’re sure you don’t want help?”

“Very sure. I’d rather you take time to heal.” Absent-mindedly, Lockwood stroked the bone of her ankle with his thumb, marveling over how the skin was soft even there. He wondered what it would be like to cup the swell of her calf, run his fingertips up her thigh…

He scolded himself for letting his thoughts wander and released her ankle so he could tie the bandages around the wound. When he was finished, he carefully placed the foot on the floor and took her hand. “Tonight could have gone very differently if you hadn’t discovered the fire. I owe you my life, Lucy.”

“There is no debt.” Even so, Lucy tightened her grip on his hand, as if imagining that alternate possibility.

Lockwood wasn’t sure how he’d gotten so close to her, drawn in like a moon orbiting a planet, lips a hair’s breadth from hers. She watched him, eyes half-lidded, the blue dark as midnight, her breath coming in short, anticipating gasps. She smelled like lavender water, pure and sweet, his to drink his fill of if he just closed the gap. No one was around to see, to stop him, if he proved insatiable…

The abhorrent thought of defiling her honor at last made him pull back. He released her hand and stood, then glanced toward the window at the pale grey morning light. “I doubt we’ll have any more disturbances at this hour. We should try to get some sleep.”

“But your bed…” Lucy looked with dismay at the blackened curtains and duvet.

“I’ll sleep elsewhere for now. Do you need help getting back to your room?”

“I can manage.” She shakily rose, tested the foot, and limped a few steps.

Lockwood noticed this and moved forward again. “Here, take my arm.”

She accepted gratefully, distributing her weight between him and her good foot. Together they headed for her room.

It felt like heaven just being close by her side, and when they stopped in front of her door, he yearned to go further. If they were married…

Just the idea made joy blossom in his heart, quickly, before he could quell it. She’d already told him she wouldn’t marry, that night after the battle with the mill ghost, when he’d tentatively hoped that she might consider him. He’d accepted her response, but the more time they spent in each other’s company, the more he thought—he desperately hoped—her mind could be changed.

“Thank you, Lockwood.”

He might have imagined it, but there was something akin to longing in her expression, and he lifted her hand to his lips and pressed them to her skin with more intimacy than was generally permitted. “Of course. Good night, Lucy. Or morning, rather.”

“Good morning.” Lucy smiled. After what seemed like an age, she entered her room and closed the door behind her.

Neither of them remembered she was still wearing his coat until much later.

Chapter Text

In her dreams, Lucy wandered one of Thornfield’s unexplored wings. The new-moon night had draped an obsidian shroud over the windows, and the only light came from the lantern Lucy gripped in her fist. A strange presence called to her, always just beyond the ring of light, and she drifted down the hall, stumbling here and there, catching herself on the icy stone walls. They loomed impossibly high in the darkness, peering down at the little mouse in their midst. Nerves swarmed in her stomach, but she pressed on until she reached the open door at the end of the hall. The room beyond gaped in such a way that defied the laws of space; impenetrable, black as pitch, smelling of mildew and watered stone. She hesitated on the threshold until suddenly she knew, in that odd way of dreams, that she was not alone.

It was not the presence she sought, for it had dashed on ahead and left her behind, and nor was it the creature tapping at her chamber door, but one that was familiar and warm. 

Lucy set down her lantern.

All was silence. All was still. 

Then…

Long, wiry arms wrapped around her middle from behind, bundling her against a firm chest. Heat seeped through the fabric of her dress, chasing away the draft she hadn’t known had chilled her so. The scent of tobacco smoke enveloped her, vetiver and clary sage…

It occurred to her that she ought to be afraid, for it was dark and she was small and unarmed. Vulnerable. But the wings setting flight in her stomach were only those of latent desire. She knew who it was who drew her so near, and there was no need to be afraid; he would never hurt her. 

So, she leaned into the embrace, shivering at the gentle strength that cradled her. What a marvel it was to simply be held . Cherished as though she was something worth protecting, worth keeping.

A sigh escaped her as the tip of his nose traced the long tendon of her neck, nuzzling the hollow formed by her collarbones. 

“Lucy.” The gravel in his voice turned her name into little more than a hum, the prostrate note of a double bass thrumming through her breast. She mightn’t have known he’d spoken at all if she hadn’t felt the shape of it impressed upon her skin. Her breath stuttered with sweet anticipation.

Featherlight, he caressed her shoulder, lingering to taste, and the notes in her chest sped, allegrissimo. He kissed her again, singing her name like a dark velvet aria, following a slow path to her jaw. Intoxicated by the scent of him, she longed to bottle it up, drink from him long and deep, the forest prince of her imagination. Spelled by the music, the rapid drumming of their hearts, she let him touch her freely, revelling in each brush of his nimble fingers. For weeks they’d denied the cords connecting them, but theirs was always meant to be a harmony, a duet.

“Anthony,” she gasped when she could no longer bear the wait, and the world spun. Her back pressed into cold stone. His hands clasped her waist. 

Firelight flung odd shadows across his narrow face. Starless eyes collided with hers, molten with need, fervent with devotion. 

“Anthony,” she said again, pleading, cupping his face in her hands. “Kiss me.”

Pearlescent teeth, straight and white, flashing in a beguiling grin. Lashes falling like feathers drawn too near the sun. Blood roared in her ears, crescendoing with the orchestra in her chest as he pulled her nearer, as she surged up onto her toes... 

She awoke upon the crash of timpani, pulse pounding against the roof of her mouth. 

Anticipating a kiss that never came. 

Disoriented, she reached out blindly, half-expecting to find him sprawled beside her, but found only cool sheets. She cracked open her eyelids to find a veil of blue dawn covering every surface of her room. 

Alone. 

She was all alone. 

She didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed.

“Just a dream,” she mumbled into the pale morning, pressing her palm to her ragged heartbeat. “Only a dream.” 

But when she inhaled, she was still surrounded by the heady, earthen scent of him, as though she’d gotten her wish and pulled a bottle of his essence from her dream. Discomfort crawled beneath her skin and buried her face in her pillow. The scent still engulfed her, teasing her with its nearness. As though, in the way of a trickster from a fairytale, he’d slipped into her bed while she was asleep and braided spells into her hair, damning her to sense him always, like a haunting that never ceased.

Cursing, she tore herself from her bed. 

And immediately fell to her knees, yelping at the pain shooting up her ankle. Heavy folds of wool fell around her as she struggled to her feet, hobbled towards her vanity.

His coat.

She still wore his coat. 

It all came back to her: the knocking, the smoke, his bed up in flames. Believing for a terror-filled moment that she’d lost him. 

The amber, candlelit planes of his face, so near hers when he lifted his head from tending her wound. 

The black ink of desire that had stained his irises when his gaze fell to her lips. 

Dismayed, Lucy wriggled her arms from the coat’s sleeves and tossed it over the back of the armchair. Weary already before the day had begun, she drifted through the motions of dressing, pointedly ignoring the black presence of Lockwood’s coat. Wearing it was illicit; wearing it was a presumption. And evidently wearing it dredged up feelings she hadn’t been ready to address.

Still, a sly voice whispered in the back of her mind: Was it so terrible to want more from their friendship, to love and desire him as a wife would her husband? 

The dress she pulled from the wardrobe was Jessica’s most sensible, becoming as ever, but navy blue, a pattern of somber vines curling across the cotton. Good. She needed ‘sensible’ today, after the night they’d had. 

Perched at her vanity, she prodded her foot. The wound throbbed, collecting the strokes of her heart, and fresh blood seeped through the dressing. After tending to the cut, she pulled on her old, darned stockings, not daring to risk soiling Jessica’s white silks. Only after tying them in place just above her knees did she address the Limbless in the room, or rather, Lockwood’s coat.

Could he possibly feel the same for her? She was so used to making exceptions for herself, reasons to be overlooked and cast aside, that she’d never considered what might catch the eye of someone like Lockwood. 

She recalled his somber, burning eyes as he bade her goodnight, the kiss upon her knuckles. Perhaps…perhaps if he saw something in her, something wonderful, something lovely even…then, maybe she could try to see it too. Though hardly a great confidence in herself, it was nevertheless a start. If she couldn’t yet love herself fully, she could try to do so in pieces. 

Moving gingerly to avoid aggravating her foot, Lucy hefted the coat in her arms, smiling fondly at the memories of time spent together that the plasm burns evoked. A new blemish caught her eye. Lucy ran a finger over the frayed seam along the underarm, the silk lining gaping away from the wool. 

“Oh Lockwood,” she murmured, for the tear was far along, not a single night’s work, but several. She wondered which of their cases had caused it, remembering the countless times he’d leapt and lunged and shielded her from an attack, heedless of his own safety and apparently the state of his garments. Not that she was any better. 

Fishing her small indigo cotton hussif from one of the vanity drawers, she sank down at the end of her bed. She couldn’t very well return it to him torn. Though tempted to claim that she owed it to him by some turn of logic, her own words came back to her.

There is no debt.

She wanted to mend it for him, to show him the same kindness that he had shown her. Because, deep within her soul, in that mysterious, liminal place between spirit and sinew, she knew simply that she loved him.

The melody from her dream tarried in her thoughts, and she hummed it to herself as her gaze fell to the black and grey tatters piled messily on the armchair; what was left of the dresses from her old life. She glanced down at the tear again, a thoughtful smile playing across her lips.

Lucy unrolled the hussif. She wasn’t the best at constructing clothing, but she could mend suitably well, and the wear and tear of fighting ghosts demanded the skill. She snipped a long strip of slate-blue silk from a ruined dress and pinned it over the hole in the lining, then joined the fabrics with careful whipstitches of silk thread, binding down the edges. Making the coat hale and whole.

Lockwood’s face, the expression he wore when he thought she couldn’t see, swam before her eyes. Troubled, careworn. Missing his family. She imagined she was repairing his heart at the same time, patching up the rend with fabric and threads salvaged from her own, her nimble fingers dancing against his strong chest.

Lucy’s needle stuttered. The memory of Lockwood without his shirt surfaced at the forefront of her mind; slim, lean, muscles straining as he pushed himself up, inadvertently meeting her touch. His body was firm and unyielding where hers was soft and pliable, and she wondered what it would be like to be able to feel more. His arms around her, holding her at night, bracing his weight over her as he branded her neck with openmouthed, untamed kisses…

She stabbed the fabric so hard she almost put the needle through her finger. Her cheeks burned guiltily as she tried to dismiss the intimate scene. Curse her dream for suggesting that he might desire her in a such a way, for encouraging her to yearn for him. They’d made no agreement, exchanged no vows. A man of his standing and wealth choosing a poor governess as a bride seemed a fairy tale, and as much as she loved to paint the fantastical, it wasn’t reality. Her reality, anyway.

The patch secure, Lucy knotted the thread and snipped the ends. It would hold, at least until the next time Lockwood overextended his reach or caught it on something sharp. She bundled the coat up in her arms, cradling it like a child. Winter approached like a swift-moving Phantasm, reaching out with wispy, grasping fingers, already chilling Thornfield’s residents to the bone. She had to return it to him.

Traversing the halls, however, was a challenge. Lucy’s injured foot twinged with a dull pain, and her body instinctively shifted her weight to her good foot, so that she hobbled noticeably. She adjusted her gait to hide it and stopped at Lockwood’s room, peering within.

Of course he wasn’t there; he said he wouldn’t be. But she had to see the damage in full light. The bed, a gnarled, blackened, sodden thing now, made her stomach turn. How close he’d been to never waking again. How close she’d been to losing him.

Lucy shook off the prickling shiver that tumbled down her spine. Lockwood would most likely be at breakfast; she headed in that direction.

Lockwood bounded up the stairs, a heavily-laden breakfast tray in hand and anticipation bubbling in his chest. He’d decided to let Lucy catch up on well-deserved sleep, but now noon crept nearer, and he figured she might be waking and discovering she was famished.

Rounding the corner, he skidded to a stop so quickly that the toasted bread was almost lost. A squeak assailed his ears.

Lucy was standing there, eyes wide and a coat—his coat—drawn up under her chin.

“Sorry! I, erm, thought you might like breakfast.”

“Oh, that was kind of you.” Lucy’s grip loosened on the coat, and she held it out to him. “I would have brought it to you sooner, but the lining needed mending.”

Lockwood smiled, touched by the gesture. “You shouldn’t have troubled yourself.”

“It wasn’t any trouble. I was happy to do it.”

“Thank you, truly.”

They stood there a beat longer, Lockwood with the tray and Lucy with the coat, unsure of how to trade off.

“Perhaps we can adjourn to the drawing room?” Lockwood suggested. 

“Alright.” Following his cue, Lucy went on ahead.

 Something odd in the way she moved snared Lockwood’s attention. He watched closely, half convinced he’d imagined it until Pilot careened down the hall, bumping into her side and bestowing slobbery kisses on her hand so enthusiastically that she crashed into the doorframe of the drawing room. She threw her full weight on her injured foot to steady herself and inhaled sharply.

Lockwood frowned as he set the tray on the table by her favorite armchair. “That cut was much too deep. You shouldn’t be on your feet.”

“There’s too much to do,” Lucy countered. Her act no longer effective, she staggered toward the fire. “Adèle’s waiting for me to begin her schooling.”

“She’s with Holly; I told them there would be a delay today.” Lockwood took his coat and threw it over the other chair, exposing the lining. He brushed his thumb over the blue silk patch, realizing with a surge of affection that it would be close to his heart when he wore it.

Lucy reached for the arm of her chair to help lower herself down, but Lockwood was already there, offering his arm, his hand for stability. Lucy accepted both, their fingers entwining so thoroughly that it was a process to separate them after.

“There you are, Lucy!” George strode in and plopped down unexpectedly on the floor next to her, as if the Persian rug was far more superior of a seat than the rest of the furniture. He produced a small tin, popping it open to reveal a salve that was scented strongly with aloe and calendula. “I concocted this tincture myself. It should speed up the healing process considerably.”

“I told him about what happened last night,” Lockwood explained, settling in his chair. “The smoke smell was still quite strong this morning.”

“It’s the other foot, and I already cleaned it,” Lucy protested when George started unlacing one of her boots.

George snorted and switched feet. “That’s all good and well if you want to risk infection and wait ages for it to heal.” He was uncharacteristically quiet for a moment. “You saved Lockwood’s life, apparently.”

“No less than anyone else would have done.” Lucy shrugged.

“Well I was sleeping like a rock, and Holly is on another floor, so…thank you.”

George had a predetermined tone for each person he interacted with based on how well he got on with them, and though Lucy’s had once been stiff, glacial, it seemed to have thawed, shifting into a semblance of amiability.

Lockwood raised an eyebrow. Lucy saving his life had, apparently, earned George’s respect. The development pleased Lockwood immensely; he dearly hoped she would remain with them for quite some time to come.

George removed the boot and paused. “Your stocking, if you would.”

Lucy modestly reached up under her skirts, untied the ribbon fastening her stocking, and slipped it off.

George made no fanfare about grasping her heel and lifting it, oblivious to the scandalous view of her bare calf he revealed. Lockwood, however, attempted to avert his eyes. What he had seen of that leg the night before, combined with her nightgown and loosely-bound hair, had almost been enough to unravel him. She was put together in the usual appropriate trappings now, and they weren’t alone, but his mind flitted back to how she’d looked then, undone, in his room, the grey haze from the fire curling around her. He cleared his throat and busied himself with pouring tea.

Lucy winced when George applied the salve, but relaxed as he worked his magic. He deftly bandaged her arch when he was done. Instead of putting the stocking and boot back on, he rested her foot on a stool close to the hearth, pulling her skirt down to help warm her.

“Aeration is better,” he explained.

Lockwood breathed in relief and sipped his tea. He shouldn’t be this driven to distraction by something as innocuous as an exposed leg. As children he’d seen Holly’s when they’d traipsed through the stream together in search of frogs, and recently when she’d been caught in a rainstorm and stripped her stockings off by the drawing room fire so they could hang to dry.

But he didn’t love Holly.

Sunlight speared through the mullioned windows, illuminating his revelation as if it had been sent by a divinity. The gilded light stroked the fullness of Lucy’s cheek, the curve of her lips as she smiled while talking to George about the plants he’d used in the tincture. As revelations go, it wasn’t particularly life-changing; it was a comfortable knowing, a warmth that filled his chest and radiated through his bones. 

He loved Lucy Carlyle. 

If he was being wholly honest, he’d known it from the moment he’d laid eyes on her in the forest, this untamed, unearthly woman. 

It wasn’t simply that she was to him loveliness embodied, though swathed in her blues, the soft roundness of her form reminded Lockwood of a Neoclassic naiad, and the depths of his attraction to her were so that it left him unmoored; it was every bright colour that composed her spirit, though he’d yet to discover every facet. Met first with her ferocity in the forest, he discovered her brimming with courage and kindness in equal measure in all their weeks after. Blunt in her honesty, she’d proved herself unafraid to challenge him whenever she believed it right, and he adored her for it. Her perspective of the world was so different from his own and he ached to hear more of it, to be entrusted with the past she kept so close to her chest. He saw its echoes in her hesitance to trust, the wariness with which she studied George, even as she let herself be cautiously drawn into their conversation. More than once, however, she cast her gaze Lockwood’s way, as if seeking assurance that he remained in the room, flushing when she caught him staring. After the fourth or fifth iteration of this, George fixed Lockwood with a stern look, clearly perturbed that his theory of hybridization of ephedra strains didn’t hold the same level of fascination as the gentleman it had most recently healed.

“I’ve got to get back to the laboratory,” George finally huffed. “Nothing funny from you. That foot requires at least a few days rest.”

George left at his usual trundle, and Lockwood wondered if everyone at Thornfield saw what his friend had gleaned in the play of his features.

And if they did, had Lucy noticed and even now guessed his intentions?

Her brow was furrowed when he met her questioning gaze. “What did he mean?”

“No idea,” Lockwood said quickly, making a show of peering out the window to hide the embarrassment stoked in his cheeks, frowning at the sight of an unfamiliar carriage blackening the drive. A team of chestnuts stood at its fore, ruddy coats agleam. “George is brilliant, but it’s next to impossible to get a straight answer from him at times.”

“I suppose he’s not quite the ape I thought he was when we first met.”

Chuckling, Lockwood turned away from the window, wishing he’d seen the tongue-lashing firsthand. He crossed to the mantle of the fireplace. “He told me about that. Between you and me, saving my life last night has tipped the scale in your favour.”

“How lucky am I,” she deadpanned, but he didn’t miss the flush of delight that suffused her cheeks. “However, I wish you’d stop saying that. I only did what any decent person would do.”

“Ah, but you were mortally wounded in the act. That I can never forget.”

Nor the memory of her caress last night, travelling from his stomach up to his cheek, ready kindling for his fantasies. He hadn’t slept a jot afterwards, his thoughts running high and febrile. But he wished for no antidote. It was far, far too late for that.

He snatched up one of his parents’ ghost catchers from the mantle, turning it over in his hands to distract his treacherous heart. “At the rate things are going, we’ll have to start calling you Saint Lucy.”

“Stop that.” But though she’d tucked her lips into a thin line, Lockwood glimpsed the smile she’d hidden between. Such a simple pleasure, teasing her, yet a giddy orb of warmth expanded in his chest. 

Absently, she’d begun to play with a tendril of hair curling against her nape. 

Vividly, he imagined her in his room, perched at the vanity they’d share, arranging those long locks. Coming up behind her, tugging the brush from her hand. Veiling her neck with slow, guileful kisses. Drawing from her rosebud mouth desperate, delirious sighs. Seducing pins from braids, hooks from eyes, ribbons from stockings…

He clenched his hand into fist, and when he released it, banished the vision in its wake. “As you wish.”

Her smile bloomed with her blush. 

Never before had he had to contend with the ache of this peculiar wanting. Having once scoffed at other men who’d been brought to their knees for desire of a woman, he was humbled by the power of a loose tawny strand had over him, how the sight of a bare ankle or the delicate brush of pink set aflame the fervor in his blood.

He loved her, plain and simple. 

And god , he wanted her. 

A knock sounded at the door, startling him from his reverie. “Lockwood, we have a problem.”

He exchanged a swift glance with Lucy. “Not a new haunting?”

“Worse.” Holly stormed into the parlour, features pinched as she announced. “The esteemed Penelope Fittes to see you."

Chapter Text

Lockwood set the ghost catcher down with a discordant chime. “Damn it all.”

“I’ve cajoled her to the ground floor parlour.” Holly gave Lockwood a fortifying nod, swatting invisible specks from her apron. He only wished they could be rid of Penelope just as easily. “The usual runabout?”

“Plan C?”

She grimaced. “I fear we might need Plan F for this one.”

Lucy frowned between them. “What’s Plan F?” 

“George’s idea,” Lockwood murmured, mind working frantically to puzzle out an escape route. “Works better when you’ve done the inviting and not the other way around.”

“This has gone on long enough,” Holly insisted. 

If he could manage to lose Penelope in the portrait gallery…

The idea hit him like one of George’s haywire experiments, with a pop and a bang and cloud of clarity. He snapped his fingers, the threads of an idea weaving together to form a plan as he spun to face Lucy. 

“Lucy.” A disbelieving laugh escaped him. “It’s perfect!”

Brows furrowed, she blinked rapidly up at him. “Plan F?” 

“Never mind Plan F. I’ve had my fill of fire for a while yet, Greek or otherwise.” 

“Great Jehosophat, here we go again.”

Lockwood ignored Holly, sinking to a crouch before Lucy. Level, she stared directly into his eyes, brows climbing. 

“Before I ask, I assure you that you can tell me ‘no.’”

“Of course I can.” Confusion lent a bite to the words, a squall in those mercurial blues. “I’m my own person.”

“And it’ll change nothing between us,” he continued. 

“I should hope not. It would make our arrangement rather awkward.”

“But you’d be doing me a massive favour if you did, and I swear I’ll make it up to you tenfold. Holly,” he said, unable to tear his gaze away from the storm trapped between her lashes, “my mother’s ring. Can you fetch it?”

“Your mother’s… Lockwood . What in God’s name are you planning?”

The storm in Lucy’s eyes broke. Clarity made her eyes go round. “Lockwood…”

“Pretend to be my betrothed,” he said softly, all in a rush before he lost his nerve. 

“Pretend…” Lucy made an odd, choked sound, and Lockwood rushed to lift her cooled tea to her lips, but she only waved it away. 

“Dear me,” Holly mused, leaning her shoulder against the door jamb. “Should I give the two of you a moment?” 

Lockwood spared her half a glance, long enough to scowl. “Just get the ring.”

“If you insist…”

“You…want me to pretend we’re engaged?” Lucy squeaked, soft as a field mouse when Holly left. He’d never heard that particular tone of hers, and didn’t know what to make of it, only that Lucy Carlyle was no mouse.

“That is the generally accepted meaning of betrothed, yes.” He flopped down in the chair across from her, slumping low as he steepled his fingers in thought. “If Ms Fittes thinks I’m taken, then maybe then she’ll finally stop bothering me.”

“Are you sure this is a good idea?”

What a question. If only she knew. “Well, it is my idea, so I think it’s marvelous. But,” he bit his lip, watching her. “You don’t have to do it if you don’t want to.” 

In the middle of reaching for her boot, she speared him with an aggravated look. “Of course I’m helping. I’m just thinking of logistics. She’ll want to know who my family is.”

“The um…” Aware of their borrowed time, the harpy in the parlour, he racked his brain. His knee began to bounce as he shifted through lists of gentry. “How about the Carmichaels from Northumberland? It’ll explain the accent.”

“Carmichael.”

“Ah. You raise a good point there.”

“I don’t have an accent,” she muttered to herself, crossing her arms over her chest. “I would’ve thought they’d beat it out of me at Lowood.”

He stilled his rapid jog, staring at her. Disquiet filled the space between them. Lucy seemed to realise her blunder and dropped her gaze to her hands. 

Lockwood swallowed down a vicious curse, forcing his voice to remain even. “They hit you?” 

“Uh…I mean…it’s not how it sounds, really. It was just a birch switch.”

Something of a growl escaped him, more wolven than human. “Lucy, that’s exactly what it sounds like.”

She shrugged. “The point is, I don’t have an accent.”

Hesitating, Lockwood reached for her tangled hands, wishing sorely he could take her in his arms and heal her every heartache, soothe all the places the world had beaten and bruised her, show her what it was to be cherished and loved. 

“Yes, you do.” He swept his thumb over her knuckles, cleared the gravel from his throat. “Don’t worry; it’s utterly charming. If those imbeciles at Lowood couldn’t see that, then they didn’t deserve you. Now, how about Wintergarden? Wintergarden’s a fine name, and there’s a least one or two of them left this side of Scotland.”

“Sure, whatever you think.” Lucy mumbled, lashes cast low, still clearly flustered. “What am I even supposed to do?"

“Nothing untoward,” he assured her, fishing into his pocket with his free hand. “Just keep looking as beautiful as ever and leave the rest to me.” 

“But I’m not…” 

“Well I was deciding between ethereal and ravishing, but we don’t want to blind the old girl, now do we?” Flipping her hand over, he pressed his sister’s old pocket watch into her palm, wrapping her fingers lightly around the disk. “Rescue me in…shall we make it fifteen minutes? That’s about as much of Penelope that I can stand at present.”

“I…” Uncertainty flickered over her face. But after a moment, she pushed her shoulders back, meeting his daring with her own. “I’m ready when you are.”

Beaming, he brought her fist to his lips, thrilling at her startled little chirrup. He fantasised for a moment that his plan amounted to more than a farce, that she was truly his betrothed. His fellow conspirator, as half-mad as he was, their partnership sealed with a brief but burning kiss upon her mouth…

He released her, retreating to the door before desire overwhelmed virtue. But before disappearing he couldn’t help permit himself a merry wink.

“I knew I could count on you, Luce.”

“Anthony!” Penelope fell upon him in a rustle of green sateen as soon as he crossed the parlour threshold. 

“Ms Fittes,” he said mildly, his smile hardening to a rictus as he mimed kissing the air above her hand, patently wishing for the smaller, wiry one he’d held and caressed just moments before. “What an unexpected pleasure.” It took a considerable effort not to lay a fair bit of stress on the unexpected bit.

“Pshaw.” Her playful slap landed lightly upon his shoulder. “I’ve asked you countless times to call me Penelope.” She pouted up at him, though their heights were not dissimilar, fluttering her long, full lashes. She’d yet to remove her hand, lingering over the silver embroidery of his frock coat. As ever, when they met, she squandered no opportunity to touch him, poking and prodding and petting until he wanted to crawl out of his own skin. Her perusal wandered to his sky-blue cravat, her voice to a sultry purr. “Are we not dear friends?”

“I’m afraid Mother was always quite adamant on how I was to address a fine lady such as yourself. Old habits and all.” Mother had said no such thing, but Penelope needn’t know that. 

He borrowed some of her snake oil charm, letting it ooze into his stiffened smile as he spun gracefully from her hold, gesturing at one of the armchairs. “Sit, please. We’ve much to catch up on.”

“And whose fault is that, Anthony?” She teased. “Holed up here instead. Why, you’ve practically become a recluse. What in the world have you been up to at Thornfield?” Penelope draped instead across one of the settees, arranging her emerald skirts around her like an ivy vine. Like the plant, Lockwood had no doubt the gown had been chosen to trap and ensnare, and dutifully kept his gaze on the bridge of her strong, aquiline nose rather than the low sweep of decolletage. He refused to be goaded.

Fifteen minutes to wipe that smug little smirk off her face.

Lucy was coming.

“I’m afraid I’ve had my hands positively tied with all the Visitors cropping up between Thornfield and Hathersage,” he said.

“You really ought to employ those village urchins. I’ve been using them since last April, and you’d be amazed by how industrious they are once offered a bit of food and coin. Quite economical, if I do say so myself, though their families work up to quite a fuss whenever one of them is ghost-touched.” She heaved a dramatic sigh. Lockwood grit his teeth, feeling an uncomfortable heat prickling beneath his cravat as Penelope went on. “Honestly, what do they expect with that line of work? Everyone knows the risks.” 

His gaze snapped from her nose to the raven eyes that watched him, cold even as they meant to enkindle. “They’re children , Ms Fittes. ” 

Hardly older than Adèle.

Hardly older, he suspected, than Lucy had been, when she’d been so cruelly pressed into service. The thought of either of them forced into labour so young, faced with the unholy terrors of the night, made him sick to his stomach. 

The feeling only increased as a quicksilver vision darted across his mind’s eye. A sweet-faced girl and a wiry boy, sharing umber locks and storm-riven eyes.

How could he abandon the needs of the Hathersage children when his own would’ve faced the same fate, had their circumstances been reversed?

How could he stand tall and sure in front of Lucy when others suffered through his own mismanagement and inaction in the face of Penelope’s machinations?

“I wish you would’ve consulted me before employing them,” he said evenly. “The master of Thornfield Hall has a duty to defend the people of Hathersage from all threats, be they supernatural or…” He allowed his eyes to sweep over her once, unimpassioned. “Domestic.”

A flash of fury barely concealed. 

Then a long, drawn-out beat. Lockwood could practically see the chessman shuffling about behind her ebony curls. 

He bristled as a saccharine giggle spilled from Penelope’s lips. 

“You’re too amusing, Anthony. Sentiment is all well and good for a sampler, but it’ll get you nowhere in the world. A good wife would counsel practicality in these matters, and it’s past time you’ve chosen. Times are so uncertain and the good people of Hathersage require direction and stability. Besides,” she added with a smirk, “we ladies have simply been longing for your company.”

The wife he so desperately wanted would stand by his side in his decision, extending her own hands to the poor and downtrodden.

Furtive, he sought out the parlour clock. 

Damnation. 

Only five measly minutes had elapsed.

Lucy’s rescue couldn’t come soon enough. 

The sun was elusive, shielding its face with a veil of clouds like a shy bride. Lucy, on the other hand, was mildly vexed; she’d wanted to properly study the ring Holly had brought her. The gold band had slid onto her finger easily, to both of their surprise; a perfect fit. Holly had murmured something about it being a sign before going to join Lockwood and Penelope, leaving Lucy with pink-tipped ears.

Lucy busied herself with studying her surroundings while she waited. There was a portrait on the wall opposite depicting Lockwood’s parents—Donald and Celia, she’d learned they were named—and young Jessica and Anthony, as he was then. Dark hair, bright, dark eyes, and angular features were family traits. One would never guess from their cheerful faces that tragedy awaited them in the future, and Lockwood would be the sole survivor, the empty shadows of his family stretching over him.

Lucy’s thumb rubbed absentmindedly over the diamond of Celia’s ring. An unfamiliar, wild joy bubbled up within her chest, eradicating all worries, all nerves. She was marrying the love of her life today, her Donald, the handsomest man in the county, full of vigor and wit and warmth. She couldn’t wait to start their lives together, have children, grow old…

Lucy checked the pocket watch, doing her best to focus on the delicate silver hands. It was time. Still infused with emotions that weren’t hers, she strode into the parlor, swaying slightly to keep the weight off her foot, which may have been misconstrued as a confident gait. It was surely Celia’s confidence bolstering her that convinced her to sit directly beside Lockwood, to take his hand and entwine their fingers, to place a single chaste kiss on his cheek. “Sorry I was late, darling.” While Lockwood stared at her in shock, eyebrows rising into the lock of hair that flopped beguilingly over his forehead, Lucy turned to Penelope. “Mrs Fittes, isn’t it? My betrothed has told me so much about you.” She smiled innocently.

Penelope looked unwell, her mouth opening and closing like a fish. “Your…betrothed?”

Lucy nodded and slipped her arm through Lockwood’s, making sure her ring was on display. The sun was kind to her at that moment, perhaps believing her to be a fellow bride, and dappled the sofa, catching the brilliant facets of the diamond.

“I was not aware there was such an arrangement,” Penelope said icily, regaining her composure.

“He only just proposed a few days ago,” Lucy explained.

“Did he now, Miss…I’m sorry, I failed to hear your name.”

“Wintergarden. Lucy Wintergarden.”

“Wintergarden? Of the London Wintergardens?” Penelope quizzed.

Lucy wasn’t sure if the ring’s psychic power was diminishing or if the sensation of Lockwood’s lean yet defined bicep addled her senses, but the words scattered before her. It didn’t help that he was turning his face towards hers, so close she could smell the tea leaves on his breath, and she wondered what it might be like to have a taste…

“Er, no, not them” was all she could get out.

“Northumberland. You wouldn’t know these Wintergardens,” Lockwood said suddenly, finding his voice. At the same time he discovered Lucy's hand and clasped his over it, his fingertips exploring, mapping her skin.

Penelope’s sharp eyes flashed with indignation over these intimate gestures. “Are they landed? Gentry, perhaps?”

“My father was a merchant, but he’s passed on now,” Lucy supplied.

“A very successful one,” Lockwood added, implying that Lucy had her own inherited fortune and wasn’t after his.

“Hmm.” The sharp eyes narrowed.

Lucy felt them slicing through her, scraping within at her soul, searching for falsehood. Something within her cowered back, remembering another unwelcome presence that had sought entrance to her mind…

“When will the wedding be?” Penelope said at last.

“Shortly after Christmas,” Lockwood decided quickly.

“So soon? Any…particular reason?”

“We’re in love.” Lucy hadn’t fabricated that detail; at least, for her.

“Interesting. Well then, you must have a Christmas ball to celebrate the impending nuptials. Our friends will surely want to meet the object of your affection, Anthony.” Penelope offered a simpering smile.

Lucy’s instinct to be on her guard kicked in, though she wasn’t sure what game the woman could be playing. Regardless, Lucy wasn’t fond of large social gatherings. She tried to communicate this to Lockwood with her eyes.

“Holly had just suggested that to me, actually,” Lockwood said.

Damn it all , Lucy thought.

Holly and George gaped at each other in surprise.

“Excellent! Well, I’ll leave you two lovebirds to prepare for…everything.” As Penelope made her grand exit, Lucy noticed her gaze falling in the region of Lucy’s stomach, and was positive she’d spilled tea or smeared clotted cream on her dress there. Yet investigation revealed there was no blemish.

“A ball?? Funny, I don’t remember discussing that with you,” Holly said to Lockwood once Penelope was well and truly gone. She crossed her arms. “Do you know how much work I’ll have to do? You’ve been using the ballroom for fencing practice and storage!”

“Ah, I’d forgotten.” Lockwood grinned sheepishly. “I’m sorry, I just thought it would be nice for Lucy to experience a proper Thornfield ball.”

“I hate balls. Posh people and small talk are two of my least favorite things,” Lucy interjected.

“Oh.” Lockwood suddenly looked uncomfortable. “Well then, I’ll just explain to Penelope that we won’t be able to do it.”

Lucy shook her head. “I doubt she’d let you off that easily. You’ll have to host the ball.”

“Nonsense.”

“It would be bad form, Lockwood,” Holly said. She laced her arm through George’s. “I’m pressing you into service, George.”

“What is this, the Royal Navy?”

“Worse. Besides, half of the storage is your experiments. Which, I might add, tend to leave residue on the floor and walls whenever they explode.”

George groaned, dragging his feet as they headed in the direction of the aforementioned ballroom.

“Lucy I really am sorry.” Lockwood settled beside her on the sofa again. “I didn’t mean for you to have to keep playing the role of my betrothed.”

“Oh I don’t mind that,” Lucy blurted out, then blushed. She looked down at Celia’s ring, still merrily sparkling in the sunlight, and felt a strange thrill at continuing its ownership, if only for a bit longer. She allowed herself the brief daydream of a world in which the engagement was real, and she truly was marrying Lockwood shortly after Christmas. A world where he’d hold her hands as they promised their lives to each other, and he’d kiss her passionately afterward, when they were ensconced in their room, and have no reason to stop.

“It’s not a displeasing arrangement,” Lockwood murmured.

Lucy must have imagined the way his eyes dropped to her lips, eyelashes brushing sweetly against his cheekbones, before they returned her gaze. There was an intimacy in them that she rarely saw directed elsewhere, though she didn’t know what it was based on. Their friendship? Shared experiences? Or something more…

“Lucy, what if we—”

“Oh, I nearly forgot about Adèle! Her lessons have been delayed long enough,” Lucy exclaimed. She could use a diversion from her wishful thinking.

“Ah, yes, right. Lucy—” Lockwood reached out, two of his fingers hooking hers, latching them together for a moment.

Lucy’s breath caught. “Yes?”

“Make sure you stay off that injured foot as much as possible, alright?”

“I will.”

“Good.” Lockwood smiled broadly and released her, then stood. “Well, I should probably go help Holly and George.”

“Yes, you should; I remember you left the practice rapiers in a heap last time we sparred.” Lucy’s heart jumped at the memory. He’d corrected her stance, one hand ghosting over her hip while the other directed her grip on her sword, his breath feathering over the nape of her neck, making the hairs of her skin stand on end. He’d dispensed with his cravat, and she’d watched as his Adam’s apple bobbed, observed the dewy sweat glistening over it, felt the radiant warmth of his body so close to hers. Now that she’d seen him without his shirt, her mind was crafting an image of what his muscles might have looked like underneath, rippling with effort and strength.

“An excellent point. That had entirely slipped my mind.”

“Of course it did; you never tidy up after yourself.”

“So Holly reminds me religiously.” Lockwood grinned like a naughty boy who knew he could get out of a tongue-lashing just by being charming. It often worked on Lucy, but never on Holly.

“Good luck,” Lucy said, the corner of her lip curling.

“And you with Adèle. I’m sure I shall be kept captive until dinner, so until then, my betrothed.” Lockwood kissed her hand with exaggerated flourish, meaning for it to be in jest. But his breath was uneven, and hers nonexistent, and both parted in a daze.

Chapter Text

After dinner, Adèle announced with much theatrical dismay that Sophie’s bedtime reading was horrendously lacking, as she refused to do special voices for the characters, and begged her Uncle’s immediate remedy of the situation. Lockwood looked on in amusement as the child perused her bookshelf with special care, clad in her long white nightgown and rag curls. When, at last, she selected the volume of fairy tales George had brought home from London, she climbed upon her bed and patted the space beside her most grandly. Lockwood had barely begun to narrate the tale when Adèle sat up very straight, a curious light in her dark eyes. She pronounced, with all the ceremony of their Queen Victoria, that Lucy’s assistance was not only requested, but absolutely necessary. 

Lockwood hedged, hesitated. Much as the intimate scene stirred the coals of his desire, he thought of her injury, the weariness that appeared in crescents beneath her eyes. 

“But she promised she would,” Adèle pleaded. “Today in lessons. She said so, Uncle Anthony.”

Minutes later, for the girl would not be swayed, a tentative knock echoed through the door. Nerves awhirl, Lockwood sprang to his feet, flushing at his niece’s giggles as he tripped over a run in the carpet. He caught himself just as the knob turned, and Lucy appeared in the doorway. As though magicked through the fingers of a fairy, time slowed, then moved persistently backwards. 

She’d taken his breath when she appeared in the parlour, all flinted, flashing eyes. She’d taken what was left of his mind when she bestowed his cheek with that kiss, fleet as a comet, but trailing molten desire in its wake. Though certain…or, rather, very nearly certain that it was only his imagination, the kiss burned hot as a live coal, never abating. Throughout the remains of the day, he couldn’t help but brush his fingers across the spot. Deluded by some great naïveté, Lockwood had previously thought he’d spent the last two months under her spell, but knew that it was nothing compared to the power she wielded now with only this chaste kiss. No matter how many times he told himself she hadn’t meant it, that it was only a pin with which to needle Penelope’s ego, his heart would not believe it. And here she stood before him, tendrils of caramel strands wafting around her face, dancing over those sweetly burning lips. How in God’s name was he to remain in her presence without buckling beneath the weight of it, happy to be crushed? 

“May I come in?” Lucy asked, and time reverted to its natural course. Her gaze dipped over him, his shirtsleeves and waistcoat, and Lockwood found himself standing taller, showing off his form to full advantage. Thinking only he’d be reading to his niece, he’d removed his frock coat, and well... 

It should be criminal, what her shy admiration made of his insides. 

Lockwood slid a glance Adèle’s way. Though her posture was prim as could be, she wore a smirk that would put a fox to shame. 

That little terror.

“To read the story?” Lucy added, a wrinkle appearing between her brow.

“Er, yes, of course.” Lockwood shook himself free of the thrall of memory, stepping aside, his smile stiff and starched within an inch of his life.

He tried to catch Lucy’s eye as they sat down beside the girl, a mindful metre apart, but Lucy kept her face expertly averted, cheeks pinked. Seemingly unaware of the tension strung over her head, Adèle opened her book, pointing not to ‘Rumpelstiltskin,’ as Lockwood had previously begun, but a tale he did not recognise titled, ‘The Princess in Disguise.’ With another furtive but unreturned glance at Lucy, Lockwood cleared his throat.

“'A king once had a wife with golden hair who was so beautiful that none on earth could be found to equal her…'”

So began the odd and disturbing tale from the Brothers Grimm. Lockwood's brows rose higher and higher as it told of a king maddened by his grief and the promise he’d made to his dead wife; that he would not marry again unless the woman was both as beautiful as she and possessed a mane of golden hair. Though he sent his men far and wide, there was none to equal his deceased wife. Finally, after many years, the king laid eyes upon one who met with his wife’s stipulation; his very own daughter.

“Adèle,” Lockwood said after it was clear that the king would not be swayed from his wicked scheme. “Perhaps we should—”

“No!” She insisted, nose scrunched up with delighted disgust. “I want to know what happens.”

“Luce,” he applied to her sense, dismayed. “This can’t be appropriate.”

She merely shrugged, finally looking his way. “We’ve already discussed King Henry’s wives as well as the various scandals of the kings. This isn’t so different.”

“Divorced, beheaded, died, divorced, beheaded, survived,” came the giggling singsong from between them. 

Though Lockwood looked at her askance, Lucy only folded her hands in her lap. Her smile grew with his bewilderment, and he had the sudden, wild urge to lean in and pluck it from her rosebud lips. Struck by the thought, the kiss still on his cheek tingled, glittering with stardust. God, to have been alone with her just then. To have belonged to her…

Not now , he chastened his wayward thoughts, hiding behind his blandest of smiles as Lucy scooted closer to read the following passage. Lavender water teased his nose, far more potent than it had been at dinner, and he couldn’t help but wonder if she’d applied it to her pulse points before coming to Adèle’s room. For her own desire, or perhaps…

“‘Before I consent to your wish,’” Lucy spoke as the princess to her father, her tone placating. “'I shall require three things—a dress as golden as the sun, another as silvery as the moon, and a third as glittering as the stars, and besides all this, I shall require a mantle made of a thousand skins of rough fur sewn together, and every animal in the kingdom must give a piece of his skin towards it.’”

Adèle wriggled her shoulders in discomfort, being a great lover of animals wild and domestic, but soon fell under the spell of Lucy’s brogue. Though the princess thought she’d spun a scheme of four impossible tasks, her father’s hedonism would not be swayed. When at last she saw that she had no choice but to flee, the princess painted her skin with dye made from the bark of a walnut tree and packed her three celestial dresses into one of its shells. Donning the mantle of skins, she took with her a ring, a miniature spinning wheel and a hook from her jewelry box, all made of pure gold. In the dead of night she left the only home she’d ever known and travelled many hours, disappearing into the depths of a large wood.

“‘It happened on this very day that the king to whom the wood belonged was hunting in the forest…'”

That cerulean gaze touched his, and Lucy paused, the words on the page seeming to have escaped her. Lockwood wondered if she too was thinking of their first meeting. He’d been plagued by one moment in particular; when her slight, yielding body lay beneath his, her hair tumbling around them in coppery ribbons. Memory became fantasy in his revisits of the scene, the tall, dead grasses, a nest of eiderdown, her dress and cloak diminished to gauze and white lace, their breaths ragged from rapture rather than recent violence. He’d thought of nothing else that afternoon, distracted by her kiss and their lie. Every longing glance and absent touch they’d shared, the deliberate way she’d clutched his arm that afternoon—surely he hadn’t misread her. Surely what she felt for him was more than the fondness of friendship.

For there was nothing for it but to marry her, if she’d consent to have him. 

He’d made a bungle of things, that was abundantly clear. What had seemed only this morning to be a neat remedy to the plague that was Penelope Fittes now became an outbreak of guilt, and shame welled up within him. To play the strings of her heart like this, even if she’d agreed to the scheme, was dishonourable.  

No matter how terribly awkward the result, he had to make this right.

“It’s your turn,” Lucy murmured, returning him smartly to the present. 

“Er, right,” he forced a laugh, but it fell flat as a badly tuned piano. Perspiration pricked the back of his neck, clammy beneath his collar. Hell, it’d been a terrible idea to share a bed with her, however innocent the reason.

“You’re not doing a very good job.” Adèle yawned, eyelids drooping as she sank deeper into her pillows.

“Hush, Adèle,” Lucy murmured, but without censure, absently stroking the girl’s crown. “Your uncle is tired.”

He wasn’t, not even in the slightest, not with visions of Lucy tangled in his sheets quickening his blood like nothing else. And not with the beginnings of a speech distracting him from the words on the page. Nevertheless, Lockwood accepted the tome from Lucy, continuing the tale. 

Disguised as she was, the young king took pity on the princess, and gave her a job in the palace kitchens. The servants, upon seeing odd appearance, named her Roughskin, allotting her the most unpleasant of duties, fetching the wood and drawing the water and sweeping the ashes from the hearth. For months she laboured in silent abasement, keeping her head down and her wits sharp. After a time, it came to pass that the king would throw three balls to commemorate the upcoming festival season.

“Like you are, Uncle Anthony.”

“I think Holly would murder me if I did that. One is plenty.”

The princess begged the cook to let her step outside long enough to see the guests arriving. Once she was free of all prying eyes, she washed the grime from her skin and donned the first dress, as golden as the sun.

‘My eyes have never seen any maiden before so beautiful as this,’ the king thought in his heart as he danced with her, left bewildered when she disappeared soon after. 

“Just like Miss Carlyle,” Adèle sighed dreamily.

“Don’t be silly.” Lucy huffed, fiddling with the lace at her cuffs.

Lockwood caught her eye, relishing how they widened at his wink. “She’s not wrong, Luce.”

Adèle giggled, snuggling close to his side. Lucy’s only response was a silent parting of her lips and a vivid rush of carmine across her nose. But she didn’t look away from him, instead searching his face intently as if she might uncover a falsehood if she studied him long enough. He willed her to believe him, to see herself as he did.

The princess, meanwhile, fled the ball, covering herself with her cloak of pelts once more. Upon returning to the kitchen, she was bade to cook the soup that would be delivered to the king. She did as she was told, except before the brew was poured, she set her gold ring in the bottom of the bowl. When the king discovered the gift, he sent for little Roughskin, but she denied any knowledge of the gift. Such as it was in fairytales, the pattern of gowns and secret gifts persisted. The moon dress was worn, the spinning wheel placed in the king’s soup, the action denied. Then the dress of stars, the golden hook hidden in her pocket, ready for that night’s trickery. Sometime in the retelling, Lockwood had taken to imagining the princess with tawny locks instead of gold, the iridescent gown refracting pale blue as she spun round in his arms.

“‘While they were dancing,’” Lucy sat so near to him now that with every absent movement, her skirts brushed his leg. “‘the king contrived, without being noticed by the maiden, to slip the gold ring on her finger, and he had given orders that the dancing should continue longer than usual. When it ended, he wanted to hold her hand still…’” 

She let out a soft gasp. Surprised, Lockwood looked down, finding her small hand cradled in his, a threadwork of scratches from their previous cases marring the creamy flesh. 

“Sorry,” he said, bemused even as he braided their fingers more securely. “Did I…?” 

“You were caught up in the story,” she whispered, nibbling her lower lip and enkindling a globe of heat in the depths of his stomach. Sweat prickled down his spine; his waistcoat strangled his ribs, squeezing out the air.

Soft snores snuffled into the pillows behind them, drawing their attention. Adèle lay sprawled beneath her quilts, less cherubic now and more reminiscent of the deep sea crustaceans he’d only seen in George’s books on oceanography, slack-jawed as she was. Lockwood grinned. How he loved the little girl. 

Unbidden, his study shifted to Lucy, discovering a tender light aglow between her lashes. Time again played her merry games, speeding them forward a year. Adèle would still beg them to read her stories, but when the tale came to an end, they would not depart to separate chambers but one of their own. When at last truly alone, he’d bundle her against his chest, finding her middle full and round, the kicks of their baby strong beneath his palms. How lovely she would look with child, radiant as she bloomed with the outward expression of their love. 

Sophie appeared from the adjoining room, rousing Lockwood from the daydream. With a sly, knowing glance at their entwined hands, the maid ushered them out into the hall. 

It was time. He had to tell her. Yet when he looked down upon her and opened his mouth, he found his hastily gathered speech jumbled.

“The night’s still young,” he said instead. “Walk with me? There’s something I’ve been meaning to show you.” 

A smile brushed her lips. “I’d like that.”

He tucked her captured hand in the crook of his arm and they set off through the halls, meeting only a servant or two on their route. Lit sconces sent ripples of firelight dancing over the portraits lining the walls, so that the eyes appeared to follow them as they silently passed over the runner. Lockwood felt the full regard of his ancestors, the weight of their censure. 

I’m trying , he wanted to protest. I’ll make it right by her, I swear it.

“So, um…” Lockwood ruffled the nape of his neck with his free hand, still at a loss as to where his glib tongue had wandered off to. “Any guesses how the story ends?”

“It’s hardly a guess; the princess marries the good king. Isn’t that how they all go?”

“Usually.” He cleared his throat. “Although, between you and me, the king was turning out to be a bit of an idiot, so I’m not sure how she would’ve fared in the end. But true love and all that.”

“Must be nice,” Lucy mused, and he definitely didn’t mistake the wistful pull of her mouth, the feathery weight of her lashes drifting over his face, more vulnerable than he’d ever seen before.

“Yes,” Lockwood whispered. “It sounds like some version of heaven. It’s in here, by the way.” Lockwood pushed through the darkened door, grinning as Lucy gasped in wonder. The moon spilled in through the glass front of the greenhouse, irising the petals of closed blooms and painting broad leaves with otherworldly pallor. 

“George has taken over most of it for all his experiments,” Lockwood explained as, entranced, Lucy drifted from his side, stepping from darkness into wintry white light. “But he keeps my mother’s gardens in order, so I try not to mind too much.” 

“Oh, it’s beautiful.” Lucy’s skirts fanned around her slippered feet as she gave a girlish spin, beaming with delight. “Like it’s from another world.” 

“Yours, princess?” He teased, unable to tear his gaze away as she ducked under leafy fronds and wove between the aisles, her happiness infectious. “Have you tricked me into following across the realms?”

At his jest, she laughed, bright and pure. “Perhaps. I’m beginning to see the appeal. You humans are so easy to trick after all.”

“Only because the Folk have never played fairly. You have us wholly at your mercy.” Lockwood brushed aside a tangle of vines to find her before a bush of night blooming jasmine, face tilted up to the stars far beyond the glass ceiling. “It’s a wonder we’ve survived this long.”

“And yet it was you who brought me here, not I,” she murmured, the mirth of a smile in her voice. “So what does that say about you, Lockwood?”

What indeed?

“Perhaps,” he said, plucking a sprig of lavender from one of the pots, twirling it between his fingers, “I wanted to be taken if it means that I might remain at your side.”

At the confession, Lucy lowered her head, a new, swifter cadence to her breath. “That doesn’t bode well for your sense of self-preservation. All the stories say the Folk are much more trouble than they’re worth.” The mirth dissipated from her words, and he knew she bared her own fears to him. He cursed the family and childhood that had stolen her sense of worth, that scuffed the mirror held to her so that she could not clearly see how truly remarkable her reflection was. He cursed himself for even suggesting that she was someone to be pretended with, to be offered love and family in jest, but not in reality. 

“I don’t care.” He approached her, bewitched by the workings of the moon, how lovingly it outlined her in silver, rendering her a celestial silhouette, no longer a fairy, but a being loftier and more resplendent. “One day there with you is worth a thousand here. I’d give it up gladly.” 

“What are you saying?” She whispered to the jasmine. Her shoulders bunched up to her ears as she wrapped her arms around her waist.

“I’m asking if you’d change your mind, Lucy.” He longed to alleviate her nerves with a touch, imagining that if he traced the slope of her shoulders, he’d sketch instead the length of a plume. That if he leaned nearer to taste the slender column of her neck, he might brush his cheek on feathery down. At his voice so near her ear, Lucy jumped and looked back at him, eyes growing large at his proximity. But she didn’t shy away. And when he reached for her hand, he found her already stretching out her fingers.

“About what?” She stared deep into his eyes, a warble to the question.

“Marriage. If it was for love. And if you trusted the man you chose. Would that change your mind?”

Please , he begged her silently. Please tell me there’s a chance.

Lucy had grown very still, save for her fingers that constricted around his, as though she meant to draw his strength into her flesh by sheer force. Lockwood stroked the back of her hand with his thumb, mindful of the scratches. For all she badgered him to take his doses of ephedra, she was really quite remiss in caring for all her collected wounds, however small they were. 

Finally she nodded her assent. “Yes. I…I think I would, in that case. If…” Her gaze lowered, caressing his mouth before settling on his chest. “If he were to declare himself.”

Lavender water, sweet temptation. The alchemy of spices on her skin, in his lungs. His mother’s ring gleamed on her finger, the words to make their engagement real, stuck to the roof of his mouth…

Lockwood grazed her cheek with his knuckles, longing to do so with his lips. Lucy swayed slightly, lashes fluttering as he tucked the sprig of lavender behind her ear. 

“Luce,” he breathed, loath to retreat, to let her go, now or ever. He traced the bevel of her jaw, impelled by the vice of her grip. A small, almost pained sound left her when he swept his thumb to the scar at her temple, made all the more piercing for how very small it was. His stomach snarled itself into knots, his intestines pulling taut. It reminded him of the panicked bent of her voice at the gristmill, caught in the echo of the dead woman’s flight. When, for a moment, he glimpsed the woman she kept locked behind the walls of her heart, delicate as porcelain. 

He pressed their entwined hands to his heart before stroking the scar once more. At her throat, her blood pulsed blue and swift. “What happened?” 

A ragged intake, drawn around china shards, and he felt the pain as though it was his own. “My cousin.” There, the wobble in her voice, the fissure in her stronghold. “John.”

If Lucy had never said another word about this man, Lockwood would have gleaned enough from the single utterance of his name to form his own opinion. Hatred and fear resonated in her voice.

She hesitated, her teeth worrying at her lip, likely deciding if she wanted to entrust him with the darkest pages of her past. “That particular mark was from a book I was reading, when we were younger. Technically it was his father’s, but as his heir John laid claim to it and…punished me for my insolence.”

Lockwood was speechless for a moment. For an object to leave such a permanent scar, great force would have had to be applied to it. His blood began to simmer at the thought. There were far stronger words he would have preferred to describe John with, but upbringing stilled his tongue in front of a lady. “That…that worm!” He hissed instead. That was a fair description, at any rate. A realization struck him. “You say ‘particular mark’ like it wasn’t the only instance.”

Lucy wouldn’t meet his gaze. “The rest aren’t where you can see.”

Before he could stop himself, Lockwood’s eyes roved over her, horrified by what her clothing might be hiding. He had no issue with scars—they both had their share of those from battling ghosts—but wounds caused by living flesh and blood, by a male cousin who should have been her protector from outside threats, would be more damaging to the mind. Was this why she occasionally flinched when he touched her? Her body remembering the blows, protecting itself against the possibility of more?

Anger surged through Lockwood, coursing around his tongue, vying for words too quickly for his brain to choose. “You shouldn’t have stayed there!”

Her head snapped up. Eyes dark as a violent tempest over the roiling sea, tears brimming. “Were I born a man I could have left.”

Lockwood cursed himself inwardly. “Oh God, that’s not what I meant—”

But Lucy was already releasing his hand and brushing past him, leaving him bereft. She swept down the aisles and slammed through one of the doors, plunging into the cold December dark.

Chapter Text

Fresh, stinging air filled Lucy’s lungs, and the tears trickling from the corners of her eyes turned to ice in the wind. Sense, if she’d currently possessed it, would have kept her near the house, where silver and iron protected the residents. But the memory of John’s abuse had flipped an old rusty lever in her brain, the one that instructed her feet to fly, put distance between herself and what had hurt her.

Between herself and Lockwood.

Logic whispered that this wasn’t entirely fair to him. He couldn’t have known the effect those words would have, how she’d often wished in her youth that she might have been a boy for the sole purpose of standing up to John, or leaving the house and forging her own path. How she’d stayed simply because she had no other choice.

But even Lockwood was playing games with her, wasn’t he? Asking her to participate in a farce, a charade of what she yearned for most; uniting in marriage with the man she loved. If he loved her in return, why wouldn’t he declare it? What prevented it other than the fact that it was a lie? He didn’t care for her, not really. Not enough.

The pearlescent dome of glass that was the greenhouse shrunk behind her, and the statues of the garden became miniatures, fit only for Adèle’s dollhouse. Pebbles scattered before her determined stride. Eventually she arrived at the sturdy stone bridge that stretched over a brook, its babbling waters and the iron bands on the other side serving as a strong barrier to ward off wandering ghosts. She paused to stare down blankly at ripples of pale moonlight glittering on the inky surface of the water.

Then she crossed over.

Beyond was a patchwork of violet and indigo-shadowed fields, intersected by two ribbons of highway and lit by the great silver orb of a moon and its starry companions. Lucy’s path had transformed from pebbles to dirt, no longer maintained well, dry weeds sprouting up stubbornly through the frozen, unforgiving earth. A stray breeze rustled through blades of dead grass that overgrew the edges.

“Luce! Lucy!”

At the crossroads, Lockwood caught up to her. He’d managed to retrieve his greatcoat before pursuing her, and it billowed out around him as he jogged. His head was on a constant swivel for Visitors.

“Leave me alone,” Lucy said, wrapping her arms tight about her middle, partly to hold herself together and partly to disguise her shivering. The silk of her dress and its wide neckline invited winter’s unwanted touch, chilling her to the bone. She couldn’t feel her nose.

“Please, Lucy, can we talk about this inside? It’s far too dangerous out here.” He drifted nearer, silver delineating his windswept hair, the planes of his face, the distressed wrinkle creasing the centre of his forehead.

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

“There’s a great deal to talk about. But we need to go back to Thornfield first.”

“So you command me now, do you?” She snapped. In her mind she could see, hear her mother and cousins sneering, ordering her about, hurling insults and the occasional slap when she disobeyed. Pain raked at her chest.  “I'm not even actually your betrothed! Why I agreed to that scheme in the first place I don’t know.”

“Er, I’ve been wanting to address that—”

Lucy tried unsuccessfully to stopper her tears. John swam before her eyes in Lockwood’s place, fueling her fury. Barbs embedded into words she stabbed at him. “It’s like you think I’m some sort of—of machine without feelings, that you can control at will. Perhaps because I’m poor, obscure, plain, and little, you think you can take advantage. But I have as much soul as you, and full as much heart!”

“Lucy!” Lockwood grasped her hand, dispelling the cruel visions of her family as he drew her close. Tobacco and tea filled her nostrils. “I misspoke. You shouldn’t have had to stay there; been mistreated so. I wish you could have been free of that monster, that pathetic excuse for a man! If he came around here I would throttle him, and have half a mind to seek him out for that purpose.” His eyes flashed with fervor in the moonlight.

Lucy’s breath staggered. His strength was evident, just a portion of it exerted to retain his hold on her hand, but unlike John he had mastery over it. Lockwood would never dare hurt her.

“It was terribly wrong of me to expect you to go along with an engagement scheme, and for that I apologize.” He brushed the cool band of the ring he’d given her before sliding his thumb between her chilled fingers, caressing them. “But…I have an odd feeling with regard to you, as if I had a string somewhere under my left ribs tied to a similar knot in you. I’m afraid if you were to ever leave, that cord of communion would snap, and I have a notion that I would take to bleeding inwardly.”

“What are you saying?” Lucy murmured, dazed.

“I’m saying that I don’t want the engagement to be mere fabrication.” He met her eyes, holding them lovingly with his own. “Lucy Carlyle, I offer you my hand, my heart. I ask you to pass through life at my side, as my equal. Will you marry me?”

“Me?” Her voice cracked.

“Yes you, you strange, unearthly thing. Poor perhaps, and certainly small—” Lockwood grinned as he looked down at her “—but never obscure, or plain, and with more soul and heart than I could ever dream to possess. Please accept me as your husband; I must have you for my own.”

“You wish me to be your wife?”

“I swear it.”

“You love me?”

“I do.”

Tears tracked down Lucy’s cheeks, not born of despair and frustration this time, but joy. “Then, Lockwood, I will marry you.”

She surrendered herself into his arms, and one of his large hands spanned her waist and crushed her against him. The other shook as it demarcated the line of her jaw, cupping her cheek as their lips finally met.

It felt like she hadn’t been breathing properly during her entire stay at Thornfield, and now, at last, air was flowing from him and filling her lungs, granting her life again. How natural it felt to kiss him when she’d never kissed anyone, to be kissed eagerly, desperately in return. His skin, his breath, his very being, was hers; she grasped his shoulders tight as if he might slip away from her, but how could he when he was tangling his fingers in her hair, angling her head so he could deepen the kiss, clutching her impossibly close to him, claiming her.

The frigid December wind picked up then, ruffling hair, skirts, and coat hem alike. Grey clouds shut out the moon and the stars, and plump snowflakes began to fall, adorning their hair and clothing with icy crystals.

Lucy broke the kiss to look up in childlike wonder. “Snow!”

“It will make a fine crown for a fairy queen.” Lockwood kissed stray snowflakes from her brow, her eyelashes, her nose. When she shivered, he removed his coat and wrapped it around her, chuckling as it swallowed her whole. “My little fairy queen.”

A thrill traveled up Lucy’s spine at the thought of belonging to him, and him to her. She glanced down at the sleeves engulfing her hands. “Has it occurred to you that you might simply be too tall and long of limb?”

“Am I? Perhaps I was meant to be a tree.”

 Lucy giggled. She swiped her own collection of crystalline flakes from his cheek, using the opportunity to feel the strong line of his jaw, the sharp point of his chin.

He leaned in, likely intent on securing another kiss. But then his eyes flitted beyond her, and whatever was there made the color drain from his face. He reached over into the pocket of his coat, withdrew a flare and matches, and lit the wick, the orange glow sending shadows darting across the ridges of his eyebrows and hollows of his cheekbones. He held the flare aloft.

“Why did you light that?” Lucy asked anxiously.

“Because I can see five shades and two lurkers closing in on us.”

“Oh God.” She turned, her blood running cold as she saw the ghost fog tumbling across the field, humanlike shapes rising silently from it. Necks bent as if broken, feet trailing tendrils of smoke as they hovered, drifting toward the living couple.

Lockwood’s hand slipped back into Lucy’s, tucking her safely behind him. “Well, we are right by a crossroads where gallows once stood. Most haunted place in these parts.”

“Lockwood I’m so sorry, I wasn’t thinking when I…left,” Lucy said guiltily. “God I’m a blooming idiot.”

“No, I was the one who caused the whole thing. Don’t worry; I have a few more flares and salt bombs stashed.” Lockwood tossed the flare at the advancing ghosts, then ran, tugging Lucy with him. 

Just before the bridge stood a spectre, his diaphanous clothing a hundred years out of fashion, a saber in his fist. He lunged at Lucy, brandishing the glowing weapon, but Lockwood darted between and flung a handful of salt bombs. With a howl the highwayman disintegrated, and they raced over the bridge before he could regain his form.

Once past the iron bands they breathed more easily, but didn’t stop running until they were safely within the defenses of Thornfield Hall.

Lockwood threw open the hefty wood door, bolting it behind them. They both leaned against it, chests heaving as they caught their breath.

“I really am sorry,” Lucy persisted.

“We’re safe now; that’s all that matters.” Lockwood squeezed her hand, smiling reassuringly in the semi-dark. Somewhere in the house, a clock chimed the hour: eleven. “You should get some sleep.”

“As should you.”

“I’ll consider it.”

Lucy shook her head. “Good night, then.”

“Good night.”

Their hands held fast for a moment, the knot of their fingers loosening and separating only when it was absolutely necessary. Lucy felt the loss deeply, and Lockwood must have too. He caught her on the first step, lifting her up into his embrace as if she weighed nothing, swinging her around as her arms laced around his neck. He kissed her, endlessly it seemed, and she was disappointed when he set her back down on her feet. But he pressed his forehead to hers, combing her tousled hair behind her ears, as though he too couldn’t bear to be separated for more than a second.

“So much for parting adieus,” Lucy teased, brushing his forelock out of his face in return.

“Simpler in theory than practice,” Lockwood admitted. His expression grew somber; moonlight collected in his irises as he searched her face. “Are you real? I feel as though I’ll close my eyes and you’ll disappear and I’ll find that this has all only been a wonderful dream.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” she vowed. “A cluster of Limbless couldn’t drag me away.”

“Well, seeing as they have no arms…” 

“Oh, give over.” She swatted his shoulder, but before she could scold him further, he bundled her against his chest, tucking her head beneath his chin. Her arms came around his waist and she soaked up the blissful warmth radiating through his clothes. For a while he simply held her, stroking her hair. Lucy closed her eyes, nestling against his solid warmth, marvelling at the simple joy to be found in his arms. There could be none sweeter, she decided, nor a place half as safe.

“A Christmas wedding isn’t too soon?” He murmured, tracing the shell of her ear with his thumb. “I only said that to annoy Penelope, and well…” Soft wondering laughter gusted along her temple. “If I’m being honest, I’ve been dreaming of marrying you since you threw me off the ravine.”

“That long?”

“Love at first sight, or in this case, first shove.”

“So…” Heat climbed her neck, and she smoothed the folds of his cravat, needing something to occupy her hands. “Um, when you said that only the greatest passion would induce you to marry…”

He kissed her crown, nuzzling his cheek against her hair. “I meant every word. My dear Lucy Carlyle, you must know that I am deeply, madly in love with you.” He pulled away, searching her face. An anxious notch appeared between his brows. “But if you need more time…we can wait. I won’t rush you. Of that you have my word.”

Anticipation tumbled through her belly at the thought of their wedding. At once, two weeks seemed an eternity to wait and an insubstantial veil waiting only to be lifted. She was of a mind to marry him on the morrow, but conversely, to suggest a date nearer the summer. She had no bearings, and grew ever unmoored the longer she lost herself in the plaintive hope revealed by the rays of the moon. Time had always flowed at such an odd pace between, wending through the autumn as swift as a river, leaving them sequestered on opposing banks. They’d come at last to a ford and met in the middle, balanced on the water-slick stones, all the while knowing one false step would send them tumbling into the rapids, left to the whims of time and fortune.

Discomfort crept across Lockwood’s face, pinching the skin around his eyes. “I shouldn’t rush you. Forgive me.”

Perhaps the only choice, the only way forward was to surrender, to let the current take where it would. 

Making her decision, she rose up on her toes to caress his lips. Lockwood tensed, but then sighed against her, the wonder of his smile curving against her mouth before he pulled her nearer still. Her tumbling bout of nerves turned into a flurry of many wings, lifting her high above the world. What a curious sensation, a height that she didn’t fear, for though it still brought the risk of falling, Lockwood’s arms were ironclad; he’d never let her go. Her knees buckled as they swayed back several steps, but Lockwood cushioned the back of her head as he pressed her against the chamber wall, summoning the memory of her recent dream.

“It’s perfect,” she whispered when at last they pulled away, struggling to catch her breath. “I want this for us.” 

 His smile shone between them, incandescent. “Good.” His hands fell to her shoulders and he gave them a delighted squeeze. “Oh Luce, I’m so glad.”

Perhaps he meant to kiss her again, and perhaps if he had they would have remained in the stairwell for the better part of the night, but a new thought left displeased brackets about his narrow lips.

“What is it?” 

“I promised George I’d discuss the forest case with him,” he finally said, releasing her with great reluctance. “He thinks he might have a new lead, but between you and me, I have this notion that I won’t be following a word he says.”

A pang of loss struck the cords in Lucy’s breast, melancholy as a dirge. Suddenly the thought of parting was unthinkable, though principle said she must. Still…

“You don’t want me to come with you? It’s not that late. We’ve been out far later on cases.”

“I’d like nothing more than to never leave your side,” Lockwood confessed. “But I’d feel better if you rested your foot.” He brought her knuckles to his lips, and she felt his smile curl across the dells. “And got more than two hours of sleep besides. I mean to take good care of my betrothed. And in two weeks…” He clasped her fingers more securely. “My wife.”

“I…suppose I can’t argue with that,” she said faintly, lightheaded, her pulse galloping at full-tilt. 

His wife.

Another stolen kiss, another frantic skip of her heart. 

“Good night, my love,” he whispered tenderly.

“Good night,” she murmured, leaning against the wall as her legs promptly turned to jelly. A shadow of jet wool caught her eye, and she looked down and gasped. “Oh! Your coat.” She shimmied out of it, her hands unwilling to let it go as she pressed it into his.

“I wouldn’t mind if you kept it.” He draped the garment over his arm, tracing her repair in the lining with the same loving touch he’d bestowed on her skin.

“Neither would I, but I’d rather you be warm.”

“I always am around you.”

“Even so.”

Lucy felt quite toasty herself as he darted forward to imprint a kiss of gratitude on her forehead, and she watched as he headed in the direction of the study, his smile sparkling back at her several times before he turned a corner and disappeared from sight. Her feet might well have worn winged sandals of Hermes at the pace she ran up the stairs.

Holly was waiting on the landing with a candle, its amber glow accentuating her incredibly pleased expression. She’d witnessed the kisses.

Lucy felt her cheeks grow hot, but she was too happy to care just how red they were. “Lockwood and I are betrothed; truly and honestly.”

“Thank God! I was worried you two might never figure out you were in love,” Holly said with a dramatic sigh of relief.

The word delighted Lucy; she and Lockwood were in love. It wasn’t just a secret hope anymore, a desire she had to hide in case he didn’t feel the same. But he did return her affection. He wanted her as much as she wanted him, and for the rest of their lives. The enormity of it all was dizzying.

“Best be getting on to bed now,” Holly advised, apparently noticing Lucy’s giddy unsteadiness.

“I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep a wink.” Lucy beamed and practically skipped down the hall, buoyant as a feather aloft on the wind.

Tucked into bed shortly thereafter, she stared dreamily at the empty space beside her, the extra pillow, and imagined Lockwood there as her husband. They would be in his bed, surely—her heart soared at the idea—but how lovely it was to see him beside her in her mind, pulling her into his burning embrace, banishing the draftiness of the room. It was a vision of the future instead of a fantasy now.

She couldn’t wait.

Chapter Text

Lockwood spent the remainder of the night in a state of glorious delirium. George’s theories and explanations flowed past his ears without sense or meaning, and after a while, the other man dismissed him in a huff. Lockwood meandered through the halls, meeting no one and hardly knowing what he would say if he had. He hadn’t told George of Lucy’s acceptance, wanting to keep the secret to himself for a little while longer. There would be time for questions and plans afterward. Until then, he held onto their kiss and the unbridled joy of Lucy’s smile like he might a fallen star found glittering upon the moors, as something fantastical and priceless. Far too wonderful for words to describe. 

Lucy loved him, had vowed to be his in two weeks time.

What more could he ever want in the world? 

Finally, in the wee hours, he returned to his rooms, yet here most of all he paced restlessly with the knowledge of all that would be. With a shrewd, exacting eye, he inspected the furnishings, all dark and sturdy and masculine. Except for the bed curtains, which had been replaced with heavy cobalt drapes pulled from storage, the rooms remained from when he’d taken them over after his parent’s deaths. These had been his father’s chambers, his mother’s just through the adjoining door. Though separate sleeping quarters were by and large the usual way of the wealthy, he couldn’t help but hope that Lucy would want to spend all her nights beside him, curled up in his arms.

But…well, it had hardly been appropriate to ask her before, but now that he gave the matter thought…

He rarely entered Mother’s rooms, but he did so now, an oil lamp in hand. Chintz wallpaper patterned the walls with flora, birds perched between the bright blooms. Creams and pastels softened every surface, and when he inspected the delicate scrollwork of the vanity, he swore he caught a whiff of Mother’s face powder. The scent stirred memories of his youth; Mother’s fierce embrace, always squeezing just right, her fingers combing through the cowlick at the back of his head, drilling him and Jessica through rapier practice. 

Lockwood blinked hard, his vision swimming with what could have been. 

Mother would have loved Lucy. All his family would have.

He perused the contents of the vanity for sometime, finally selecting a set of gold hair combs delicately fashioned with crossed rapiers, the blades inlaid with abalone. Slipping the treasure into his pocket, he gave the room a final once over. Would Lucy prefer these rooms instead, he wondered? Moving next door was of little consequence in the puzzle of conjoining their lives, and a price he would gladly pay if it meant making her happy. 

He returned to his own bedchamber, filled with a thousand questions to ask her and then a thousand more, sweet adorations to whisper into her ear. How he’d kiss her again. 

He undressed to his shirtsleeves, flopping into the armchair before the fire. He glanced at the clock and scowled. Only half five in the morning, still hours before he could see her again. 

Minutes later, familiar footsteps passed by in the hall. Lockwood sprang to his feet, and Holly startled when he threw open the door, calling her name.

“I hear congratulations are in order,” she said, grinning triumphantly when she’d recovered. “Have you come to beg for my assistance?” She squinted at him suddenly, no doubt noticing the stubble on his jaw and bloodshot eyes. “Did you even sleep?”

“Never mind that.” Lockwood waved away her concerns. “We only have two weeks.”

“Such little regard for my poor nerves. First a ball and now a wedding, too?” But the thrill of a challenge danced in her eyes. “I’ll need an allowance for her gown, you know. Every girl ought to have her own.”

“Done,” Lockwood agreed emphatically. “However much you need.”

“That’s a dangerous promise from you to me, Lockwood.” 

“Spare no expense. It has to be perfect. The ball, the wedding. Every day until the wedding.” He was pacing again, determination racing through his veins. “She’s to ask for nothing, Holly. I intend to spoil her silly—what? Why are you looking at me like that?” 

“I’ve never seen you like this. You’re like Pilot whenever any one of us comes home. Your eyes even get all droopy like his.” 

“Like…Pilot?”

“It’s precious,” she assured him. “If a little pathetic. But in the best sort of way. And your newly betrothed seems to find it charming, bless her.”

“Who’s pathetic?” George appeared around the corner, a dog-eared book tucked beneath his arm. He drew up short upon seeing Lockwood. “What happened to you?”

“He’s madly in love, George.”

“Is this supposed to be news? He’s been mooning over Lucy for… oh .” Behind the smudges of his glasses, George’s eyes widened. “You asked her?” 

Lockwood heaved a sigh. So much for holding his secret close. Still, his delight couldn’t be stymied, and he found himself biting back a smile when he confessed. “Last night. Before, um, our debriefing.”

A mole-like blink. “You didn’t tell me.”

“I was going to. I am now.”

George sniffed, but like Lockwood, he proved unable to hide his pleasure. “You’re happy, then?” 

A wide grin escaped him. “Euphoric.”

His friend nodded, assuaged. “So, she knows about needing to give you an heir?” 

Lockwood choked, sputtering on air. “What?”

“What else could you have possibly talked about with her?”

“Well, there wasn’t really…opportunity for talking…strictly speaking.”

“I think he was slightly distracted.” Holly leaned one shoulder against the wall, smirking. “Actually, I know for a fact.”

George goggled at her, shaking his head. “You’re a remarkably odd woman, Hol.”

“Coming from you, my dear, I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“I intend to discuss it with her,” Lockwood muttered, sorely wishing the primordial stone would return to the dust and take him with it. But he would. Speak to her. Eventually. It was somewhere on the list. Somewhere far, far down.

“Will you?” George narrowed his eyes. “Maybe I should mention it—”

“No, you will absolutely not .” Lockwood scrubbed a hand down his face. “See George, this is exactly why I don’t tell you things. I’ll talk to her about it.”

“Before consummation, I presume? Won’t be much time for it afterwards, knowing you.”

Surprised laughter escaped from Holly, and she slapped a hand over her mouth. When Lockwood glared at her, she made a show of retreating. “I’ll just get to work on those wedding details, shall I?”

Lockwood couldn’t help but feel betrayed as she traipsed down the hall, leaving him stranded with George and the weight of all his beastly responsibilities. 

Not that…It wasn’t like…

Lucy was hardly beastly. Far from it. So far from it. In an instant he relived their kiss and how it filled every particle of his being with molten heat, as though he’d grazed his fingers across the sun.

“Today.” Lockwood stammered, feeling his ears singe beneath George’s scrutiny. He took Holly’s cue and escaped behind his door. “I’ll talk to her about it today.”

Lucy awoke with the dawn. She wondered for a moment if the previous night had been a dream, a fantasy spun from moonlight and wishes, until she spied to ring on her finger. The ring that was well and truly hers. She smiled and tossed aside the covers, then threw open the drapes at the window to reveal a dreary morning. To her, the grey clouds shone silver, the frost on the glass sparkling like chips of diamonds. Internal sunlight flooded her chest, her lungs, radiated to her fingers and toes.

Two weeks. Just two short weeks.

Seized by the desire to see Lockwood as soon as possible, Lucy scrambled into her underpinnings and a pin-dotted blue cotton dress. Its conservative collar brushed her neck, but the pleats that curved away from it, meeting in a point at her waist, flattered her figure. She sacrificed a few precious minutes to braid her hair and secure it in the way she’d noticed drew Lockwood’s eye; not tightly, with several strands deliberately escaping from it.

Her reflection in the mirror made her stop for a moment. There was something different…were her eyes always that bright? Her cheeks pink and healthy, smile not strained? Almost…pretty? Did the influence of Lockwood’s love produce this result, or had it been there all along, and she’d been too caught up in her anxieties to notice?

The soft ticking of the little mahogany clock on the chest of drawers reminded Lucy that time was slipping away, and she abandoned the strange young woman in the mirror. Snatching up a shawl to ward off the wintry chill of the old house, she took to the corridors in search of her betrothed.

Frenetic footfalls resounded, beckoning her to the drawing room. She peeked around the doorframe to find Lockwood pacing the breadth of the fireplace.

He caught sight of her and halted immediately, a lopsided smile stretching across his face. “Good morning!”

She had never, in the months she’d known him, heard his voice crack, as if he was a boy becoming a man once more, transitioning from a shrill, youthful pitch to his familiar deep velvet timbre. As soon as it happened, he flushed crimson and coughed, making a show of clearing his throat.

“Dearest—” Too low. He coughed again, quickly waving a hand at the generous selection of boiled eggs, kippers, pork pie, rashers of bacon, kidneys on toast, tea, and coffee on the chess table “—I thought you might want to take breakfast here, with me.”

His display of nerves and the sweetly-spoken term of endearment made Lucy forget her own bashfulness. She crossed the room, his molten gaze following her every movement until she stood before him, tottering on the tips of her toes to brush her lips against his.

Lockwood’s returned kiss was hesitant at first, then bolder, his large hands slipping around to the small of her back to press her flush against him. When she gasped for breath, he softened his grip, shifting back. “I must say that’s the best greeting I’ve ever gotten,” he said with a rough chuckle, embers glowing in his eyes as he studied her.

Lucy blushed. “Did you sleep well?”

“Not a wink. I kept thinking of the woman I love.” His thumb flicked over her chin. “How about you?”

Lucy’s heart stumbled, flopping pathetically for a few beats like a lame rabbit. “I slept some, though I doubt it did me good. I missed you too much.”

Lockwood lifted her chin for a short kiss, then led her to the table. “George interfered with the cooking this morning, by the way.”

Lucy’s stomach grumbled. “Thank the Lord! Nothing’s burned for once.”

“Sorry about that. Cook was here when my parents were alive, and I haven’t had the heart to dismiss her.”

“It’s alright; I think George delights in invading her kitchen and antagonizing her, and who am I to deny him that pleasure?”

“Or the resulting food.”

“Quite so.” Lockwood grinned and sat across from her at the table.

Lucy wished she could devour everything at a quicker pace, but her future husband’s close proximity made her take small bites and utilize her napkin far more than she might have otherwise. When their plates were clean and removed by a servant, and piping-hot tea warmed their hands through delicate china cups, they left the table for their usual armchairs by the fire.

“Lucy…there’s something we need to talk about, before this goes any further.”

She looked at him. He was dancing a long, tapered finger around the rim of his teacup, and his knee bounced with nervous energy.

“Don’t tell me; you’re already married,” Lucy teased. “And keep your wife in…hmm…the attic.”

Lockwood blanched white as a sheet. “Absolutely not! The attic, what an idea.”

Lucy might have been more curious about his reaction if she wasn’t puzzling over his earlier words. “What do we need to talk about?”

Lockwood tugged at his cravat. “Do you remember when I told you what was expected of me? Marriage and…other things.”

Lucy quirked an eyebrow. “Other things?”

He shifted in his chair. “An heir to my estate.”

“Oh. That.” For a moment she’d forgotten about the latter, especially since the former had occupied the majority of her thoughts. Now, however, the reality of the situation was setting in.

Sharing his bed wouldn’t just be for passionate congress—another anxiety in of itself that she didn’t dare discuss—but also for creating life. Life she would be responsible for nurturing, training up, shaping into an honorable, compassionate person, worthy of inheriting Thornfield and governing its land.

She set aside her teacup and drifted toward the fire with her arms crossed. Her rabbit heart had regained the use of all its limbs and was throwing itself at her ribs, as if desperate to escape.

A cup and saucer clattered together. Lockwood joined her, taking her hands and cradling them in his. “I’m sorry, Lucy, it’s too much pressure. If you don’t want to—”

“No! I mean, I want to have your child.” Her eyes widened at her own admission.

Lockwood’s elation illumined his expression, crinkling his eyes and pressing up the corners of his mouth, revealing sweet dimples. Lucy imagined their child with the same dimples, and a novel, not unpleasant ache clenched her chest.

“You don’t know how happy it makes me to hear that,” Lockwood murmured. His thumbs rubbed circles into her palms.

“I’m just worried I might do something wrong. What if I hurt our child?”

“How could you possibly think that? You care for Adèle as if she were your own daughter, and she loves you like a mother.”

“Adèle was raised by good parents, and then a good uncle. I’ve never started from the very beginning. And my mother wasn’t…I didn’t have the best example.”

Lockwood drew her closer, cupping her cheek gently, connecting his gaze to hers. There was an iron rigidity to his eyes. “One day I’m going to have a very firm discussion with your mother about what she did to you, and allowed to happen,” he stated coldly. The harshness diminished as he wiped away one of her tears. “You’ll be wonderful. And I’ll be right there by your side, through every difficulty, every happy moment.”

Lucy reached up and brushed his rogue lock of hair back from his forehead. “Even when being with child makes me ill and cross?”

“In sickness and in health.” Lockwood’s hands laced behind her waist. He glanced down affectionately at her middle, perhaps, like Lucy, picturing a swell there. “Besides, you’re quite lovely when you’re cross.”

Lucy snorted.

“Truly! Your eyes darken like a storm over the moors, and there’s the smallest indention that forms between your eyebrows, right here—” his lips brushed the spot, ever so lightly “—and your lips purse into a little rosebud; all I want to do is kiss it.” He demonstrated this, fingertips feathering along her jawline. A delirious sigh escaped her as he deepened the kiss. His fingers slid into her hair and wove through the stitches of her braids. The arm at her back encircled her fully, and Lucy responded in kind, cradling his face in her palms, finding his skin wondrously smooth, the scent of his shaving soap sharp and herbal. The world swayed, or perhaps it was her sense of equilibrium departing her, that which weighted her feet down to the earth. She drifted, buoyant as the press of his lips upon hers increased, exquisite in its slowness. Everything turned on its head when Lockwood touched her, kissed her. He was the gale that left her unsteady, and yet so conversely, in that mysterious way, the oak that stood immovable in the storm, sheltering her from the winds. 

“Lockwood, where—” 

Lucy yelped, knocking her forehead against Lockwood's chin at the sound of George’s voice from the doorway. 

“Oh dear God, it’s happening already. Um…Mary, Mother of Grace. Spare me.” 

Mortified, Lucy shrank against Lockwood’s chest. 

“And here I thought you were an atheist, George,” Lockwood said lightly, even as he massaged his chin, wincing. “No need to drag the Almighty into this. Or his mum. I’m sure they both have more important things to worry about.”

“I might revise my religious sentiments if it keeps my eyes from being blinded whenever I walk into a room.” Lucy peeked cautiously over Lockwood’s shoulder, instantly regretful when George’s smudged spectacles focused on her. “You have to be firm with him, Lucy. Tell him no sometimes, otherwise you’ll just make him worse.”

“What I do with my betrothed is hardly your concern, George Karim,” she shot back, even as heat burst in her cheeks. Lockwood chuckled, favoring her with a grin she’d never seen before; dark and devastating, the devil’s rival. The rabbit in her chest stirred at the sight of that grin, but this time only to go absolutely still. George, she decided, was absolutely right, both in seeking divine intervention and recognizing the incorrigible nature of her betrothed. Because while knowing innately that he’d never disrespect her wishes and would hold himself responsible in matters of honour, that smile scrambled every sensible thought in her head and, well…

Heaven help her, she dearly wanted to know where that smile might lead and what he might do.

Forcing aside her dizzying emotions, Lucy poked him hard in the chest. “Stop that.” 

Both of his eyebrows rose in genuine bewilderment. “What? What did I do?”

She sighed, pressing her palms to her burning face.

Lockwood tilted his head in study, still very clearly confused.

“By the by, Luce,” George said, balancing a precarious stack of kippers on a plate as he made his retreat. “What the dickens have you done to your hair?” Leaving the question to dandle conspicuously, he turned on his heel and departed the room with his spoils acquired.

“My…” Lucy patted at the back of her head, another wave of embarrassment washing over her when she found the loose loops of her braids hanging free. “Oh!” She rushed to the nearest mirror on the wall, clustered amid a collection of feathered masks. Her illiberal approach to pinning had done its job all too well, and Lockwood’s nimble hands had finished off what respectability had been left of the styling. 

Lockwood’s reflection appeared beside hers in the mirror, his face drawn, contrite.

“I’m sorry, Lucy,” he said softly. “I never meant to embarrass you like that, even if it is just George. I’ll be more, ah, aware next time.”

“I think your awareness was by and large the problem,” Lucy muttered, but a smile brimmed in her cheeks when his ears turned red. Chuffing out one of his awkward laughs, he glanced away, scratching the back of his neck. As much as she admired his confidence, a surge of affection flooded her chest at the sight of his boyish embarrassment. The emotions this side of Lockwood elicited proved far easier to navigate than those that arose when he turned the full array of his charms upon her. That…would certainly take some getting used to, and she wasn’t entirely sure if two weeks offered time enough for it.

“Quite the rogue,” she teased. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”

“Duly noted,” he said, rapt as she quickly coiled the braids, fixing them more snugly this time. As she tilted her head side to side, fiddling with a spare hair pin, he added. “I’ll make sure to keep the rogue in check until after the wedding.” 

The pin fell to the carpet from between her fingers. Lockwood immediately swooped down to retrieve it, drawing nearer in one fluid motion. His gaze collided with hers in the mirror, and damn him , that devilish smile had returned, this one subtler, less blinding, but all the more sly for its lack of glamour. Another snatch of that secret anxiety whispered in her ear. Insidious as any spirit, hinting of all that would come after the wedding. She’d meant what she’d told him, that she desired him more than anything in the world and wanted to carry his child.

Yet to get there…to lower her guard so completely, to reveal herself to him with all her imperfections, all her ugly scars… 

“Um—” Lucy accepted the pin, hardly noticing where she shoved it into the mass of braids, only that her hands were in desperate need of fussing over something “—that’s uh, probably for the best.” 

At her spell of discomfort, Lockwood sobered. He reached for her hand, gently twining their fingers. “Is everything alright, Luce?”

“Everything’s fine,” she said quickly, mustering a bright curve to her lips. Lockwood, however, being somewhat of a connoisseur of smiles, watched her dubiously, brow furrowed in thought.

“You can tell me anything, you know.” 

She nodded, seedlings of guilt taking root in her stomach, for how could she address her fears without hurting him, when he had only ever shown her kindness and had given her all the space she’d needed to find her place at Thornfield. By the same logic, wouldn’t he do so within the bounds of their marriage? What more assurance did she need from him?

Lockwood stood beside her, holding her hand until it was evident that she hadn’t yet found the words.

“In your own time, then,” he said softly, his patience sinking in her soul like ephedra balm. He bent his head, caressing the scar at her temple. “Oh, I have something for you.”

“What could you possibly…” She gasped as he revealed a pair of delicate golden combs, no more than the width of three fingers across and set with iridescent rapiers.

“They’re beautiful,” she breathed, hardly daring to touch them.

“They don’t quite match the fairytale from last night,” he said, voice lowering. “I’m afraid I don’t have gold hooks and spinning wheels lying about, but then…well, you’d have to plant them in my soup, and I prefer my repast free of metal objects.”

“‘Gold and silver, I have none, but such as I have to give thee.’’” 

He chuckled, mirth feathering the corners of his eyes. “How devout you are, Miss Carlyle. The vicar would be ever so pleased. A model saint. You’ll have your work cut out, reforming me.” 

Lucy peered at the combs again, dubious. “Do you mean to bribe me, then, sir?”

“Possibly.”

“Oh sir,” she chided. “You are shameless.”

“As I’ve warned you, my dear. May I?”

“Oh, um, yes.” She turned, holding her breath as Lockwood stepped nearer, his warmth like a soft halo of candle flame at her back. The pads of his fingers grazed her cheek, her ear, the fine hairs at the nape of her neck. Lockwood very obviously had no experience with lady’s hair things, for it took him some minutes of poking and prodding to settle on the position, finally managing to snag a section of hair. Immediately, Lucy clapped her palm over her hair, catching the comb as it slipped free. 

“This is much more difficult than you made it seem, Luce,” Lockwood said a moment later, after her giggles had subsided. 

“Perhaps you should leave the hairdressing to me for now.” She secured both combs in the coiled braids. “There. How do they look?”

“Exquisite,” he murmured, but his gaze caressed her face and not her adornments.  Then, with a mischievous glint in his dark eyes, he abruptly turned, tugging her after him into the hall.

“Where are we going?” She asked with a laugh.

“I might have promised Adèle a break from today’s lessons on account of the snow.”

“Oh, only because of the snow?” 

“I might have been persuaded by the possibility of being accompanied by a beautiful woman,” he stole a kiss from her knuckles without breaking stride. “Something tells me you’ll be a worthy adversary in a snowball fight.”

“It’s cold, Lockwood,” she protested, even as she let him pull her along, caught up in the wake of his glee.

“I raise you a whole tureen of hot chocolate afterwards,” he promised.

“George’s?” 

“His very best.” 

As it turned out, such an offer was worth the trial of venturing out into the cold, not in the least because she had Lockwood by her side.

Chapter Text

A servant brought their coats, and Lockwood helped Lucy into hers, wrapping the slate-blue wool about her shoulders and fastening the covered buttons. With a thrill he realized he’d soon be able to assist with putting on all her clothing, from outerwear to corsetry. And with removing them…his fingers fumbled with the last button at the notion.

“I can handle the scarf at least, Lockwood,” Lucy said with a laugh as he went to tie his warmest one about her neck. Even so she hesitated, pressing the navy yarn to her nose. Because it smelled like him, he realized with great pleasure.

“I know. It gives me an excuse to be close to you,” Lockwood confided conspiratorially, leaning in as he pulled one end of the scarf through its own loop.

Lucy’s eyes sparked with mischief. She reached up, her arms coiling around his neck, and fixed the back of his collar. Her lips were a scant few millimeters from his. “You do make a fine point.”

Lockwood’s breath caught. Divulging that secret had perhaps been unwise, for if she was going to use it on him, they would never see the snow. He needed a distraction. “Do you have a cap? I’ll go fetch it.”

“Oh, well, I have this.” Lucy retrieved a knitted oddity from her coat pocket. The yarn was a spiral of cobalt and black in an irregular pattern that Lockwood suspected wasn’t intentional. “I’m still learning,” she explained.

Lockwood placed it snug atop her head, his fingers brushing against the soft skin of her pink-suffused cheeks as he adjusted it over her ears. “It looks charming.”

“I suppose love is blind after all,” Lucy noted.

Lockwood chuckled and took her hand, leading her out to the garden, which was iced thickly with snow. The trees and bushes wore their glittering adornment like tiered cakes. “My mother told me once that, when I was very young, I thought snowflakes were refined sugar, and they would be sweet to the taste.”

Lucy smiled and huddled closer to him; a breeze was kicking up. “Did she say how you found out it wasn’t?”

“Yes, apparently I dove headfirst into a snowdrift, mouth wide open. I cried when I discovered the truth.”

“How sad!”

“Jessica gave me some iced plum cake afterward, so it was alright in the end.” Lockwood smiled at the memory.

“Oncle, regarde!! Watch me!” Adèle squealed, tumbling down a snow pile she’d constructed. She was bundled up so much that just her nose and eyes peeked out betwixt her lavender scarf and cap, the tip of that nose rosy pink from Jack Frost’s nimble, icy fingers. Pilot bounded around her, barking and pouncing before tearing away.

“Careful!” Lockwood warned. It occurred to him that, in a few years’ time, his and Lucy’s children would likely be just as rambunctious, if not more so, and his heart did a funny clenching thing, torn between aching longingly for the scenario and worrying for their safety.

At some point during his deep musings, Lucy had stealthily slipped from his grasp, and he didn’t fully register it until a perfect globe of ice and snow was colliding with his cheek, the debris powdering his neck inside his scarf. He stared blankly at the perpetrator: the woman he would be calling his wife in two weeks time.

A wicked grin curled the corners of Lucy’s lips, and she lobbed another snowball.

Lockwood was ready for this one. He dodged, then lunged at her. She shrieked and ran, but he saw that her progress was hampered by her voluminous skirts and cheered inwardly, convinced victory was his as he hastily packed snow.

An icy projectile hit him square in the nose, forcing him to drop his creation. Adèle giggled and darted away.

“What is this, an alliance?” Lockwood sputtered, dragging his sleeve across his face.

“We women must stick together!” Lucy confirmed as Adèle’s mittened hand grasped hers. Like two conspiring highwaymen, they took refuge behind the snowpile and began to build their ammunition.

“George! George, get out here! I need reinforcements!” Lockwood yelled at the laboratory window, which conveniently overlooked the garden.

George pushed open the casement glass and leaned out, looking more disheveled than normal, which was saying something. His shirtsleeves were singed and his spectacles seemed to be covered in soot. He squinted as he rubbed them on his waistcoat, leaving a grey mark behind. “No thank you; I’m busy!”

A snowball smacked him in the forehead, scattering through his curls. Sniggers erupted from Adèle and Lucy, though it was hard to say who was responsible for the excellent shot.

George narrowed his eyes. “This means war,” he intoned ominously before snapping the window shut.

There was a momentary ceasefire as everyone watched the laboratory door with bated breath.

And waited.

An unhinged battle cry rent the air as George appeared from around the side of the house instead, laden with an armful of snowballs already prepared. Lockwood joined the charge as the girls furiously mounted a defensive attack.

It was lucky that George was a bad shot, for Adèle managed to avoid most of his throws and land several of her own, chasing him across the garden.

“I’ve got you now, Luce!” Lockwood announced, cornering her easily now that she was separated from her teammate.

Lucy tried to flee, but Lockwood was faster, catching her deftly about the waist and tackling her to the ground. Not one to be defeated so easily, she shoved snow down his coat. He yelped, and they rolled until Lucy came out on top, elbows propped up on his chest. Their laughter grew ragged, lungs unable to expand, though it wasn’t from the exertion.

“I believe I won this round, dearest,” Lucy crowed.

“Is that so?” Quickly, smoothly, he grasped her waist and flipped them so she was beneath him.

Her odd little cap tumbled off. The second attempt at pinning her hair had hardly been more successful than the first, and caramel ropes and ribbons spilled over snow, snow the same ivory shade as the pillows of Lockwood’s bed, painting a scene far too similar to his frequent daydreams. One of his mother’s combs had gone astray, and he tucked it back into her hair, stroking her cheek under the pretense of brushing away unruly strands. She stared up at him with darkening eyes, drawing him into their wild abandon, new snowflakes drifting down from the sky clinging to her lashes like sugar, cheeks and lips red as cherries. He thought vaguely that perhaps some sweetness could be found in the snow after all…

“Mr Lockwood.”

Lockwood slowly looked up at the owner of the commanding voice. Boots encrusted with sludge gave way to black trousers, then a black greatcoat, open to reveal a black frock coat. Only a simple white stock at the man’s neck broke up the monochrome of his attire. The familiar stern face above this surveyed the couple with an expression of disdain.

“Mr Barnes! What a, erm, lovely surprise!” Lockwood spluttered as he and Lucy struggled to stand. Though they saw the vicar at church every Sunday morning, Mr Barnes hadn’t visited Thornfield since Jessica had been alive. He and Lockwood butted heads too often.

Mr Barnes frowned. “I assumed you’d be expecting me. Ms Munro sent for me this morning; she says you wish to be married in a fortnight’s time.” His gaze slid to Lucy, though it was more curious than judgmental. She was busy securing her hair once more, blushing bright as the red cap Adèle had just placed on her crooked snowman.

“Ah, I see. Yes, Lucy and I intend to marry directly after Christmas,” Lockwood affirmed. He beat the snow from his clothes, then brushed some from Lucy’s upper back, though he dared not touch her lower in Mr Barnes’ presence.

“Well as you know, customarily I’m required to read the banns in service for three consecutive Sundays before a marriage can take place. You’ll need to apply for a common licence with the bishop if you plan to forego that. I do have the documentation with me, and there would also be a fee.”

“Money is no object.” Lockwood laced his fingers through Lucy’s, smiling down at her. “Why don’t you go ahead inside, sir? I’m sure Ms Munro can supply you with refreshment, and we’ll join you shortly.”

“Yes, thank you.” Mr Barnes turned his collar up against the capricious wind and absconded in the direction of Thornfield.

George clapped a hand on Lockwood’s shoulder. “I am quite pleased I came out of doors now, if only to witness that,” he said with a smirk. “Good God, Lockwood, I’ve never seen you so scared, even whilst fighting that Rawbones whose eyes kept popping out of its sockets.”

“Merely startled,” Lockwood argued, clearing his throat.

“If you say so. At least he’ll be eager to see you two married after that display, so I expect there won’t be any issues with the paperwork. Now, I really must get to preparing that hot chocolate.” George whistled innocently as he followed the vicar.

“Ooo, hot chocolate!” Adèle skipped merrily after him, winking at Lockwood as she passed. A sly north wind rattled the iced boughs above their heads, sending up a chorus of snickers from whatever winter Folk roamed through the rimy morning. As soon as they were alone, Lockwood turned guiltily to Lucy. 

“Egad, Luce, I’m sorry about that. Again.” A scandal of affection in front of George was one thing, but one in front of the vicar…and not just any vicar, but Barnes of all people? He could have kicked himself. And to think he would’ve embarrassed her further if he’d given into the baser nature and sampled the sweetness of her cherry lips…

“I suspect that I’ll simply have to get used to it,” Lucy sighed. 

“No,” he promised, knocking the snow from Lucy’s back, though he kept his touch light and chaste, so not to further infringe upon her honour, imagining Barnes peering with censure from his study’s window like some great black crow. “I’ll get myself sorted out. It really won’t happen again.” 

Lucy fixed him with a look that plainly said she didn’t believe him one bit. Which…well, perhaps that was fair; he’d have to be more careful, learn from these mistakes. 

Lockwood clapped a hand over his heart. “On my honour as a gentleman.”

She ducked her head, fighting back a smile. “I suppose you can be forgiven.”

“I’ll make it up to you,” he said, tucking her hand through his arm as they made their way towards the house.

“I expect copious amounts of presents,” she teased, nudging his side playfully.

“Anything you wish.” 

“Anything?”

“Anything within my power to grant, princess.” 

She grinned up at him, pressing her cheek against his shoulder, and despite the boreal breath of the wind and the shining white of the horizon, Lockwood believed that he’d happened upon a path of eternal summer, his very own inheritance of paradise.

Thornfield’s best tea set appeared comically out of place pinched between Barnes’ black-gloved hands, not because of social position or occupation, but because the whimsical pattern of forget-me-nots and ladybugs seemed not to match the hangdogged glower the vicar had fixed upon the couple. The tea set chimed softly as Holly fluttered about, pouring out the sienna brew and ladening Lockwood’s desk with a platter stacked with crimped triangle sandwiches and another boasting a pyramid of honey-glazed scones dotted with sultanas. 

Beneath the heavy walnut wood, Lockwood grasped Lucy’s hand tightly in his. Her thumb worked nervously along his index finger as Mr Barnes held them in silent regard. Despite the December chill, beads of sweat dotted his forehead. Lucy fared little better, her cheeks still abloom with poppies. 

Acquiring their signatures to the licence had taken only a moment, hardly worth the ceremony of a mid-morning tea. Neither Lockwood or Lucy had touched the food, but Mr Barnes was content to eat his fill, finally washing it down with a second cup of bitter black tea. The cups before the couple remained untouched, though Lucy had busied herself with stirring copious amounts of sugar into hers—Lockwood counted at least five heaping scoops, tickled by the sight. Though small in the grand scheme of things, and especially looking down the barrel of Barnes’ disapproval, it had been enough to steady his nerves. 

And yet…

“The twenty-sixth is available, yes?” Lockwood blurted, breaking first, unable to stand the silence broken only by discordant utensil chimes. He was merely human after all, whilst Barnes had surely spent a previous life as a stern, curmudgeonly dragon. Bearing neither sword nor shield, Lockwood instead brandished his most winsome grin, but not a muscle twitched upon the dragon’s ebony countenance, impervious to good cheer. How on earth Barnes intended to survive the upcoming holiday with an outlook as bleak as that, Lockwood had no idea. “We agreed that it was a perfectly reasonable passage of time.”

“Did you?” In all your great wisdom? The question archly implied.

“As you’ve so graciously impressed upon me, there’s no time like the present.” Lockwood attempted another illiberal grin, less pearlescent and a touch more contrite. “Two weeks should satisfy all parties involved. Weren’t you telling me just last month that—”

Barnes held up a hand, staying his chatter. While Lockwood prattled, he’d been making a study of Lucy. Again, as out in the powdery snow, it was not so much one of judgment, but rather a question of logistics. Lockwood sensed faint incredulity as that penetrating gaze slid back to him. The governess , it seemed to say. Of course you’d marry the governess, if only to spite the whole of your set. Drawing strength from Lucy’s touch, Lockwood held the look unflinchingly. 

Finally, the vicar nodded, only once. “The twenty-sixth will be suitable. Technically the common licence allows you to marry in as little as a week’s time, so the day after Christmas, while highly unusual”—this punctuated by another piercing look— “will pose no issue.”

“A week?” Lockwood perked up, holding fast to his betrothed, feeling her own surprise springing through her grip. A fantasy seized him, one in which he took her as his bride in seven days hence. 

One glance at Lucy, however, halted his imaginings. The poppies had been uprooted, replaced with lilies. The blood coursing through his veins slowed at the change, and his heart, uncertain, stumbled like the hooves of a stag whose white, tufted chest had just been pierced with an arrow. 

“Um, well, there’s still so much to prepare,” he amended, drawing calming circles over the back of her hand. Lucy smiled briefly at him in gratitude, the sheer relief in her eyes only deepening his confusion. The arrow’s shaft burrowed deeper, tearing through muscle and sinew. What had he done to invoke such a response? As though…as though something in her feared their approaching nuptials. But then, if she was afraid, why had she so eagerly and readily agreed to marry him?

“Just so,” the vicar said before setting his tea aside. “Miss Carlyle, it’s been a pleasure to meet with you again, but I have business to discuss with your betrothed that’s of a rather personal matter.”

“Whatever you have to say to me can be said to the both of—” 

“It’s alright, Lockwood,” Lucy interrupted, tugging her fingers from his before standing. Lockwood and the vicar followed suit. “Mr Barnes.”

“Please accept my congratulations, madam,” he said in a voice far gentler and warmer than Lockwood had ever heard from him. 

“Thank you, sir,” Lucy bobbed a slight curtsy, then, as if as an afterthought, filched two scones from the plate, slipping them nonchalantly in her pocket. With a final fleeting look towards Lockwood, she left the study.

The two men waited until the door was firmly shut, and then another full minute as Lucy discovered her efforts of eavesdropping would be in vain. Her reluctant footsteps retreated down the hall, and Lockwood rubbed his jaw, tucking a grin behind his hand. How he loved that woman. 

His grin shrivelled as Mr Barnes cleared his throat. “It pains me to ask this of you—”

“Then don’t,” Lockwood countered, a frisson of nervousness whisking across his limbs. “No one’s forcing you.”

“Fear of the Almighty and my own conscience bid me otherwise.” Mr Barnes sighed weightily, then fixed Lockwood with a stern glower, as though he’d already made up his mind on the answer. “Is the girl with child?”

“No!” The word burst from him, fueled but a surprising surge of anger rising up through his chest. He leaped to his feet, slamming his palms against the surface of the table. “Of course she isn’t with child! What kind of man do you think I am? I would never dishonour her in such a base, wretched…” He exhaled harshly, lowering the volume of his voice as he spoke. It forced him to speak through gritted teeth, but good God, if any of the servants overheard... “Lucy Carlyle is a woman of utmost virtue. She is selfless, honest, kind, and full of good sense—”  

“Not so sensible, if she’s marrying you,” Barnes deadpanned, but a flicker of amusement crossed the darkened stage of his eyes, and his mirth dissipated some of the tension from Lockwood’s shoulders. At Barnes’ raised brows, Lockwood sank back into his chair, leather creaking. 

“I can’t believe you would ask that of me,” he grumbled, digging his fingers into the carved arms. “When have I ever given you the impression that I’d…” There were words to describe the act, delicate, euphemistic words, but in his agitation, they scattered to the wind. He settled for glaring at Mr Barnes. Unmoved, the vicar only shrugged.

“I felt it necessary to ask after…the curious display I just witnessed.”  

“Ridiculous.”

“You were very notably on top of her, Mr Lockwood.”

“We, uh, both slipped?” Lockwood said, a furious blush brimming in his cheeks and ears. Hell, he felt it burning against his cravat and was half-surprised the thin slip of silk hadn’t been incinerated.

“Well, see that you mind the ice from now on,” Mr Barnes said. 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Perhaps it’s best that the marriage will be so soon. Although you know it’ll set tongues to wagging.” 

“They would have talked no matter when we married,” Lockwood said. “I didn’t choose one of their daughters. Or rather, I didn’t choose Mrs Fittes.” Relief rushed through him at the statement. How novel to finally declare it, that he’d never consent to marry her. He waved his hand dismissively. “Let them talk. It’s a small price to pay.” He’d gladly be their fool if it meant Lucy would be his. 

Barnes cleared his throat, bringing Lockwood down from his flights of fancy. “Yes, speaking of payment…” 

Chapter Text

Later, and with his pride still mostly intact, if fraying a touch at the seams, and coin purse considerably lightened, Lockwood roamed the halls of Thornfield in search of his betrothed. Holly waylaid him, coaxing him to part with another considerable sum as she read off her many lists. Lockwood found himself nodding without fully comprehending all the intricacies of her plans, eager to reunite with Lucy. Eventually, there was nothing for it but to simply sidle around her and back slowly down the hall; best not to turn one’s back on Holly when she was in one of her moods.

“You haven’t heard a word I’ve just said, have you?” She sniffed, trailing after him. 

“I’m sure you’ve been as meticulously thorough and thoughtful as always. But, as I’ve already told you, spare no expense, although…” He squinted at a particular item at the list, Holly’s looping penmanship taking him a moment to decipher. “Is this one strictly necessary?” 

“Absolutely vital,” Holly said solemnly. “Trust me.”

“Well…you do know best.”

“And Lucy will love it.”

“You really think so?”

“Lockwood, when have I ever led you astray?”

“Well, let’s see—”

She flicked his forehead. “That would be never .” 

“Naturally, Ms Munro.”

Freed entirely of his coin purse, Lockwood left the housekeeper to her machinations. Minutes later he found Lucy in the parlour, nursing a mug of chocolate. In the hearth, a merry fire crackled, dappling every surface with a soft citrus-hued light, from the rich, jewel-toned brocade of the sofas to the smooth, peachy skin of his nymph. Lucy’s sketchbook lay open to a blank page on her lap, but her charcoals had been set aside for the sake of Pilot, who’d slid his scruffy head onto the cushion beside her, gazing up with coy affection. None the wiser, Lucy made a cooing sound, scratching the sly thing behind both his ears.

“Careful,” Lockwood said as the hound stealthily lifted one paw. He propped his shoulder against the door jamb, nodding towards the creeping paws when Lucy looked at him questioningly. “Once he gets the other one up, the rest of him will follow, and you won’t know peace unless you’ve handed over your afternoon for the sole purpose of petting.”

Lucy giggled as Pilot plopped the upper half of his body across her lap. “I don’t think your master gives you nearly enough attention, poor baby.”

“You have it all wrong. That’s precisely how he lures you in. He plays the neglected, woebegone stray and then—see, and now he’s taken over the sofa. Pilot, don’t squash her. Need a hand, Luce?”

Lucy’s reply was muffled by a mouthful of Pilot’s considerable fluff as the creature succeeded in his scheme. But he made no move to sit or present his belly for pets, only stood there, heedless of Lucy’s struggles. 

“Down, boy.” Lockwood shooed the hound from the parlour, then chuckled as he flopped down on the carpet before Lucy.

Knocking a plume of dark, wiry fur from her dress, she raised an eyebrow as he stretched out his legs. “Oh, I see how it is.” Merriment glimmered as bright as the sparks floating up from the hearth.

“What?”

“You only wanted to take his place. Shall I scratch your ears too, or should I fear being squashed?”

“I distinctly remember promising not to squash you again…” He trailed off, remembering their most recent tumble in the snow. “Huh…I’m rubbish at keeping that particular promise, aren’t I?” 

“And here I was beginning to think you had no flaws.”
Lockwood ignored the comment, capturing her hand. “Congratulate me, my love. I’ve bested the dragon.”

“By bested, do you mean that you’ve handed over the necessary funds to secure our marriage licence?” 

“Now, dearest.” He planted a kiss in the center of her palm, relishing her soft intake of breath, as though, despite the affection they’d already shared, each kiss still surprised her. “That makes it sound so pedestrian.” 

“I’ve been warned not to stroke your considerable ego.”

“You already have,” he said, exploring the breadth of her small, supple hand. 

Lucy’s voice grew unsteady. “H-how so?”

“By agreeing to marry me,” he murmured against her wrist, the lace of her cuff tickling his cheek. “I’m afraid my ego will never recover.”

“Silly man.” Indulgently, she combed her fingers through the forelock tumbling over his brow. Lockwood closed his eyes, leaning into the cradle of touch. Perhaps he shouldn’t wonder as to Lucy’s continual surprise upon each kiss they shared, for he half believed himself to be in one of his dreams, afraid that, if he closed his eyes, he’d awake in his chambers to discover it had all been a fabrication. Charged for so long as the caretaker of Thornfield and its lands, he’d folded up his emotions, and with them his heart, tucked them up on the highest shelf of a seldomly-used cupboard. Lucy’s coming had wrested the door wide. At her touch, the void that awaited him in his quiet, solitary moments flooded with fresh air and sunlight, revealing a hope for the future. 

“What are you drawing?” He asked after a while, tilting his head to peer at the page. 

“Nothing yet.” 

“I’ll gladly be your muse.” He grinned sleepily up at her, feeling his eyelids droop as Lucy’s nimble fingers found a tender spot at the nape of his neck, and it was all he could do not to rest his head in her lap and let her work the tension from his muscles. 

“You really didn’t sleep at all last night, did you?” 

“All I could think about was you,” he said, propping his elbow up on the sofa so that he could rest his chin on his palm as he beheld her. 

“Lockwood, you need to sleep.” She ran her thumb along the prominent vein at his temple. “What if there’s a case tonight?” 

“Already checked with George. None on the ledger.”

“Not yet,” she countered. “You know as well as I do that there could be an emergency at the last minute. And then what? If you fall asleep on your feet, I certainly won’t be carrying you.”

“You’d leave me to Visitors, my love?” 

“I will if you slow me down,” she said, but he glimpsed the sly smile she withheld, tucked in the corner of her rosebud mouth.

“My lady drives a hard bargain.” 

“Your lady,” she said warningly, “is at her wit’s end trying to keep you alive long enough to be wed. I haven’t forgotten that you promised to be my ally. Holly is bound to be a menace.”

He grinned, rising to his feet. “And what an exquisite ally you are.”

Swiftly, he ducked his head to pluck from her that hidden smile. Though their lips brushed for only a moment, Lucy squeaked in surprise, dropping her charcoal. With a chuckle, Lockwood retrieved it, before settling against the cushions on the opposite side of the sofa.

“Incorrigible,” Lucy muttered, though the russet firelight reflected in her cheeks said otherwise. She shifted to maintain a polite distance, sequestering in her corner, curling an arm around her sketchbook. “Now, be good and go to sleep. Your lady commands it.”

“Just for a little while,” he murmured, letting his eyes drift shut to the susurrus of charcoal upon paper and the memory of her lips.

Lucy paused for a moment to absorb his features, which had relaxed in slumber. Then her charcoal got to work, marking out the definition of his brow, the contrasting softness of his spooled eyelashes. Grey smudges to represent the amaranth shadows beneath his eyes. Soft shaping of the nose that was angular until it reached his rounded nostrils, and the thin lips, the scar added with the slightest flick of her wrist. Another faint line for the cleft of his chin, heavier shading on the hollows of his cheeks, where the firelight cast them in deep shadow. Hard lines for the dark hair spilling over his forehead and around his ears, growing steadily untidy as he sunk into the pillows. In his sleep, with his guard down, she could see traces of the small boy he once was, and her stomach lurched at the realization that their own child would have some of these features that she cherished so. A strong yearning tugged at her heart.

Suddenly Lockwood’s brow crumpled. “No…don’t hurt her…don’t…” he muttered, thrashing about. Cushions tumbled from the sofa in his wake.

“Shh, it’s alright. Come here.” Desperate to soothe him, Lucy abandoned her sketchbook and hooked her arm around his, pulling him closer. He wouldn’t have dared allow it if he was awake, for the sake of propriety, but his subconscious state was far more compliant. With a sigh he curled up against her, his head pillowed in her lap, and his brow smoothed as she stroked errant strands of hair from it. His lips parted slightly. Spellbound, Lucy traced the outline of them, then brushed her thumb along the elfin curve of his cheekbone.

Had he been dreaming about her? Injured, by some unknown foe? Whatever imagery had plagued his mind, she wished it never to return. Her fingers found the muscles in his neck, tense once more from his nightmare, and worked the knots free. He smiled in his sleep, moaning not unlike Pilot when the dog was scratched in just the right spot, and turned his head into her stomach. Lucy half-expected his foot to start kicking in tandem. Instead, his hand grasped her free one and tucked it against his chest. She could feel the thrum of his heart, steady and reassuring.

A heavy exhaustion draped over Lucy. The little sleep she’d gotten the night before was catching up to her, making her thoughts fuzzy, her movements sluggish. The comfort of her beloved in her arms and the warmth from the fire produced a soporific effect. Her head lulled against the sofa’s plush high back. She stood on the precipice for the span of a breath, eyelids drooping, and then she was tumbling into velvet darkness.

Dreams, dim and shapeless, flitted across her subconscious, indecipherable. She was worried at first that they might lead into ghostly horrors, but vibrantly-colored scenes surfaced shortly after. She was sitting on the sofa still, but her belly was swollen with child, and Lockwood was kissing its curve while looking up at her adoringly. The scene shifted; there was a babe in her arms now, a girl, with a single tuft of dark hair sweeping across her tiny head, and Lucy felt as if she was holding her heart outside her body. Another shift. The child was older, racing around the sofa and giggling, whilst her younger sibling kicked within Lucy’s womb. Lockwood, his eyes crinkled with laughter, chasing after their eldest, Adèle close behind. George and Holly watched in amusement from across the room until the girl, who had her mother’s shifting blue-green eyes and her father’s sable locks, dragged them both into the game. Bright day faded to damson twilight, to starlit night, to golden dawn, the children—four of them? Lucy was losing count—growing up, becoming young ladies and gentlemen. Lockwood beside her through it all, grey spangling his hair, though he was handsome as ever, if not more so. His hand that held hers was mottled, bent with age. A mirror across from them revealed that Lucy’s ropes of tawny hair had paled to white, wrinkles mapping a well-lived life across her face. Lockwood, resting his head in the crook of her neck, unbothered by the change.

It was perfect.

When Lucy awoke, she was smiling, still in a pleasant, residual dreamy haze. Somewhere on the edge of her awareness, the scuff of a shoe echoed. She straightened out her neck and opened her eyes to find a pair of young, wide brown eyes staring directly into them.

“Adèle!!” Lucy nearly jumped out of her skin. “How long have you been standing there?”

“Not long!” The girl yelped, though her guilty face suggested the contrary.

It took a little time for Lockwood to rouse from deep slumber. His eyes focused blearily on Lucy’s, a smile immediately curling his lips. But then they slid over to his niece, and back to take stock of his soft, unusual pillow. All weariness fled. He shot up into a sitting position, splotches of pink coloring his cheeks as he adjusted his waistcoat. “It’s not polite to spy, Adèle,” he chastised, though his tone was light.

“Désolé! You looked so happy sleeping together.”

Oh dear God. Lucy felt a flush creeping up her neck, wondering just how much the girl had seen. “We just drifted off for a moment.”

Adèle plopped down on the rug. “I think you should sleep together all the time. At night too! Like me and my doll, Marie,” she announced cheerfully.

Lockwood sounded like he was choking on something. He loosened the folds of his cravat. “Erm, we will after we’re married.”

“Why not now? You’re always saying how tired you are, Oncle , but you don’t look tired after sleeping with Miss Carlyle.”

“That’s just not…it’s how things are done.” Sweat beaded on Lockwood’s brow.

“Adèle! Time to get washed up for dinner!” Holly called from the hallway.

Lucy offered up a prayer of thanks for the housekeeper’s impeccable timing. Innocent as Adèle’s insistence had been, she’d touched on precisely the thing Lucy was anxious about. Nearly; the innocent child didn’t yet know what else would happen in that bed.

Adèle went reluctantly, leaving Lockwood and Lucy alone again. They exchanged furtive glances, nervous chuckles. Lucy plucked at a swathe of her skirt, diligently attacking lint that didn’t exist. It must have been catching, for her betrothed was doing the same to his spotless shirt sleeve.

“Children,” Lockwood said apologetically. Surely looking for a way to redirect the conversation, his gaze alighted on Lucy’s sketchbook. “Did you finish your drawing?”

“Nearly.” In comparison to Adèle’s questions, Lockwood seeing her artwork hardly seemed as frightening as it once was. At least with this more realistic sketch. She opened to the page she’d been working on and offered it to him. Apprehension still gnawed at her stomach as she waited for his reaction.

Lockwood took it, careful not to smudge the charcoal, and studied the rough-hewn lines of his own sleeping face.  “An excellent likeness! I’m quite comely,” he praised, waggling his eyebrows.

“Perhaps I should have drawn you with peacock feathers,” Lucy teased as she reclaimed the book. She envisioned him strutting around before her with an impressive plumage and almost giggled aloud.

“Do you not think me handsome?”

Lucy’s lip curled. “No, sir.”

“Sir again?” Lockwood chortled. “What fault do you find with me? I have all my limbs and features.”

Lucy continued her act. “Pardon me, sir. I ought to have replied that beauty is of little consequence.”

Lockwood searched her face, discovering the humor there. He leaned towards her and dropped his voice to a graveled whisper, designed to seduce. “You’re blushing, Miss Carlyle.”

The sound dragged deliciously over Lucy’s nerves. Witty rejoinders fled her tongue and wouldn’t return, not with him hovering so near, wreaking havoc on her senses. He saved her the trouble by bestowing a kiss, and though his hands remained respectfully clasped around hers, he might as well have been touching her everywhere from the way liquid fire poured through her veins. Her dream of their future was still fresh on her mind. Four children; she hoped her array of emotions from imagining what that entailed wasn’t evident.

Lockwood rested his forehead against hers. “What are you thinking of?”

“Growing old with you,” Lucy answered truthfully, for, in her reexamination, she had just reached that scene.

“I think about that quite often.”

This surprised her. “You do?”

He pulled away a little so he could meet her eyes. His were somber. “I didn’t always. After my sister and brother-in-law died, I spent a good deal of time in London managing their affairs. There were occasions when I thought…well, that the bottom of the Thames was an appealing place to be. If it weren't for Adèle…but now I want to experience old age, the best and the worst of it, with this family. With you.” He rubbed circles into her palm. “I already know you’ll still be beautiful then. If I can help it, every wrinkle will be from laughter.”

Lucy had suspected this darkness in his earlier life, but she still shivered at the possibility of losing him without ever having met him. She banished the notion from her mind, turning her attention instead to the older version of her betrothed she’d seen in her dream. “Not as fine-looking as you.”

“So you do admit I’m handsome?” A sly grin crept in.

“Just this once.” Emboldened by a stray thread of courage, she played with his cravat. “I love the way your eyes are so bright even in the dark, and in the sunlight they’re amber. I love your smile, dazzling anyone who chances to be caught in its beam, though there’s a softer, sweeter version you reserve for me. I’m quite fond of your dimples.”

On cue, he displayed the beguiling smile that belonged to her alone. She outlined one of the aforementioned dimples with the tip of her finger, like she would with a pencil, committing it to memory. Later, when they were apart, she would take out these memories like valuable trinkets and admire them, each one bringing her joy, sustaining her until she could see him again.

“Mr Barnes is always telling me to put my teeth away,” Lockwood bemoaned, as if it was some great tragedy.

“Well, Sunday morning service is rather early for that level of brilliance,” Lucy pointed out. “You blind both him and the entire congregation.”

“Fair enough.” Lockwood kissed her again, briefly, breaking it off before Lucy was ready to let him go. “I have a feeling someone is going to walk in on us again if we don’t head to dinner now,” he explained.

“You are showing progress, sir!”

“It appears rogues can be reformed,” Lockwood said sagely. He helped her to her feet, stealing another kiss when she got there, his hands sneaking around her waist. When she raised an eyebrow, he said, “Reformation is a tediously slow affair, my dear.”

Chapter Text

Reformation, and its dilatory pace, became Lockwood’s modus operandi for the next two weeks. Unlike most endeavors he set himself to, his improvement was neither prodigious or swift, but in all aspects, just the opposite. It became abundantly clear after that first day that, while possessing the necessary fortitude and understanding of the concept, he had neither the will nor the motivation to accomplish such a lofty goal. Kisses were taxed from lips and cheeks and brows with an interest that would have put even Nottingham's dastardly sheriff to shame. Hands were clasped whenever they were near, drawn like magnets to iron, whispers tucked between locks of hair. Lockwood, Lucy discovered, though oddly frugal in some matters of household and outrageously flamboyant in others, proved himself to be strictly the latter when it came to showering his love upon the object of his desire. And he made sure that Lucy knew, without any shade or wisp of doubt, that that title belonged solely to her alone. 

Such as it was, Lucy found herself more than willing to grant him an extra helping of virtue, for it was true, in the loosest sense of the word, that he was trying. After all, there were no more tumbles in the snow or impassioned embraces interrupted by either Holly, George or Adèle—

Although… 

Well.

They had startled poor Agnes within an inch of her life when she walked into the music room to find them kissing on the piano bench. 

Lockwood had offered, rather deviously, Lucy noted in retrospect, to teach her to play the instrument. As was so often the case, one thing led to another: the proper distance they sat apart closed by increments as Lockwood sought to be ‘helpful’, turning pages, demonstrating an expert scale in E flat major, both of which did little to impress into Lucy’s head any sort of musical theory as she quickly became distracted by the beauty of his slender, alabaster hands. Weak-kneed at such a show of elegance, she wished, in an unguarded moment, that it was her bare skin those nimble fingers caressed, his practiced dexterity that invoked the melody of her sighs. When Lockwood glanced at her next, she felt as though she leaned far too near the kitchen’s stone ovens. Illicit heat bathed her from head to toe, made all the more potent by the clary sage and tobacco scent of his skin. 

Lockwood, making what she’d thought was a valiant effort, cleared his throat. Lucy jumped a little, blushing furiously. Her betrothed shifted, and she jolted as his hip brushed against hers. Lockwood pretended not to notice. 

“Here, Luce, maybe if you had a guide, you’d pick it up more quickly.” He scooped up both her hands and set them on the keys, their shoulders smooshing together awkwardly. “There. How’s that?”

“I can’t move, Lockwood.”

“Quite right, perhaps if we tried it this way…there, how about that? Enough space for your elbows?”

He’d sprung to his feet in an instant, rounding the bench, and now stood directly behind her, arms resting lightly over hers as he aligned his palms over the backs of her hands. He stepped nearer still, and heat pooled against her spine from where his chest pressed against her back, warmer now that he’d removed his frock coat and stood only in his shirtsleeves and waistcoat. The silk of his cravat brushed the wide neckline of her gown as he rested his chin on her shoulder. A silent chuckle rumbled against her back as she sat, stock-still, lips parting for words that she promptly forgot. 

“You could give the scale a try now, if you like,” he suggested, and heaven help her, the low pitch of his voice undid her in an instant. The underside of his chin brushed like satin against her skin, the breadth of his laughter wafting over her collarbone, foretelling of a night only two days hence in which he’d follow the path with his mouth, his hands eager to reveal more…

Admittedly, it was Lucy rather than Lockwood who surrendered first, who spun round on the bench and captured his lips, and who grasped his upper arms, swathed only in loose linen, the muscles of which hardened beneath her touch. He stumbled forward a step, catching himself on the piano, freeing a discordant protest from an instrument unused to such abuse. Neither paid it any heed, though it released several more plaintive notes as Lockwood struggled to find purchase. Lucy wound her arms around his neck, carding her fingers through his hair as his free hand gripped her waist. Two days , Lucy thought, the dream unspooling before her as the nature of his kiss grew reckless, then euphoric, and his hand circled around to the small of her back.

A scandalized gasp sent them both skittering apart. Uncharacteristically clumsy, Lockwood tripped over a run in the carpet, arms pinwheeling until he finally managed to regain some semblance of balance.

“Miss Agnes,” Lockwood sputtered. His turquoise cravat sat awry, his silken, cimmerian locks stuck out in every direction. 

The ginger-haired girl stood in the doorway with mouth slightly agape, eyes round as saucers. A forgotten tea tray sagged in her grip, the cups tipping precariously before she righted it with a yelp.

Lockwood lunged forward to catch it before the porcelain shattered to the ground. “You can just…that is…Oh, let me. No? Alright, set that down on the…um…wherever really. Off you go.” 

Mad giggles slipped beneath the door after Agnes made her curtseys and bobs and a hasty escape.

Lucy pressed her palms to her burning cheeks. Lockwood glanced at his reflection in the polished bronze disk hung upon the wall, the metal stamped with arcane symbols. He sighed, combing his hair in vain. 

“You started it,” he muttered.  

Lucy swatted his shoulder with a sheaf of sheet music. “ I started it?”

At her flat look, he amended. “Well, I suppose after, ah…sufficient encouragement on my part.”

Lessons that proved far more useful, if no less perilous, were Lockwood’s daily instruction at dance. 

“Just like the Kuriashi Turn, eh Luce?” He called over his shoulder after completing the last steps of a graceful waltz. Holly stood in as his partner, smiling encouragingly. 

“No,” Lucy said, brows drawn in concentration, desperately trying to commit the footwork to memory. “It’s not like that at all.”

Holly quickly disengaged and flew to Lucy, catching her as she was about to make a fleet-footed escape under a bower of pine and holly berries. Laughing, Lockwood strode towards them across the gleaming parquet floors, his reflection a fainter, shadowy version of the man above. 

A shiver ran down Lucy’s spine, a sudden chill stealing over her limbs. For some reason, the shadow trapped in the floor brought to mind the knocking at her chamber door…and with it memories of John.

Her Lockwood offered her an upturned hand and a crooked grin that softened at her uncertainty, though he knew not what for. “Everything alright?” 

She looked up sharply from the phantom world. 

She had never asked him about it, the fire and his brush with death.

“Lockwood,” she said quietly, lest her voice carry beyond the boundary allotted by her skirts. “We never talked about the fire…and what— who —caused it?” The end of her sentence turned up in question as his expression grew lean. 

“Now’s really not the time, is it?” 

“I…suppose not. But—”

“I think you’re stalling,” he sang, humor revealing his dimples. “Come, it really isn’t as scary as it looks.”

“It looks plenty scary.” Lucy rested her fingertips lightly upon his, as Holly had done. Though the vaulted heights of the hall, the grand Corinthian columns and arches, and the balcony—cleared in anticipation for the village musicians—echoed with the excited whispers of servants, she felt as though she was the only girl in the entire north country as Lockwood drew her into the middle of the floor. Except that, mirrored in the strange, dark world below, another girl allowed the handsome boy before her to position her other hand on his bicep, who looked back with equal parts wonder and reserve. 

“Eyes up here.” Lockwood brushed the underside of her chin, and the other girl was forgotten entirely. “I promise I won’t let you fall.”

“Even when I step on your toes?” She grimaced, focusing on her inevitable mistakes rather than Lockwood’s steady hand resting lightly at the small of her back. Surely, he possessed an uncanny art, for although they had kissed and touched in abundance, the lightness with which he held her now seemed the most intimate gesture of all.

“Especially then.” He winked. “Step on them all you wish. You’re hardly a heavyweight, Luce.” As he demonstrated some minutes later, when, just as Lucy thought that she’d sorted out the positioning of her toes and the angle of the turns, he lifted her effortlessly into the air.

She yelped, gracelessly clutching at his shoulders, staring down into his guileful eyes. 

Traitor, she thought, blushing furiously at the strength of his grip, how very large his hands were when he spanned either side of her waist. He executed a smooth half-turn and set her down, leading her back into the slow, stately circuit of the waltz. 

“You didn’t do that with Holly,” she hissed, dizzy on account of the butterflies migrating from her stomach up to her head. Though it should have been impossible, she often forgot just how much vigor he held in his muscles. It was bloody unfair that such a slender frame hid such vitality, like the God who’d formed him had surplus that day and couldn’t bear to let it go to waste.

“Holly isn’t you,” he whispered, leaning briefly nearer to graze her cheek. Lucy squeaked. In public. “Nor is she the one I’ll be marrying in two weeks time,” he continued, crossing both arms across his waist, and prompting her to do likewise, so that they stood parallel, but facing opposite directions. “Also, there’s the minor detail that she’d have my hide if I did anything of the sort.”

“I’ll have your hide for it!” Lucy seethed. 

“Oh, believe you me, I’d love to see you try.”

She purposely trod on his boots when, repeating the dance step, they crossed in front of one another.

“Was that supposed to hurt?” He whispered in her ear, breath as warm as the hothouse on her neck, his heady scent like the flora flourishing within. “I thought it was a little mouse running across my toes.”

“A mouse!”

“Maybe a rabbit,” he allowed. “A kit.”

“You’re…you’re…”

“Yes?”

“Incorrigible,” she grumbled.

“You’re only just sorting that out, my love—ow!” He blinked down at her, stunned, but somehow kept perfect tempo, missing not a single damn step. “What was that for?”

“What do you think?” Lucy kicked out again, unable to keep a wicked grin from her lips.

“Hellion,” he growled with a calculating gleam in the brilliance of his grin. 

Lucy stumbled, caught utterly off-guard by the low, rumbling timbre of his voice. She’d heard such a tone before, but always directed at a ghost, or at George’s interference. Never at herself, and never with embers kindling in his half-lidded gaze, at hazard of consuming her body and soul. 

“R-rogue,” she countered, lifting her chin in consternation, though she could feel the flush dousing her face. “Picking up girls and putting them down without warning,” she soldiered on, committing to her show of prim indifference. “Then insulting their stature.”

“Or lack thereof.”

“It’s indecent. Boorish, too.”

One thick, wiry brow lifted. “It was hardly an insult. I happen to like rabbits very much. They’re rather adorable, don’t you think?” 

He danced forward with a spritely spring to his step. Belatedly, Lucy remembered to mirror him, but her own footfalls proved ungainly. True to his word, Lockwood caught her elbows as she lurched backwards. 

“Alright there, Luce?” His thumbs charted the upper arms of her dress, connecting the silver dots as an astronomer might follow the course of stars. He gazed at her as if she was just as unfathomable, unknowable, but a mystery that he would commit his life to unravelling. 

“Mm-hm.”

“Since when have the Folk resorted to such violent tactics?” He spoke again in that low, gravel-strewn voice, and the distinct impression crossed her mind that, if they hadn’t been surrounded by servants, he’d have backed her against one of the pillars and proceeded to kiss her senseless. The realization did little to quash the growing sense of vertigo overtaking her limbs. Perhaps she indeed wore the night sky and floated, weightless, through its Plutonian expanse.

“When we’ve been unfairly captured by…um, dandyish lordlings.”

“I’m hardly a lord. And you could have left anytime you wanted. Instead, you kicked me, dearest.” He gazed down at her with sorrowful eyes that would have put Pilot’s to shame. That was until another, wickeder notion stole across his otherwise seraphic face. “Who’d have guessed that I chose such a wild, feisty creature to be my bride?” Nodding the tempo, he drew her back into the waltz. “You’re practically feral.”

“I’d hardly call that new information.” 

“Indeed. I had an inkling when you tackled me off a cliff.”

Now, the day of the ball, she stepped with remarkable ease, flowering beneath Lockwood’s tutelage like a rare winter bloom. Her blue skirts unfurled like blue morning glory as he whirled her across the hardwood. As she spun away from him for several beats, she stole a glimpse of the other girl floating beneath the lacquered surface, exposed more fully now in the brilliant winter light pouring through the windows. She grew lovelier by the day, this copper-haired spirit, shades of scarlet autumn foliage rippling out across cheeks and nose. Full of whimsy, Lucy suspected that it was always autumn in the other world, the world below, ruled by the stately Folk. How else could she explain her fortune, to live in a world of autumns and blustering Octobers, where a chance meeting in a dire wood could be magicked into a wedding by Christmastide?

She found herself beaming as she came face to face once more with Lockwood, accepting his waiting hand. They’ve grown somewhat conservative with their touches after being happened upon by Agnes the day prior—later, alone in her room, Lucy had berated herself for her lack of control, however much the incitement was Lockwood’s—and there was something utterly enthralling about the intimate quarters of the waltz combined with the lightest brush of their gloved hands; Lockwood’s careful grip upon her fingers thrilled her then as much as if he’d drawn her into an passionate embrace.

“Well done, Luce!” He exclaimed as they completed the dance. She rose from her curtsy, and he from his bow. “And without a single act of violence on my person. We’ll make a lady of you yet.”

She scowled at his exuberance, though she couldn’t help but swoon a little deep down at his praise. Only a little, and very, very, deep down, mind. Clearing her throat, she muttered. “I’ll never be a lady.”

“No. And I love you for it,” he said warmly, lifting her hand to his lips, making a show of surveying the empty room for onlookers before deftly removing her glove, tucking it into his pocket. He kissed her knuckles, the ridges and cerulean veins fanning across the back of her hand. Above them, garlands of pine and cloth of silver draped between the columns. Bundles of lavender bloomed from every urn and balcony. 

“It’s still not a thing like the Kuriashi Turn,” Lucy said, breathless as she pulled away, struck afresh by the oddity of her emotions, turning this way and that as if her soul still danced within her. One spin brought her closer to elation, the marriage and love she craved, another had her second-guessing everything, sure that she rushed headlong into a new reality that she was woefully unprepared for. One that would expose her as a fool to all, but to Lockwood especially.

“Oh, it’s more like it than you’d think.”

When she glanced back towards him, she found him already watching her with that pensive, earnest gaze of his. 

“How’s that?”

“The Kuriashi Turn is best employed when battling a ghost at close quarters—”

“I know that. We’ve practiced it often enough.”

“Ah, but have you noticed the catch?” Lockwood took her hand, tucking it within the crook of his elbow as they departed the ballroom beneath strands of pungent dried orange slices and cranberries. Servants parted at their passing, many tucking fond smiles behind their hands. “There’s always a point when your back is to the Visitor, just for the space of a heartbeat. That’s why we practice it together. Ideally, it’s meant to be performed with a partner, so that when one is vulnerable, left momentarily unguarded, the other is there to be their shield. My mother always said what made the execution so difficult was the trouble in finding someone in whom your trust is absolute. Because for that moment…”

“You’re at the mercy of your partner’s ability to react, to sense the danger and keep you safe,” Lucy finished. Silence passed between them as they climbed the spiraling stone staircase, the echo of their slowing steps skipping ahead until they stopped altogether, alone before the last bend. Grey morning filtered down upon Lockwood’s head from the single mullioned window.

“I would consent to be at your mercy, Luce,” he said, very softly.

He gazed at her piously, as if she were some empyrean being in control of his fate. Her knees grew weak beneath the weight of his worshipful attention, overwhelming her.

“I fear I am more often at your mercy, whenever I focus my Listening on hunts,” Lucy said.

“It’s yours, always.”

Their dynamics shifted. The shaft of diluted sunlight brightened, splitting Lockwood’s face in two. On one half he was a compassionate cherub, skin glowing white, the eye honeyed amber, brow lifted with transcendent emotion. The other half was cast in shadow, and here lurked a seraph, burning for her, his dark, smoldering passion bridled but restless. When they were at last united, she sensed that it would consume her, brand her skin with lips and tongue and teeth. Then the cherub would soothe her wearied body, whispering promises of unfading love in her ear as she peacefully drifted off to sleep. A shiver tumbled pell-mell down her spine at the thought.

But this bilateral angel hadn’t managed to grasp immortality. His frame could bruise, bleed, break. Shatter into pieces.

“We’ll call it an exchange of mercies.” It wasn’t an even trade, she knew. Though his Sight had been steady as of late, she dreaded the day it failed entirely, and he would be blind, truly at her mercy. On that day, she’d protect him with all that was in her.

“I’ll accept those terms.” Lockwood’s voice was softer still, though rough at the edges.

He slid his hand down her arm, drawing her still-gloved hand up between them. Grasping the ivory tip of the index finger, he dragged it off, so slowly this time that it was maddening, those amber eyes absorbing her reaction.

She felt exposed, laid bare to him, as he delicately traced the lines of her palm, darts of anticipation lancing through her veins. A grin toyed with the corner of his lip; he knew exactly what he was doing to her.

A mischievous thought struck Lucy. Oft in their romantic encounters, Lockwood took the lead, scattering her thoughts and depriving her of intelligent speech. But at the piano, when she’d kissed him first, it had given her a heady sense of power, as if she were a siren bewitching a sailor. She would not doom him to crash on the rocks, however, but reel him in close and claim him, make him her own.

And so, now, she flipped their hands. Her small fingers intimately explored his calluses, the larger swells of his knuckles, the strong tendons of his wrist. She pressed her lips to the centre of his palm, then nudged down his sleeve to kiss his pulse. He inhaled sharply, and when she glanced up through her lashes he had leaned in closer, his flop of hair brushing her forehead, eyes darkening as his pupils dilated. The tips of their noses brushed, lips grazing over each other, breathing quickening.

“Just one more day until you’re my wife,” he growled, carving the words into her soul.

Terror and joy spiked in her heart, rivaling for dominance. Where had the time gone since he’d asked her to marry him? Tomorrow morning they would pledge fidelity, bind their lives together with an unbreakable cord. And tomorrow night…

“Lockwood, George is trying to usurp Cook again!” Holly swept into view, violet skirts fanning out like the sails of a ship. She stumbled to a stop. “Oh! So sorry.”

“No, no, it’s quite fine—alright, rather, yes.” Lockwood slipped out of Lucy’s grasp, thoroughly flustered.

Lucy smiled with a secret pride, aware she was the reason he was rattled, unable to string words together properly. She very much enjoyed it.

They reluctantly parted ways, Lockwood to serve as mediator between George and Cook, and Lucy to assist Holly with the final touches on the ball decorations.

The women tied velvet crimson ribbons to garlands strung along the banisters, arranged china dishes and the crystal punch bowl, and adorned the refreshment table with evergreen sprigs. Fresh fir trees had been brought in the day before, and Adèle offered to help them finish the trimmings. As evening approached, Lucy lit the candles on the boughs. It created a magical effect; gold orbs hovering in a fairy wood.

“That should do it,” Holly said eventually, surveying their work with moderate satisfaction. She glanced at the nearest clock and gasped, tugging Lucy toward the stairs. “Just two hours to get ready!”

Lucy laughed. “That’s plenty of time, Hol!”

“Do you want me to accidentally burn off your hair when I’m curling it? Best not to rush these things.”

“My hair doesn’t have to be curled.”

Holly stopped just long enough to stare at Lucy in horror, as if she had suggested committing murder or some other dastardly crime.

“Never mind,” Lucy amended quickly, picking up her skirts so she could climb the stairs faster.

Some time later Lucy stood in front of her mirror, festooned in the changeling cobalt evening gown with silk camellias, her fingers tugging self-consciously at the low décolletage. Ringlets spilled over her ears and around her coil of braids, coaxed with tongs into silken perfection under Holly’s capable hands. Lockwood’s mother’s combs were nestled amongst them. Sapphire drops sparkled at Lucy’s earlobes; Lockwood had gifted them to her the week before.

“Is it too much?” Lucy asked, frowning. There would be no hiding in this ensemble.

“Of course not! Lockwood will be positively captivated by those collarbones; gives him a taste of what he’ll finally be able to indulge in tomorrow night.” Holly winked suggestively.

Anxiety cleaved through Lucy’s chest. “Holly, I don’t know if I can go through with the wedding.”

Holly stopped adjusting the scalloped detail on Lucy’s skirt and gaped at her reflection, eyebrows soaring upward. “What do you mean, you can’t go through with it? You love him, don’t you?”

“I do! But tomorrow, when it’s our wedding night…I don’t know how to…and he’ll be able to see…everything.” Lucy was fairly sure she was as red as Holly’s namesake berries, which currently decorated a majority of the beams in Thornfield.

“Ohh. Lucy, what do you know about relations between a man and a woman?”

“Erm, well, one of the matrons at Lowood taught us how to manage our monthlies, and to stay away from men until we married, at which point we were to perform our wifely duties of satisfying our husbands and producing children.”

Holly grimaced. “I thought as much. So nothing of the act itself?”

Lucy shook her head.

“Right then. Well, I have three married older sisters who gave me advice on the matter, which ironically I don’t need. But at least I can impart it to you.” Holly settled on the end of the bed, pulling her plum confection of a skirt close to her so there was room. She patted the quilt next to her.

Lucy sat down apprehensively, but she had to admit she was curious. Her imagination could only get her so far.

“Right then, listen closely,” Holly instructed.

By the end of the conversation, Lucy was still embarrassed but significantly better informed, and the worst of her anxiety had faded.

“I know he’ll be understanding and gentle with you, so you need not be afraid. Lockwood is no brute,” Holly assured, squeezing Lucy’s hands. “And forget what that old bat at your school said; he’s supposed to satisfy you too. Which won’t be a problem in this case either, considering how much that man loves to make you happy.”

“Alright.” Lucy felt a blush coloring her cheeks again as she eagerly envisioned the ways Lockwood might go about doing that.

Holly looked at the clock. “We don’t have time now, but at some point in the near future I’ll need to address pregnancy and childbirth.”

“More advice from your sisters?”

Holly grinned. “Yes, I currently have eight nieces and nephews.”

Lucy’s eyes widened. “Good Lord!”

There was a tentative knock on the door. “Lucy, are you ready?” Lockwood’s genial voice carried through.

Had Lucy not spoken to Holly about her fears, the sound of his voice might have rekindled her worries. Instead it calmed her. This man had never been anything but kind to her, concerned first with how she felt before considering his own feelings. She should have known that would extend to their marriage bed.

Holly’s dark eyes searched Lucy’s, waiting for confirmation. When she nodded, Holly strode toward the door and flung it open. “She’s ready!” She announced cheerfully before slipping around Lockwood, disappearing into the corridor.

Lucy stood as Lockwood entered, and he halted, his smile slipping. His gaze raked over her, traveling from the ringlets down the smooth marble column of her throat, to the soft indentation of her collarbones and the supple curves of her shoulders, all of it begging to be kissed. His sister’s gown was resplendent on her; Jessica would have been so happy.

“Is it alright?” Lucy asked, pressing her hands to the silk bodice.

Lockwood’s grin returned. He sunk down dramatically on one knee before her, took her hand with a flourish, and kissed it. “Forgive me, Your Majesty, for I am not worthy of being in the presence of such a fair queen, the most lovely of all the fae.”

“Oh go on!” Lucy shook her head, but the smile playing at her sweet pink lips indicated she found it amusing. He rose and grasped her other hand as well.

“But you are lovely. Breathtaking, actually,” he murmured. He drifted back, reaching into his pocket. “I, um, thought you might not have a necklace to go with your dress, and I just remembered those earrings had a matching one. My mother wore the earrings more, you see. And, well, here.”

In the palm of his hand was a masterpiece, the chain crafted into gold leaves embracing sapphire and diamond rosettes, glittering brilliantly in the candlelight.

Lucy gasped, brushing one of the sapphire petals with her thumb. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything so beautiful.”

I have, Lockwood thought, lovingly studying her soft features. “My father gave it to my mother soon after they met. It was a symbol of his undying devotion.”

“Of course; it couldn’t be anything else.”

Lockwood took a deep breath. “And now…it’s my symbol to you.”

Though he’d already given her his mother’s ring, the necklace seemed far more monumental. He felt as if he was proposing all over again, properly this time, swearing his eternal love to her.

Lucy appeared to understand this. She looked up at him with wide eyes, blue as the sapphires. “Put it on for me?”

Lockwood moved behind her. His thumb fumbled with the clasp, but eventually he managed to hook it. He longed to bend over and press his lips to her clavicle, taste her creamy shoulder, but propriety barred the temptation. Tomorrow, after marriage unlocked that gate, he intended to burn a trail across the entire expanse. For now he contented himself with admiring how the sapphire necklace looked round her neck.

For a moment he considered sending for the older, more valuable heirloom jewels from his banker in London. He wished to put the circlet on Lucy's noble forehead, clasp the bracelets on her fine wrists, load her fairy-like fingers with rings. But he already knew she wouldn’t want such opulence. The treasures his father had purchased to represent his love had far more value to both of them than adornments of unknown Lockwood's past.

“I love it.” Lucy cradled a rosette in her fingers, then let it fall and gazed up at him, stars shining in her eyes. “I love you.”

Lockwood did bend down then to kiss her lips, his arms threading around her waist, dragging her back against him. It felt so good just to hold her, and he strengthened his resolve to resist his impulses, at least for one more day. Less than a day; the wedding was at ten the next morning.

“I love you. And I can’t wait to marry you,” he hummed into her ear.

“You know, it’s considered bad form for the hosts of a party to not actually be in attendance.” George had appeared in the doorway, all but tapping his foot, visibly annoyed.

“Ah, yes, we were just about to head down!” Lockwood promised, releasing Lucy.

“Good. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to make sure Cook isn’t setting out her plum pudding. Mine is much better.” George pivoted and stalked off.

Lockwood chuckled and held out his arm. “Shall we, my love?”

“We shall.” Lucy slipped her arm through his, beaming.

Lockwood felt as if he was gliding on air as he led his fairy queen down the flights of stairs to the ballroom, her shimmering skirts shifting between shades of blue, those enthralling eyes glancing up at him with adoration every once and a while. Why she deigned to walk alongside him, entwine her life with his, he would never know.

Chapter Text

In stepping from her chambers on the arm of her betrothed, Lucy found she had stepped across the border from the mortal realm to that of Faerie. In the few hours she had spent being readied by Holly, a sly, uncanny glamour had been bespelled over each tapestry and trinket, polished across every piece of aging Georgian furniture, tufted into hall runners and carpets. They walked through a world dyed in every possible shade of gold. Strains of jaunty violin drifted along the drafty corridors, chased by a playful thrill of a flute, a mistral of minstrels, swirling around her skirts. She couldn’t help but glance at her dress as they swept down the staircase, immersed in the duochrome shift of the fabric dramatised by candle flame.

And yet, despite the golden grandeur, Lockwood drew her admiration long before they reached the entrance hall and stood arrayed beneath the chandelier. Champagne light painted over his high, sharp cheekbones, bringing ripe peaches to the surface of his smooth-shaven skin. He wore an expertly-tailored frock coat the precise shade of ultramarine, same as the pigment Lucy kept in her watercolour case. The lapels were embroidered with curling fronds of lily of the valley. With his dark forelock handsomely twisted over his brow, he looked for all the world like the king of the Folk, and so, like a storybook maiden, she was ensnared.

A memory brushed the back of her mind, petal soft and swathed in the balm of a distant summertime. She and Norrie knelt in the dark, rich earth of Lowood’s gardens, shoulders pressed, heads ducked in secret. Norrie used her pale fingers to form a small hole in the dirt, planting a budding clump of the tiny white bells.

“D’you know what they mean, Luce?” Despite her wide-brimmed bonnet, mornings spent in the garden had dappled her thin cheeks with a seeding of freckles that now bloomed with sun-kissed coral. Health shone from her bright eyes, chasing away the cough that had plagued her all the long winter and damp spring.

Lucy shook her head, lifting one of the flowers with her fingertip, marvelling at its delicacy. 

“New beginnings.” Norrie grinned. “A return of happiness. I’m planting them for good luck. We’ll get out of here, go to London, before this place sucks us dry.”

“What on earth would we do in London?” Lucy snorted, for until being exiled to Lowood, the furthest she’d ever ventured was little over two miles from her cousin’s estate. London, and its many, many leagues between, seemed as far away and mystical as the Orient.

“Go to parties,” Norrie said, wriggling her boney shoulders. “Meet handsome gentlemen.”

Automatically, Lucy spouted, “I don’t want a gentleman!” Sour Miss Scatcherd had recently lectured the girls on their monthly courses, as well as the painful reality of their wifely expectations. Ever since, Lucy had sworn off the union entirely. Whatever fluttery feeling tumbled through her stomach whenever Paul Bell, one of the village boys, waved at her over the garden wall, was put soundly to rest. Spinsterhood would suit her just fine.

“We’ll gobble up all their food then.” Norrie poked Lucy’s side, earning a stifled giggle for her efforts. Peering over her shoulder to ensure Miss Scatcherd was well out of sight, she lifted her fist in defiance. “Down with burnt porridge!”

“Here, here!”

The girls buckled over with laughter, but quickly smothered their mirth upon glimpsing the staid grey bonnet of their teacher making its way through the plots. They bowed their heads demurely and continued planting in silence. The waxing sun beat down upon Lucy’s back, soaking into her bones despite her layers of underthings. A chorus of birdsong swelled in the trees above, heedless of Miss Scatcherd’s eagle eye.

When at last they were alone again, Norrie took her hand, squeezing tight. “Your solemn and binding promise.”

Lucy met her amber eyes, lifting her chin.  “My solemn and binding promise.”

Norrie would have adored the transformation of Thornfield, and how she would have crowed upon seeing the fine gentleman on her arm. Perhaps in her death, her friend had found sanctuary in this golden realm, for Lucy could have sworn she heard her whisper in her ear:

I knew you weren’t made of stone, Lucy Carlyle.

Lockwood must have felt the weight of her gaze, for he suddenly looked down, a winsome, lopsided smile brought to his lips from the expression. Seeming bespelled himself, he caressed her cheek with the tip of his index finger.

“Your court awaits you, my queen.”

“Mm, delightful. My favorite thing. Posh people and small talk.” As if to spite her best efforts, her old country brogue crept back into her voice. She grimaced. “God, Lockwood, I’m nervous.”

His thumb absently stroked the back of her upper arm, and a new fluttery feeling swept through her, as though a tricksy pair of sprites had taken up in her stomach. “They’re going to love you,” he insisted. “You’ll charm them all, just like you did me.”

She squinted at him. “I have never once been called ‘charming’ in my entire life. Dour comes to mind. As does peevish.”

“Only when you’re especially hungry. Or—ah, no kicking. My shins will never recover—really, Luce. You’re enchanting,” he insisted, his forelock only slightly askew from his nimble footwork. “And even if your powers fail you, I’ll be by your side the whole night.” A mischievous glint shimmered like fairy dust across his eye. “And every night after this.”

Lucy elbowed his side, but was forced to stay any further violence as the first of their guests arrived. 

“Ah, Mr and Mrs Evans, how good of you to come.” Lockwood beamed so beguilingly at the elderly couple, Lucy wouldn’t have been surprised if their old hearts failed for the space of several beats. Imbued with his effervescence, Lucy felt her grimace lessen, a genuine smile taking its place. “May I present to you my betrothed?”

Names and faces swam through Lucy’s head, blurring into a kaleidoscope of gowns and cravats, gilded and jewelled. Much to her relief, the vast number of guests greeted her with genuine gladness and Lockwood with good-natured ribbing. Questions about her parentage were neatly deflected, and Lockwood kept her cheeks abloom as he sang her praises to high heaven. 

“A Listener to rival the likes of Marissa Fittes, Colonel Dent!” 

Lucy tugged at his arm. “Lockwood, I’m good. That’s all. You’ll have to excuse him, sir. My betrothed is prone to exaggeration.”

“Nonsense! Your technique in dealing with Cold Maidens is second to none.”

Such ‘technique’ amounted to managing not to fall flat on her face in the bog several days prior. The Visitor, one Miss Rowena Harrowby, had been particularly vile in appearance, with half her pretty face riddled with rot, the bones exposed beneath the peeling flesh. Lucy had been filthy, sore and not a little peevish after they’d finally recovered Rowena’s Source, a warped and waterlogged journal stowed in a hollow tree that George was still pouring over, convinced it held the secret to some such mystery rapping at his mind. She hadn’t been especially pleasant company, terse in her responses and waspish in her demeanor. Lockwood, oblivious of both grime and grim, had dragged her into his arms and showered her face in exultant kisses after they’d trudged up onto dry ground. She found herself unable to muster a single complaint after that.

“Is it true that you met her in the old forest?” A young lady simpered from across their circle, all golden curls and apricot sateen. The expression of her round green eyes, however, reminded Lucy of an adder hiding in the brush. Tension stole across her shoulders.

“How terribly…remote,” tittered the girl beside her, festooned in marigold, so alike the first that they could only be sisters. 

Lockwood’s palm grazed the small of Lucy’s back. “Miss Carlyle graciously saved my life, Miss Eshton,” he said mildly, “with no thought to her own. I am forever in her debt.” His fingers sketched a circle light as the first pass of her charcoals. 

“I met my dear Winifred when we were both out riding on the moors,” Colonel Dent recalled fondly, and Lucy was instantly grateful for the portly man. He smiled down at the woman at his side, whose face still retained the blush of girlish charm, though her sorrel hair was amply threaded with silver. 

“We can’t all find a partner at a dance, I’m afraid,” she said, brown eyes crinkling as she tilted her head back to admire the balconies above. “However magical the setting.”

No , Lucy agreed in her head as Lockwood glided his fingers down her forearm to clasp her hand. Sometimes you don’t need a single drop of magic at all.

Only when Penelope Fittes and her set made their appearance did Lucy’s equilibrium falter. 

“Dear me,” Lockwood whispered low in her ear, causing the fine hairs to stand on end. “Methinks you’ve made her jealous, Luce. The tiara’s a bit much, don’t you think?”

Lucy snorted, shaking her head. With her ebony locks piled high around a dainty silver circlet, Penelope appeared between the pale columns of the ballroom like an empress of the winter Folk.  

“She does seem to enjoy having her um, assets, on full display,” Lucy muttered darkly, for the cut of Penelope’s silvery gown, while undeniably flattering, seemed specifically stitched to prove that the beautiful widow was far more endowed than her young hostess. Delicate seed pearls swirled across the silk like fronds of ghost fog. A gossamer fringe of lace only emphasized how low and wide the bodice dipped, and Lucy couldn’t help the small bubble of envy; even with her corset doing most of the work, she’d struggled to fill out the bodice of Jessica’s gown. Only Holly’s quick and clever tacks had saved the day.

Pretty isn’t your profession . Mother’s old saying returned to her, made all worse for its dispassion. 

Lockwood’s gaze danced over Lucy thoughtfully, lingering on the full, coral camellias flush against her decolletage. Lucy blushed at the familiar curiosity, one she knew well, having indulged in…wondering the closer they drew to their wedding. He pointedly ignored Penelope as the woman sashayed by, though Lucy caught the brunt of her withering glare. Lockwood soon distracted her, playing with a ringlet at the nape of her neck.

“She needn’t have bothered, you know.” 

A delicious shiver ran from the top of her head to the tip of her toes. “O-oh?” 

He leaned nearer still, his breath hot. “I’d tell you, in detail, precisely how much more marvelous I consider your ahem, assets, but alas, that is our cue to begin the waltz. Shall we, dearest?”

Her mouth fell open. “You—I, um…that is…”

He chuckled, tapping her beneath the chin. “Best close that, my love. You’ll catch flies.”

“You can’t just say things like that without warning,” she hissed as he led her to the centre of the floor. 

“Can’t I?” Lockwood swept her into his arms, just as they’d done a hundred times, though never before so many onlookers. “It’s great fun.”

“It’s…unseemly.” But on the tip of her tongue was devastating , and in her heart, that tempting curiosity arose again, fixed upon what else he might have said had propriety impelled him to be silent. 

The first strains of the waltz wafted down from the balcony.

Lockwood gave her a sly wink. “Only for a few hours more, perhaps. Tomorrow however…”

The song filled the chamber of her ribs, swelling with anticipation. Tomorrow.

Soulful cello thrummed against her breastbone. Flute and viola circled the melody. Carried away by the music, Lucy lost herself in the steps of the dance, the glide of her slippers across the polished wood. Even this, however, dissolved beneath Lockwood’s raven gaze. Caught on a whim of fancy, she imagined that the bird was his guise when he took to the mortal world. Graced by his familiar’s attributes, he trapped her in his black glossed lashes, beheld her in her finery with corvid fascination.

And when he lifted her into the air, she swore she spied the pinions of feathers peeking out from behind his shoulders, irised blue.

Raven, seraph, king of the Fae. 

Unearthly. 

Without her notice, the waltz came to an end, yet how could it be so when the world still spun. She clung to Lockwood, fearing that, without the strength of his arms, her knees might give way.

“Just like the Kuriashi Turn,” she whispered as the ballroom returned and she became aware of an enthusiastic applause.

Beaming, Lockwood lifted her hands to his lips. “Just so.”

With the first waltz over, the ball commenced. Lucy danced until she could no more, commiserating with the twelve princesses of Adele’s fairy tales. Mostly with Lockwood, faithful in his promise, but also with the kindly Colonel Dent, who regaled with tales of Waterloo and treacherous nature of French Visitors, Mr Barnes, after which they both agreed that one dance would suffice for the remainder of their acquaintance, and an ashen-faced young man whom Lockwood begrudgingly introduced as Quill Kipps. Lucy didn’t quite know what to make of the gentleman who, though an expert dancer, made only terse conversation and spent the entire number glowering over her shoulder. When Lucy turned, she found her betrothed glaring right back, as though he wished the floor to open up into an abyss and swallow the man whole. 

“He was one of Jessica’s suitors,” Lockwood explained afterwards. They spun slowly around each other in a simple country reel Lucy had mercifully known since girlhood. “I can’t not invite him, unfortunately, but he’s always so beastly unpleasant whenever he comes around.”

“He must have loved her very much,” Lucy murmured, suddenly acutely aware of the sapphirine rustle of silk. “Do you think he minds…?”

“Minds what?”

“I’m wearing her dress.”

“Think nothing of it. What you wear is none of Kipps’ concern. Or anyone else here for that matter.”

Yet as the party tarried into the early hours of morning, Lucy couldn’t help but wonder if some of the guests had made it their concern, and not simply of her wardrobe, but of her very presence in their world. Try as she might, she couldn’t keep the odd sensation from stealing over her mind. At first she thought she sensed a Visitor, for it slithered slow and serpentine up her spine, flicking at the ringlets tumbling about her ears. It settled on her tongue like malaise, and she began filching chocolates whenever she happened to pass the refreshment table in order to stave off the strange bitterness. Between smiles and dreaded small talk, she spied upon Thornfield’s defenses, though all had been duly reinforced in anticipation of the party and wedding ceremony. No matter what she did, the feeling remained, skittering beneath her skin until she wished to claw it free. 

Her suspicion solidified into fact when the Misses Eshton promptly showed her their backs as she dutifully made her rounds of the ballroom. Lucy blinked, regarding the wall of lemon and apricot, not especially put out, for upon earlier hearing their woefully naive views on the Problem, she had written them off as whey-faced idiots. Beside them, Penelope smiled magnanimously, a monarch residing over her court in that resplendent gown. Lucy swallowed as the older woman met her eye with practiced indifference, as though it was she who was the mistress of Thornfield and Lucy of little more importance than one of its servants. Anger and disgust stirred in her stomach as she spun away, the first directed at Penelope, for reducing her to a wallflower, the second at herself, for being so easily cowed. 

“Dearest.” Silk-clad fingers grazed her elbow as Lockwood materialised from the crowd. “Dance with me?” His smile dimmed by fractions as he took in her expression. “What’s wrong? Are you tired? Hungry? Can I get you something more to eat?” 

“That would be grand.” Lucy fiddled with the dance card at her wrist, too embarrassed to raise her doubts. Her charms, as Lockwood had to gallantly put it, had failed her as expected. 

Moments later, he returned with two porcelain plates heaped with George’s delights, from golden meat pies to honey-drenched baklava layered with crushed pistachio and paper-thin pastry to dainty crystal bowls of his prized plum pudding. Lucy tucked into the plate eagerly, washing the food down with a flute of fizzing punch the colour of pomegranates.

Lockwood watched her fondly. “Have you eaten at all tonight?”

“Not really,’ she admitted, snagging another steaming pie from Lockwood’s plate. He made no protest, seeming perfectly content to watch her enjoy her meal. “Someone left me alone to play hostess.”

He grimaced. “I’m sorry about that. John Fairfax insisted on regaling me all about his bloody ironworks.” He shuddered. “Never show one iota of interest in that man’s businesses, Luce. You’ll be subjected to list after list of production output.”

“How thrilling.”

“So thrilling I spent the entire time daydreaming about a certain young lady.”

“One of the Miss Eshtons, I presume?”

He gave her a flat look, or tried to, at the very least. A changeling grin flicked up one corner of his mouth.

“No, not any of them.” He dipped his head, stepping in close. “Just the one who’ll be sharing my bed.”

“Oh, her.” Perhaps the champagne had finally gone to her head, or the amalgamation of Celia’s jewels lent her boldness, for she turned her head to whisper in his ear. “What a lucky thing she is.”

The look he gave her should have been considered a sin, or very near it. “You have no idea.”

She lifted a shoulder, acutely aware of how his eyes followed the motion, entranced by the stroke of gold across her collarbones. “I’ve an inkling.” 

One dark brow lifted. “Do you claim mind reading as one of your talents, then, Miss Carlyle?”

“Perhaps.”

“Do you know what I’m thinking now?”

She tucked her hands behind her back, swaying slightly to the fluting marzuka. “Indeed, sir.”

“And that is…?”

She mimicked one of his smiles, slow and beguiling. “It’s not fit for public hearing.”

For once, Lockwood was the first to glance away, ears reddening, but he did so with a delighted chuckle.

“Just be an hour more,” he assured her. “Then, I’ll give you the pleasure of unceremoniously booting our guests back to their own abodes.”

“How generous.”

“It’s well within your rights as lady of the house.”

She heaved a sigh. “I suppose I can hold out for that long.” 

Lockwood lightly caught her wrist as she reluctantly turned to go, twirling her back to him in a whirl of prismatic skirts. “You’re not leaving me now, are you?”

“Just to use the powder room. Don’t worry, I won’t abandon you to Miss Fittes.”

“Dear God, spare me from such a fate!”

“Allies, remember?” 

His smile shone, bright enough to illumine a catacomb. “Always.”

Despite their renewed coalition, Lucy took her time wending through the shadowy halls. Weariness seduced her mind, the secret nooks calling to her to tarry awhile and rest her head. The party drained her like nothing else could, and though her brief reprieve with Lockwood had revived her flagging spirits, alone in the dim, it redoubled its efforts, made worse by exhaustion. Reaching into her pocket, Lucy pulled out one of the foil-wrapped chocolates, peeled it free, and popped it into her mouth. Yet even the confection didn’t lessen her unease. She suspected she wouldn’t feel normal again until the party was well and truly over, and she could find true solace in Lockwood’s ready arms. Now that her fears of their wedding night had been put to rest, she wished plaintively for the morrow, for the hours to fall away and to be bound to him body and soul.

With a sigh, Lucy poked her head into the parlour, sequestered for the lady’s powder room. Relieved to find it empty, a quiet space where she wasn’t being observed and criticized like a specimen under one of George’s microscopes, she entered. Having never had need of one, she supposed that a powder room was largely for well…powdering. But she only sank down on one of the sofas and rubbed her aching feet. It seemed silly that a night of dancing should leave her more tired than one spent fighting Visitors, but soon her head was nodding, and she was drifting, drifting into a doze, slipping through a fairy door. Her dreams unfurled before her, indistinct, swathed in an aurelian veil. Not the champagne and peach of the ballroom but a quiet place, a secret place, the light soft and hazy, that of fairy dust. Hearth fire on her skin and in his eyes, enthralled by the halcyon spell. Gentle hands, calloused hands, eager in their undressing, their veneration. 

At the touch of his lips, Lucy started awake. For a moment, she sat there, a traveller of Faerie bewildered by her return to the mundane. She pressed her own lips together in remembrance, tasting sugar and cordial, as though in drinking of his kiss, he’d bewitched her with absinthe. She awoke fully with a gasp, recalling another scheme of the Folk as she peered about frantically for the clock. A little silver timepiece sat upon the side table, engraved with a pair of long-plumed peacocks. 

Twenty minutes. 

Lucy groaned, prodding experimentally at her curls, hardly daring to inspect herself in the mirror. Lockwood would be wondering where she was. 

Slipping her still-sore feet back into her dancing shoes, Lucy hurried from the powder room, stifling a yawn. She gathered up her skirts, quickening her pace.

She had just made it to the corridor lined with the portraits of the Lockwood line when an exclamation reached her ears, high and shrill with outrage.

“Anthony Lockwood has gone stark-raving mad! That’s the only thing for it.”

Chapter Text

Lucy froze in the middle of the hall. The bevy of voices carried from around the corner, just loud enough to be overheard by any who sought to eavesdrop.

And she sure as hell intended to eavesdrop.

“It’s beastly unfair,” one of the Eshton girls was saying, “that Lucy Wintergarden isn’t nearly half as pretty as you are, Penelope. Have you ever seen such an odd, round face?” 

Vertigo dragged all the feeling down to Lucy’s toes. Her heart quivered strangely in her chest. Silently, she edged forward, willing the silk of her gown not to rustle and give her away. At the corner, she pressed against the wall beside a stout ebony table. Someone, she suspected George, had set upon it a tiny statuette of a bird-headed man. 

Penelope’s rich, melodious chuckle echoed past her ears. “Amy, for shame! It’s not as if the child can help her looks. I thought she seemed almost pretty tonight, although it really is unfortunate about the dress.”

“Jessica wore it so much better,” said the other sister…was that Louisa? Lucy could hardly think over the blood rushing past her temples, as though she’d plunged head first into the currents of a river.

“Admittedly, she doesn’t possess the necessary endowments to do the gown justice,” Penelope allowed, and what smug allowance she gave. 

Lucy touched her fingertips to her breast, plagued by thoughts of Lockwood’s golden smiles, his heady kisses. Never had she felt so inadequate. What if when he beheld her, unbound and bared, he was disappointed? She didn’t think she would be able to bear it, to see the light of passion dimming from his eyes.

“She looks like a child playing dress up.”

“Fitting, given she’s the governess.”

Malevolent as any spirit’s, cruel giggles filled the atrium. Lucy glanced at the birdman, biting the inside of her cheek to distract her heart from the blow the words left. Something like shame seeped from the wound, poisoning the praise Lockwood had only just whispered in her ear, blackening the new picture she’d drawn of herself, one whose form and worth it had taken weeks to capture. A bout of laughter, a pocketful of barbs, and she was reduced to the plain, unwanted thing she’d been beside Eliza and Georgiana, the ghost haunting Lowood’s after Norrie’s death. She stared at her scarred, work-roughened hands, stripped now of their gloves, because of course she’d forgotten them in her haste to leave the powder room.

“Is it true she’s been wearing all of Jessica’s old clothes?” This from another girl with a high, nasal voice.

“I saw it with my very own eyes,” Penelope said, clucking her tongue in distaste. “Very crass, but I’m told all northerners are just the same.”

“Oh, don’t get me started about that accent ,” Amy exclaimed. “You can barely understand the creature. It’s like Mr Lockwood found some gypsy vagabond wandering the moors and brought her home.”

“Pity, that’s what it is. Mark my words.”

Lucy flinched, recoiling as if from a birch switch across her knuckles. The birdman looked on. Something in it really did remind her of George, perhaps the unenthused, unimpressed expression he wore, the stoic line of his shoulders. She glimpsed a scroll held in its outstretched hand. That was it, she thought, as the sting of tears beset her eyes. Furious, she scrubbed them away.

“Didn’t you hear him? He found her in that haunted patch of woods between Hathersage and Thornfield. ‘She saved my life, Miss Eshton. With no thought for her own.’ Sounds like something you’d prize in a good horse.”

Another snicker. “Or a loyal bitch.”

“Pshaw, Louisa,” Penelope exclaimed. “Have a care for the poor thing. It’s not as though she can help her country ways. Or her decidedly…houndish tendencies. Why, it’d be like plucking a drab little sparrow from the fields and expecting it to sing like a canary in a gilded cage.”

“But to choose her over you? How could he?”

“Oh, I don’t blame him very much,” Penelope simpered. “Given the…unusual circumstances of their engagement.”

Nausea churned in Lucy’s stomach. She gritted her teeth against it, swiping viciously at her cheeks as one of the girls, Louisa asked, “What do you know, Pen?”

“And don’t say it isn’t anything.” Amy added. “We know you too well.” 

“Oh, I really shouldn’t say. I’ve said far too much already. But, well…Can you keep a secret, girls?” 

“Of course , Pen.” 

“You can count on us.”

"Well…” I heard, and mind, I can't say from whom, that Miss Carlyle has been making regular nightly sojourns to his private chambers throughout her employment here. The engagement was announced only after they discovered she's—" Penelope paused for greater effect "—in the family way."

Lucy’s stomach abandoned her entirely, plummeting somewhere in the vicinity of her dancing slippers. As though torn from the riffling sketchbook of her thoughts, her first encounter with Penelope flashed before her eyes, the bladed charcoal of her gaze as she cast a glance at Lucy’s stomach. 

This woman had been planning her humiliation for weeks , and her minions did not disappoint. Scandalized gasps piled upon her shame.

“No.”

“She didn’t. ”

“I’m sorry to say it, but it’s true. I thought Mr Lockwood would have better sense in what kinds of women he would allow around his niece. But, well, it would seem that his better judgment has been compromised.”

“I’d have never believed it of him.”

“The little hussy. ”

Tremors engulfed Lucy, head to foot, a cacophony of emotion clamoring for dominance; self-loathing, despair, pain. Beneath it all, like coals beneath kindling, the stirrings of anger.

“Well, such is the way with all men. You can’t really blame him, all alone in this big, empty house without proper companionship to keep him on the straight and narrow. All he has is that…irregular housekeeper and that half-savage Oriental spouting the most hedonistic of ideas. It’s no wonder he’s struggled to maintain mastery over his baser nature, with the company he keeps.” Her voice sank lower still, a vile admission. “They can’t help their urges, you know, not like we can, girls.”

Outrage flared in Lucy’s breast like a struck match. She imagined the birdman turning towards her, tilting his head to scowl up at her. 

Is this how you repay the kindness we’ve shown you, Lucy Carlyle? He hissed in a rasping voice of dried, rustling leaves. By your silence? By your cowardice? Hmph, if that’s how it is, you really are an ape.

No.

To see her friends reduced without any consideration or care. Her betrothed, spoken of as though he was a child to be flung here and there by the wind, as though he was incapable of standing firm on his own two feet, choosing nobility and honor.

Choosing her.

Penelope wielded her last “All it takes is a moment of weakness, and any lowborn whore will do.”

That did it. 

Lucy tore around the corner, ignoring the horrified gasps of the Eshtons as she marched straight up to Penelope. Surprise rippled across that pale and lovely face.

“How—how DARE you!!” Lucy fumed. The stately woman towered over her, the difference in height akin to that between a cat and a mouse, but Lucy was too incensed to care. “Spread lies and gossip about me, fine; I suppose I got in the way of your plans to snare a husband, so I understand why. But to intimate Lockwood is so incapable of governing his own vices, that—that he would even THINK of compromising my virtue…and to attack Holly, and George, who possess FAR better character than you could ever hope to, good and kind and noble, with love in their hearts for even a poor, plain country governess.” Her memories from years of mistreatment were fresh and painful as the days they were wrought, but they served a useful purpose, sharpening her tongue for battle. “I feel truly sorry for you, Penelope Fittes, and your shriveled, black heart that won’t ever know that sort of love. You’re selfish and cruel and…and deader than dead!”

The words bore the strength of a slap. Penelope stumbled back under the force of them, her lemon and apricot lackeys with her, their mouths opening and closing like fish, shocked into momentary silence.

Lucy didn’t wait for a rebuttal. Her eyes were hot, her face burning, tremors shaking her hands. Pivoting swiftly on her heel, she swept away down the corridor as if chased by a horde of Visitors. The path she took was haphazard, her tears inhibiting her vision. Another sharp turn saw her colliding with a solid obstacle.

A soft ‘oomph’ escaped it, and hands unused to providing proper comfort held onto her waist solely to keep her from toppling over. “Lucy? Are you alright?”

Sobbing, Lucy flung herself around his neck. 

“Oh, George ,” she cried. “It was awful. Penelope and the Eshtons and…and the birdman!” “Um…” He stood for a moment, stiff as a board, having nothing of Lockwood’s uncanny ability to soothe her aches. But Lucy didn’t much care as she breathed in the scent of old leather and ink and a generous tablespoon of star anise and cloves. Whereas Lockwood always carried with him the wild, windswept moors, George bore that of the library and the kitchens, a creature of hearth and home, and for now, that was enough. Gingerly, he wrapped one arm around her back, the other reaching up to pat her head, the motion awkward but sincere. He crushed the silk flowers woven between her curls, but she didn’t mind.

“Start from the beginning, maybe?” He began to sway a bit, as though he was rocking a small child, but then seemed to think better of it. “What exactly happened?”

Lucy steeled her pride, forcing herself to meet his bespectacled gaze. Its lack of its usual mockery, and the abundance of worry upon his tanned face, set her bottom lip to trembling again. If even George could find in himself to show her compassion, what did that make of her?

“She…said—she said—” Under the weight of George’s increasingly furrowed brow, her words unravelled. With another explosive sob, she dissolved against him.

“Do you need a minute?”

“Mm-hm,” she mumbled soggily. 

Several idled by.

“So when you said a minute, I gather you meant it metaphorically?”

“What?” She blinked up at him, dislodging the stray tears caught in her lashes.

“You said a minute. It’s been at least six. Should I get something to do while you, um…sort yourself out?”

“George.” Lucy pulled back, blushing when she noticed a rather large wet patch on the front of his tangerine waistcoat.

“What?”

“You’re really—” A hiccup bubbled from her throat. “ Really terrible at comforting people.”

“Well, what am I supposed to say? You caught me off guard.”

“I’ll make sure to send a card next time,” she sniffed loudly.

“George?” The voice reached them from the bend in the hall.

Relief so pure cascaded over Lucy that she feared she’d be driven to her knees.

Lockwood rounded the corner, his stride long, his narrow face braided with agitation. “Mrs Dent just told me she thought she heard…” Pallor stole his golden kingly hue as soon as he beheld her tear-stained face. “Luce! ” 

She stumbled half a step towards him, legs buckling, but it hardly mattered when his stride devoured the floor. In an instant, his arms were around her, engulfing her like the halves of the silver music box he’d presented to her on the eighth day of their engagement. Like the little dancing maiden she’d discovered twirling within, she nestled against his chest, pressing her ear to his heart to be lulled by the staccato rhythm. 

“Oh thank God,” George muttered.

“Darling.” Lockwood’s lips grazed her temple as he secreted low words of solace into her hair. Lucy clung to him more tightly, wishing desperately that he truly was a fairy king, able to hide her completely by the turning of his cloak or by tucking her away in a wrinkle between the worlds. “What happened?” He demanded of George. “What’s wrong?”

“Penelope. I got that much out of her.”

The arms around her tensed, rigid as a silver shell. Lucy buried her face in his cravat, breathing in the moors. “What did she do, Luce?”

“It’s not what she did, it’s what…what—what she said.” An embarrassing noise escaped her, a concoction of latent rage, prickling shame and an old, bone-deep wound exposed to the chill air. 

His words became wings upon her cheek, her brow, fleeting butterfly kisses. “It’s alright. I’m here now. What did she say to you?”

“Not to me. I, uh, overheard her talking to her friends. She, um, she said…” Steeling herself, she squeezed her eyes shut. “She told them you’re only marrying me because we’ve—” Damn it all, the words she wanted lodged in her throat. She struggled for another phrasing. “That we…um, had relations. Congress. And that there’s a baby on the way.”

“What?” Lockwood had gone rigid, muscles coiled like the gears of her music box. 

“It’s my fault, she says. That you wouldn’t have looked at me twice if I hadn’t been…” Her throat squeezed as though she was held in a great meaty fist, but she forced the words out. “A lowborn w-whore.”

Lockwood so rarely swore in front of her that the slew of words he growled against her hair should have shocked her, but they only stoked the hearthstone of calm warming the tremors in her limbs. Any tighter and his grip would have been crushing, but he controlled his strength, as always. In the midst of her turmoil, pride assuaged her hurt. Penelope might have succeeded in wounding her spirit, but Anthony Lockwood, good, noble-hearted, kind Anthony Lockwood, was hers. The thought grounded her, fortified her as much as the man who held her so carefully.

“I’m going to kill her,” George muttered. “The witch. ”

“Murder isn’t allowed on the eve of our wedding,” Lockwood said, still serrated with fury. “And not in the house; it’ll look too damning. Afterwards, however…” Lucy finally looked up at the singular note of relish in his low voice. A wolven smile, all hunger and teeth, flashed between his lips. It occurred to her, articulated in a way it never had been before, that her betrothed could be a remarkably dangerous man. 

“I’ve been debating about what to put in that empty plot in the back garden.” George grinned back. “A decomposing body will provide excellent grounds for my newest strain of ephedra.”

“Jolly good. Just lace the ground with iron, would you? I suspect she’d make a very nasty Type Two.”

A watery laugh escaped Lucy, and the wolf instantly melted away to reveal the drooping, adoring mien of a puppy. Lockwood searched her face with all the intensity of their hunts, puzzling out the Sources that formed the clustered ache. Lucy couldn’t hide it all from him, and found she didn’t want to. On the morrow, she’d reveal to him all her bodily scars. Tonight…yes, tonight she’d reveal the ones mortal eyes had not yet discovered how to see. 

“George,” Lockwood murmured. “Could you give us a minute?”

“Oh, sure.” It was clear George was more than happy to leave someone else in charge of providing comfort, but there was still a softness to his eyes when he looked at Lucy. “The fire’s lit in the library, if you want to have a moment in private. I’d claimed it as my hiding spot from the ball, but I suppose—” this was accompanied by a dramatic exhale “—you have more need of it.”

Lockwood smiled. “Thank you, George.”

“Just don’t move any of my books,” George said brusquely, shuffling in the direction of the ballroom.

Lockwood led Lucy away from the murmur of voices, the prospect of prying eyes. With her hand guarded safely in his, his towering form shielding her from the cruelty of the world, she was starting to feel marginally better.

Chapter Text

The library skulked in a far-flung corner of the house, not quite as accessible as the study and drawing room, which was just how George liked it. The walls—what could be seen of them around the walnut bookcases—were painted evergreen, and fusty books seemed to grow from the shelves, crowding together, several of the spines cracked and fraying. If moss and lichen draped over these, or mushrooms sprouted from the pages, Lucy wouldn’t have been surprised. But they were accompanied by gleaming first editions, poetry and prose and great epics bound in rich leather, somber black encyclopedias and pompous reference books. Here the older, broken-in chairs came to live when they were no longer useful in other parts of the house, their leather and fabric worn and creased, brass nailhead trim tarnished. A merry fire crackled in the hearth, as promised, and candlesticks were interspersed amongst the stacks of books, flames dancing gently on their wicks.

Lockwood pulled Lucy onto a sage silk-velvet settee close to the fire, keeping her hand clasped in his. He laced their fingers, binding their souls together in the smallest—but perhaps most profound—of ways. “Luce, it doesn’t matter what Penelope says, or what she’s told anyone else.

If she needs to insult you to make herself look better, then maybe she’s losing her influence.”

“Plenty still believe her. And think you should be marrying her.” Lucy’s irritation echoed in her voice. Her gaze drifted to his hand, mapping the faint blue trails of his veins.

Lockwood huffed a laugh. “Oh God, I don’t even want to imagine that possibility.”

“I can see why they do. If you ignore the behavior, she’s engaging, confident, and beautiful.” Lucy glanced self-consciously at her chest once more. “And, well…my talents aren’t quite up to snuff.”

Lockwood frowned. “Lucy, you’re a far better Listener than her; there isn’t even a comparison.”

Lucy blushed. “Oh no, I meant, my, erm...”

Her eyes flitted downward again, and Lockwood followed her gaze. “Oh! I thought we were calling them ‘assets’. Best not to change it on me once I’ve learned a secret code.” The flare of redness in his cheeks faded, and a puckish twinkle entered his eyes. “But I meant what I said before; I prefer yours.” He leaned in closer, lowering his voice, its velvet tones music to Lucy’s ears. “I believe I might have more informed opinions on the subject tomorrow night, if you’re so inclined to allow diligent study.”

God, the mouth on him, Lucy thought hazily. His mouth on her, rather…

No, her mind didn’t need to explore that particular notion further, not when they were in so secluded a place.

And yet, apparently her brain didn’t have full mastery of itself, for she said, “Scholarship is a rather valuable pursuit, especially for husbands.”

Lockwood’s eyes ignited, and he darted in to kiss her, passionate at first, then tender and slow. She could feel the strain of the muscles in his hand that held hers, as if it ached to find purchase around her waist, but with great strength refused the impulse. Likely he’d recognized the same concerns as Lucy.

“Tomorrow I shall be a scholar, then,” he said, his bright grin devilish.

“I’d say George would be proud, but I don’t think he subscribes to this sort of scholarship.” Lucy smiled.

Lockwood dropped his voice to a conspiratorial murmur. “He might, if he could ever get a certain young lady on a fishing trawler to leave London for the countryside.”

Lucy stared at him. “Why Mr Anthony Lockwood, are you saying our dear George has a paramour? Why is this the first I’m hearing of it?”

“Because there would be hell to pay if he knew I told you.”

This was, admittedly, a valid point. “What’s her name?” Lucy demanded.

“Florence Bonnard. An old friend of mine, actually, and a fierce pirate if you ever saw one. Our dear George has been smitten for some time now.”

“So all those visits to London…”

“Had a dual purpose, yes. I suspect he’ll return once Spring thaws the earth. Perhaps we’ll go with him and drop by her boat for a visit.”

Lucy’s heart leapt for joy at the idea of strolling through London, its streets bustling with promise and hope even as lamplighters tended the ghost lamps, flames turned green by their colored panes. Though the North had a few of its own lamps here and there, she’d heard they lined every avenue down South.

But then her heart despaired. How could she, a simple country girl who couldn’t charm even the gentry of her own lands, win the London set? Lockwood wove amongst them like they were his kin, and it was clear he was unbothered by the fact he was about to marry a bumbling idiot.

“It seems I’m learning something new everyday.” Lucy watched their shadows dance in the corners of the library, the hearth fire providing the tempo to their silent music. It reminded her of the dark figures reflected on the ballroom floor earlier. She took a deep breath. “But there are mysteries I’ve yet to learn about even you. I…I’d still like to know about that fire. The one that…you know.”

Lockwood froze. His mouth opened, then closed, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed hard. He took a breath, and Lucy wondered if, at last, he would open up to her. Let her peer into the murky depths of his past, allow her to hold his heart as well as his hand, and offer her own consolation.

The door clattered open.

 A man stood in its frame, dim in the guttering candlelight. He staggered inside.

Lockwood sprang to his feet. “Kipps?”

Quill Kipps, no longer the suave, aloof gentleman of the ballroom, gasped for breath as if he’d dashed to the top of the house and back down again. Judging by the dust and cobwebs coating his hair and suit, he might have done just that.

“Lockwood!” His voice was shaky, uneven. He grasped the back of a leather armchair near the fire, revealing slashes across his left forearm, the black wool and white cotton of his sleeves hanging in ribbons. Black-veined, aggravated skin swelled beneath.

Lockwood lunged forward as Kipps swayed, helping him sit in the chair.

“Ghost touch? Inside Thornfield?” Lucy said in shock.

“Do you know if George keeps ephedra around here?” Lockwood asked, knocking over a stack of books in his hurried search.

“Yes, I’m sure I saw it last time I stopped by…ah, there it is!” She snatched up the little viridescent jar on the mantel, which had been balanced precariously atop dusty curios.

Kipps grabbed Lockwood’s arm, his eyes wild, half-crazed, his skin white as chalk. Sweat-drenched blond curls tumbled over his brow. “I saw her. It was her,” he muttered repeatedly.

Lockwood paled. He seemed afraid, but it could have been a trick of the firelight, for determination governed his expression a moment later. “He’s delirious; the effects are spreading quickly. Patch him up, Lucy, but don’t mind anything he says. I’ll handle the Visitor that did this.”

“Be careful! It looks like a nasty one,” Lucy warned as she helped Kipps out of his coat.

“Always, my love.” Lockwood winked and disappeared into the hallway.

Lucy tore away Kipps’ shirt sleeve, exposing all of the damaged skin, and hurried to slather it in ephedra balm.

Kipps stared ahead at nothing, terror still in his eyes. “It was her” spilled continually from his lips, blurring together, meaningless.

“Who was it?” Lucy asked, hoping conversation would bring him back to his sound mind.

Kipps finally looked at her. He surveyed her dress. “Jessica?”

Lucy bit her lip, especially wishing she hadn’t worn it now. “No, it’s Lucy, Mr Kipps.”

“Jessica.” Without warning, he grabbed hold of Lucy’s upper arms. “You were upstairs…but now you’re here…Jessica, my love, you’ve come back to me!!”

Lucy stumbled back, surprised by Kipps’ fervor, the strength in his grip. “Mr Kipps, Jessica is gone. You were attacked by a ghost.”

“This isn’t amusing, Jess,” Kipps snapped, his voice rising in pitch. “Don’t you remember me?”

“Mr Kipps, you’re hurting me!”

This snared his attention. The fire drained from his face, leaving it gaunt, exhausted. He collapsed back into the armchair and closed his eyes, spent. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” he muttered profusely, regret saturating his words.

What kind of ghost could make someone think another woman was his lost love? Lucy shivered. He hadn’t meant to hurt her, and there likely wouldn't be lasting marks on her arms. Even so, she was cautious as she applied the final layer of balm, watching for any more sudden changes.

“All is well!” Lockwood announced, careening back into the library. Lucy was relieved to find that, though he looked rumpled, he was no worse for wear, without any signs of ghost touch. “Just a, uh, rogue Source brought in by a guest, hidden in a coat pocket. I dispatched it with little trouble.”

“By yourself?” Lucy was surprised. From Kipps’ damaged clothing and his current condition, she expected a far more formidable ghostly opponent. 

“Indeed.” Lockwood glanced at Kipps, who was staring into space again. “Did he say anything about it?”

“Um…” Lucy set the jar of balm on a table and pulled Lockwood aside. “He thought it was Jessica. And when he saw me, he believed I was her,” she said softly.

Lockwood frowned. “As I said, ghost-associated delirium. He was quite taken with her, when they were younger.” He pulled at his cravat, loosening it from his neck, and approached the armchair. “Right then. I’ve summoned your carriage, Kipps. You’ll need to sleep for a while once you get home.”

“Don’t you think it best if he stay here and recover?” Lucy questioned.

Lockwood slipped a shoulder under Kipps’ arm and hefted him to his feet. The injured man leaned heavily on Lockwood, mumbling nonsensically. “The house is full of memories; he won’t properly recover unless he’s away from it. I’ve spoken to the coachman, and sent for my doctor to check in with him as soon as he’s arrived.”

“Alright, I suppose.” Lucy watched as Lockwood half-carried Kipps out the door. “I can help if you—”

“No no, I’m grand. Be back in a shake of Pilot’s tail.” Lockwood unleashed his signature grin and was gone.

Lucy sighed. She placed the ephedra back on the mantel and sank onto the settee. When her betrothed returned, he seemed to be in a world of his own, wandering near the hearth, his dark eyes trained on the undulating flames.

“You look almost as lost as Kipps,” Lucy remarked, joining him.

Lockwood’s head snapped up. Clementine and apricot washed over his cheek. There was the familiar seraph in the shadowed side of his face, but its fire was extinguished, wings broken. “What? Oh, no. Not quite, I think.” 

“What’s going on with you?” Lucy moved closer, reaching up to cradle the seraph’s cheek. Offering her own strength. “You know you can talk to me, Lockwood.”

He laughed, a weak, insubstantial thing, and rested his hand over hers. For a moment his eyes closed, and she thought she saw the merest glimmer of a tear slip from one. “I know.”

Lucy lifted her eyebrows in invitation.

Instead, Lockwood took her hand and turned the palm to his lips, kissing it sweetly.

Lucy rolled her eyes. “I don’t know why I bother.”

With only the slightest flick of a devious grin to warn her, Lockwood gripped her waist and pulled her close. Her hands splayed out on his chest, gripping the fabric of his waistcoat. Heat kindled in her cheeks.

“I’m sorry, it’s just…long night,” he said, low and contrite, a pleading eagerness in his expression.

“I know.” Lucy smoothed a lapel. “But…tomorrow we’ll be man and wife, Lockwood. I don’t want secrets between us, especially if it’s something I can help you with.”

“You’ve already helped me. More than you know.”

He found the divot of her chin, traced it to the soft curve of her jaw, and Lucy knew the seraph was alive and well. She imagined him tipping her back, so the column of her throat was exposed, and following the line with his lips. She almost encouraged him, almost urged him with bated breath to taste her, to make her the tense focus of his study. 

But she only slipped her hand over his knuckles, gently squeezing his fingers before standing on tiptoe to chastely kiss his cheek. 

“We should probably get back.” She stole a final peck as she whispered into his ear, “everyone will be wondering where we are. And…” She pulled back far enough to neaten his cravat. “Someone promised me the right to kick them all back to their own abodes.” 

Lockwood chuckled, kissing the top of her head before drawing her into the hall. “So long as there’s no actual kicking involved, yes?”

Lucy pouted up at him, propping her chin on his shoulder. “What do you take me for, sir?”

“A feral little hellion, my dear.”

Chapter Text

Lavender dawn pastelled the halls of Thornfield by the time the manor was rid of her guests. Penelope and the Eshton girls were nowhere to be found, apparently having been frightened clear out of their wits in the face of Lucy’s ferocity. Pride pulsed beneath Lockwood’s sternum as he pictured his Luce snarling wolvishly up into the woman’s smug face. What he would’ve given to have seen his lady in all her fury.

Servants who had gone to bed during the ball rose refreshed, sweeping by as Lockwood and Lucy walked hand in hand, voices low and drowsy. Neither was willing to part now that the day of their wedding had dawned. But, even so tethered, six o’clock found them outside of Lucy’s door. A wild, exultant thrill reverberated through Lockwood’s chest as he remembered that today her belongings would be moved to his chambers. Their chambers. 

And tonight, when they were finally alone and secluded…

Heedless of the servants, he nuzzled the top of her hair, planting kisses between the jeweled pins. He hugged her from behind, beguiled by the sweet lavender of her braids as he memorised the shape of her hairline.

A diaphanous veil of dreams settled over her eyes as she grinned up at him. “I think you have to let me go now, Lockwood.”

“Must I?” He sighed against her temple.

“Absence makes the heart fonder?” She offered, turning slowly in his arms. “It’s only for three hours.” She cupped his face and pecked his lips. “Then you’ll be mine and I’ll be yours.”

Embers enkindled, sparks catching in his veins. 

By Jove, how on earth was he to wait until nightfall?

“I can’t imagine being any fonder, my dear.” Lockwood stroked her cheek with the back of his hand, imagining drawing the pins from her hair, unravelling the stitches until it fell around them in a curtain of floral perfume, kissing her as he had now, and deeper still until he was drunk on the taste of her and had branded every centimetre of her skin. He squeezed his hand into a fist, lest he give into the urge to sketch the decolletage of her ball gown, where her… talents were so alluringly displayed. “But I suppose when you put it that way…”

“Silly man.” Lucy nuzzled his nose, drawing his attention back to her adoring face. He pressed his forehead against hers. Though the glamour of the fairy world they’d wandered into that night had melted away like morning frost, Lockwood found that he much preferred the reality of the girl enfolded in his arms. They needed no royal blood or titles, just the solemn promise of a young man and woman, pledging their lives and hearts. 

“I should let you rest,” he murmured, grazing the space between her eyes.

Lucy rose on tiptoe, luring him back to her full, ambrosial lips. “We’ll sleep tonight.”

Lockwood groaned against her campaign, mumbling in between kisses that he didn’t intend to sleep at all until she became his bride in every sense of the word. With effort, he broke the kiss and tucked her head under his chin, hugging her close. Lucy wound her arms around his waist, pillowing her cheek against his rumpled cravat.

“Holly will have my hide if I hand you off to her without even an hour’s sleep,” he said with a sigh, reaching behind her to open her door. “I think she intends to hide you away until the wedding.”

Lucy slowly released him, easing behind the white-painted wood. “Three hours, Lockwood,” she reminded. Her face disappeared in increments, until only a sliver remained, the peony corner of her mouth, a heather thumbprint beneath her eye, morning glory blue above.

“An eternity.” Lockwood caught the edge before the latch could click into place. “Luce?”

Smiles lines fanned out like vines. Her lashes dipped, love gleaming between. “Yes?”

“Would you…that is…I’d really like it if you'd call me Anthony.” 

Her gaze snapped up to his. “Yes,” she breathed, as though all this time she’d simply been waiting for him to ask it of her. “Anthony.” 

Holly knocked upon Lucy’s door at seven sharp, drawing her groggily from an hour’s long nap. She turned her face into the pillows, groaning as Holly whisked aside the velvet drapes, spilling bright sunlight over her bed.

Something poked her side. “What are you still doing abed? You’re getting married in two hours, Lucy.” The prodding continued until Lucy kicked out with a yelp, colliding only with air. Holly pounced as soon as Lucy was partially upright. She cupped her cheeks, tilting her face this way and that, dark eyes narrowing to slits of suspicion. Today she wore a frock of royal blue, the color bringing out the ruddy hues in her skin. She inspected a tired curl, pinching it between her fingers. “When did you go to bed?”

“Hour ago…” Lucy yawned, scrubbing at her eyes. Immediately, Holly swatted her hands away. 

“No! You’ll only pull on the skin, and I’ve already got my work cut out for me. Two hours Lucy. That’s barely any time at all.” She drew to her full, diminutive height, snapping her fingers. “Sophie, Agnes, the bath.” 

“But—”

“UP,” Holly intoned, and Lucy knew better than to argue the point.

Over the next two hours, Lucy was submitted to all sorts of horrors, from a vicious scrubbing of her skin, a drenching of thick creams and lavender water, and largely having to contend with the generalistic orders fired at her in quick succession. If she’d had thought Holly’s preparations of the ball were excessive, they paled in comparison to those of the wedding.

Standing shivering in a fine lace chemise and matching split-drawers, Lucy ran her fingers over the azure sateen of the corset Holly tightened at her back. Though not broken in like her daily undergarment, the whale bone soon softened, baleen starting to mould to her torso with body heat, and Lucy blushed when she peeked at herself in the looking glass. This particular style flattered and accentuated in all the right places, gently coaxing from her flesh a sirenic beauty that set her heart to pounding, drumming, wondering what Lockwood would do to her when it was revealed to him. She faltered in tying off a pair of white silk stockings with a matching blue ribbon. Lucid daydreams darted slyly before her eyes, the drag of his palms up her calves to her thighs, long fingers tugging free the ribbons that held her together…

“I intend for Lockwood to die, you know.” Holly said solemnly, as if reading her thoughts.

Red as a beet, Lucy looked to her askance. “What?”

“Metaphorically, of course.” The housekeeper said brightly, giggling wickedly. “Which he will when he sees you. Dead as a Type Three.”

Lucy snorted. “That has to be bad luck for a wedding day.”

“I thought you didn’t believe in luck.”

“I might be persuaded to change my mind.” After all, she could hardly believe that she was marrying the man who seemed to have been spun from the most precious threads of her fantasies. Who’s to say she hadn’t been granted a portion of that elusive thing they all called luck?

Holly had helped her into the last of her ivory skirts and laced up the bodice. Lucy ran wondering fingers over the lacy bertha, the fulsome puffs of satin at the elbows, and finally the dainty seed pearl buttons at the fitted wrists. She resisted the urge to pull the edge of the sleeves over her shoulders—Holly would have certainly slapped her hands—suspecting that Lockwood would be rather delighted by the…preliminary study it would offer him until that evening. Holly grinned as she placed a gossamer veil over Lucy’s braids, securing it in place with a sapphire brooch to match the necklace at her throat. Inspecting her work—and expertly arranging a few curls around the nape of Lucy’s neck—Holly drew the chiffon cloud over her face. 

“Are you ready?” As warmly as if it had been Norrie by her side, she clasped Lucy’s hands in hers. 

Lucy nodded and smiled back. “All thanks to you.”

“Oh, Lucy.” Holly flung her arms around her neck, then sprang back with a squawk. “I’ll ruin your dress!” To Lucy’s dismay, a watery sheen of tears glistened in Holly’s eyes. “I’m sorry.” She fanned her face, sniffling in vain. “I know I shouldn’t cry; that’s actual bad luck. You just make such a lovely bride.” And because she was Holly, she added tearfully. “How I despaired over those dark circles, but you can barely see them at all now.” She might have said more, but Sophie poked her head into the room, beckoning them in French.

Holly laughed. “Is Lockwood so impatient?”

Lucy recalled his parting kiss, the barely constrained abandon of his lips on hers. With an anticipant rush, she glanced at the clock on her mantle. Ten minutes to nine.

Oh yes, she imagined her betrothed was terribly impatient. 

She glimpsed him at the bottom of the stairs, tension strung across the shoulders of his tailored black frock coat as he paced back and forth, glancing frequently towards the staircase. When she came into his view, the pair of gloves fell from his hands. His lips parted in awe, his gaze Plutonian as it raked over her, then ascended, slowly lingering, savoring…

His step was ungainly as he stumbled forward, knees locked like iron hinges, rusted over. He flailed for the newel post, never once tearing his eyes from her, and Lucy’s heart swooped like a flock of sparrows.

“Lucy…” No other words were forthcoming, his jaw slack whereas his knees had been stiff. 

Lucy smiled, but she chose not to speak as she descended, focusing instead on keeping her skirts well out of the way of her feet. Thankfully she reached him without incident, and he gently grasped both of her lace-gloved hands.

“Anthony,” she said simply.

It might as well have been a bold declaration of love. His eyes ignited in response, breath catching, and she sensed it was taking Herculean strength not to gather her into his arms and kiss her until her breath was gone too. His gaze dropped to her exposed shoulders, flitting over the curves.

“You’re so beautiful,” he leaned in just enough to murmur, lips brushing the lobe of her ear, kissing the pearl earring there.

Lucy shivered, feeling his mounting desire through his tightening grip. 

“Is she supposed to look like an overpiped cake?”

George’s flat voice dampened the wick of longing between them. He approached, hands shoved in the pockets of his nicest suit, which was still rumpled. Lucy suspected it didn’t often leave his wardrobe.

“George! I told you to have that pressed!” Holly berated, wrinkling her nose as she sailed down the stairs behind Lucy, naturally graceful in contrast. “What sort of best man looks like he unfolded himself from a cedar chest?”

“I believe it adds an air of mystery to my overall appearance. Also, I forgot,” George said with an unconcerned shrug. “Lockwood doesn’t mind. Do you, Lockwood?”

“You look adequate,” Lockwood muttered, not even glancing his way.

“There you have it.”

Holly sighed. “Well we don’t have time anyway. We’re due at the church. Come! Come along!” She shooed Lockwood and Lucy toward the door, as if they were naughty chickens who had gotten into the house, and didn’t stop nudging until they had alighted into the carriage waiting at the crest of the drive.

Lucy had barely gotten a glimpse of the fresh snowfall, a brilliant white garment reflecting the brilliant white sky, both blinding to her sleep-deprived eyes, before the door of the shadowed carriage shut behind George. He settled next to Holly, who was fussing with Lucy’s skirts, and promptly extracted a book from the depths of his jacket pocket. As it was a rather thick tome, no one was sure how he had concealed it.

Lockwood’s hand found Lucy’s, his thumb tracing intricate patterns into her palm. It took her a moment to realize they were letters. She concentrated. ‘I’. A pause. L-O-V-E. Another pause. Y-O-U.

Sentiment warmed the anxious cavern within her stomach, which had been growing from the moment she’d set eyes on Lockwood again, the importance of what they were about to do settling over her shoulders like an iron mantle. She mouthed the words back, and his grin was luminous enough to suffuse the entire carriage.

“Oh excellent, I was needing a bit more light,” George said innocently, licking his thumb and turning to the next page.

The church sanctuary was a bower of hothouse roses, each full bloom a deep burgundy, arranged with evergreen and holly left over from the ball decor. Bundles of lavender stood fore and aft of the room; no wedding or funeral—especially the funerals—could proceed without its heavy perfume.

Lucy was grateful for the empty pews. Not only did it alleviate her anxiety, but also the guest list surely would have included those who had attended the ball the previous night, and they didn’t deserve to witness her and Lockwood’s union. Only Holly and George stood on either side of Mr Barnes, who waited before the altar, solemn in his cassock, a gold-leafed Book of Common Prayer clasped in his hands.

Lockwood held out his arm, and Lucy took it, grateful to have support in case her legs turned traitor and sabotaged her steps. Her nerves were in shambles.

“Mr Lockwood. Miss Carlyle,” Mr Barnes greeted brusquely when they reached him.

“Mr Barnes,” Lockwood returned.

Lucy managed a nod.

“Right then, I suppose we can get to it.” Never one for small talk, Mr Barnes cracked open the book and cleared his throat. “Dearly beloved friends, we are gathered together here in the sight of God…”

 Lucy’s mind strayed as he droned on. Lockwood was about to become her husband . Through her veil she glanced up at his face, at his pale skin that was flushed, almost peachy, his eyes and grin still dazzling, washing her in their own form of sunlight. It would be this man who she would wake up next to every morning, spend pleasant days with in work and recreation and easy conversation, velvet nights in passionate embrace and blissful, exhausted sleep. She hoped he would lay his mind bare to her as much as his body, confide in her his secrets and fears, so they could truly be one.

Mr Barnes asked Lockwood something, to which he answered in the affirmative. There was more soliloquy, then silence.

Lucy squeaked out an ‘I will’, hoping it was the right time for it. Apparently it was, for Mr Barnes continued, and she might have paid more attention if Lockwood’s thumb wasn’t grazing over hers. The words became fuzzy, nonsensical things, and she found herself studying Lockwood instead of trying to parse them out any longer. The straightness of his back, the width of his shoulders, lean but strong, strong enough to carry her…large hands big enough to—

Suddenly Mr Barnes was offering Lockwood a ring. Her betrothed took it, slipping it gently onto the fourth finger of her left hand. She snapped out of her daydream.

“With this ring I thee wed. This gold and silver I thee give. With my body I thee worship: and with all my worldly goods I thee endow. In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.” Lockwood’s rich, deep voice caressed each word, taking special care to draw out ‘with my body I thee worship’.

Lucy grew warm under the weight of them, the sultry cast to his eyes.

Mr Barnes grimaced at the display but persevered. “Let us pray.”

Lucy would have to ask God forgiveness later, for she heard not a word, not with those eyes still on her.

Mr Barnes joined their hands and said, “Forasmuch as Anthony John Lockwood and Lucy Joan Carlyle have consented together in holy wedlock, and have witnessed the same here before God and this company, and thereto have given and pledged their troth either to other, and have declared the same by giving and receiving gold and silver, and by joining of hands: I pronounce that they be man and wife together. In the name of the Father, of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen. God the Father bless you. God the Son keep you. God the Holy Ghost lighten your understanding. The Lord mercifully with his favour look upon you, and so fill you with all spiritual benediction, and grace, that you may have remission of your sins in this life, and in the world to come, life everlasting. Amen.”

Mr Barnes closed his book, looking quite relieved to be done with the whole affair. “Normally I would read a psalm here, followed by a sermon, but seeing as there isn’t a congregation and I’m assuming you’ll be wanting to—”

“Indeed. Thank you, you dear dear man!” Lockwood cried, shocking everyone. Then he took Lucy’s hand, flashed a wicked grin, and whisked her out of the church.

Bells peeled above, sharing the couple’s joy with the parish, but they barely heard it. To the carriage they flew, Lockwood divesting Lucy of her veil before he dragged her onto his lap, sealing their marriage with an ardent kiss.

Chapter Text

Lucy had been met with moments over the last two weeks when the kisses she shared with Lockwood verged on the untameable, kisses that like an open flame left unattended would consume hearth and home. Always, they shied away from the aurelian heat, knowing that once scorched, neither would ever be the same. Now, all that was once contained burst forth, and all that was once hidden blazed in the fierce light of their love, freed by their solemn vows. Lockwood made a litany of her name, as reverent as Barnes’ forgone psalm. He kissed her deeper, held her nearer than ever before, and emboldened, she responded in kind. With zeal, he explored her intimately, urging her to do the same by the comet trails he blazed across every centimetre of her bare skin. Her nerves departed, winged away. The dim of the carriage blurred, hazed with summer heat, June in December, and she surrendered to the cradle of his arms…  

An oaken pounding on the carriage startled the newlyweds from their reverie. 

Lockwood muttered a low curse against Lucy’s neck, summoning a veil of goosebumps over her skin. “What?” He called, not bothering to lift his head. Silken hair brushed against her collarbones.

“There are other people who need to use the carriage, you know.” Came George’s muffled voice thereupon the winter morning. “It’s bloody freezing out here.”

Lockwood loosed another growl, though his annoyance abated as Lucy stroked his nose. 

“It’d be terribly mean to make them all wait, husband,” she teased. “It’s been so cold this week.” Not that she felt even an iota of the chill with her husband’s strong arms wound about her waist, her own about his neck. 

“He can give us five more minutes.” 

“At this rate we’ll never…get…back…” Lucy’s protests withered with the frost as he applied himself more impassionedly to her neck, pressing the most delectable kisses to her pulse, nuzzling her collarbones. 

“He’s doing it on purpose,” Lockwood groused as the knocking began anew.

“There’s still snow on the ground. We could dump it on his head.”

“Or we could simply make him wait.”

“It’s too cold to stay out here.” Lockwood grumbled indiscernibly as she wriggled from his hold. “Besides,” she said over her shoulder, “there are far more…comfortable accommodations in the house.”

Mirth glimmered in Lockwood’s eyes, summoned by a thin band of sunlight straining through the curtains. “You’ve raised a good point.” He collected her hand, pressing it to his heart as he relented to George’s onslaught and turned the handle. 

Such accommodations, however, were long in coming. To Lockwood’s chagrin, Holly ushered all to the breakfast table as soon as they returned to the hall with such vigor that Lockwood couldn’t help but wonder if his housekeeper meant to punish him for holding up the carriage. Nerves filled him as the morning winnowed by, as though he’d swallowed a hive of hornets. Though a veritable feast lay festooned across the table in between sprigs of juniper berries and bushels of pine, the profusion of wings in his belly chased away his appetite. All he could think about was the endless day stretched before them until nightfall. Lockwood forced himself to be contented in watching Lucy select jelly-jeweled pastries from delicate porcelain, kippers drenched in gravy from a floral painted tureen, a piping cup of tea.

But his bride merely hovered over the food for several long moments, arranging her pickings artfully with her fork, stirring in heaping spoonfuls of sugar into her tea. She blushed upon catching Lockwood watching her, and scooped up a pastry at random. 

“Are you alright?” Lockwood asked beneath the chatter of George’s historical account of the good Old King Wenceslas. 

“Mmhm,” she took an exaggerated bite. Papery flakes showered down upon her plate. 

At the other end of the table, Adele and Holly looked on with rather vague expressions, both evidently unimpressed by the telling of the tale, though George had sequestered the platter of pastries to serve as his props. Seeing them sufficiently distracted, Lockwood scooted his chair closer to Lucy to smooth his palm over her knee. The pastry tumbled from Lucy’s fingers. 

“Oh,” she squeaked.

Lockwood grinned, kissing her cheek before whispering in her ear. “It’s alright if you’re nervous.”

“I’m trying not to be,” she muttered, meticulously wiping jelly from her fingers. “It just happens.”

Fondness brimmed in his chest like a goblet of choice wine, waiting to be partaken. He played with the sapphirine jewels adorning her lobes. “I am too, you know.”

She huffed an uncertain laugh. “I’m not sure I believe you.”

“On my honor as a gentleman.” As with her cheek, he caressed her temple. “And now, as your husband.” Upon kissing the spot beneath her ear, he was rewarded with a giggle. “Which I intend to fulfill—”

“Lockwood, you’re putting me off my breakfast,” George complained from the other end of the table, his impromptu lesson through. “Can’t you just go and get it over with and save us all the trouble of watching you moon over each other for the rest of the day.”

“Go and get what over with?” Adele piped up, frowning quizzically between the vases of greenery left over from the party decorations.

“Nothing,” the Lockwoods blurted in tandem, carefully avoiding looking at the other. Guiltily, Lockwood drew his palm from Lucy’s knee, only to startle when her small hand clapped over his, holding him firmly in place. Clearing his throat, Lockwood addressed his niece. “That is, nothing for you to worry about, darling. Miss Car— Lucy and I simply have, er, matters to discuss now that we’re married.”

“I bet you do,” George muttered around a mouthful of hash.

Lucy traced his knuckles with her fingertips, and though her touch was chaste compared to how she’d touched him in the carriage, it took all of Lockwood’s efforts to maintain a placid expression. How on earth was he to wait until sundown to have her?

The girl harrumphed, crossing her arms with a petulant air. “No one ever tells me anything.”

Holly tapped a crisp white napkin to her lips, unsuccessfully hiding a smile. “Adele, how would you like to spend the rest of the day with me? We can make headway on Marie’s new wardrobe. I’ve got a whole basket of scraps we can look through.” 

Chatter of stitchery soon filled the dining room, ranging from petticoats to frocks to stockings in miniature. Lockwood smoothed his thumb over satin, absently tracing Lucy’s kneecap through layers of fabric, wondering with increasing hunger how his bride might appear swathed in her only her underpinnings. The transparent silk of her stockings over her shapely legs. In nothing but his sheets and his arms. 

“Anthony,” she murmured as his hand roamed higher by increments, allured by the curves hidden beneath her skirts. She gave him what was probably meant to be a stern look, but the dark longing of her wide eyes revealed her true feelings. Even so, he returned his hand to her knee with a sheepish smile. Even such teasing was not worth losing her trust. What he wouldn’t give to be alone with her now, regardless of the early hour. The effects of his lack of sleep were chased away by his wild imaginings. The hornets grew in number, enlivened by the temptation of George’s suggestion, of his own desperation and the memory of his vows. 

With my body, I thee worship.  

He was certain he could become a pious man if his object of worship was his willing, blushing bride.

Lucy finally set her fork down with a soft clink, having touched little else after her pastry. “D’you think we could save this for later?” She asked. “I’d hate for any of it to go to waste, but I really couldn’t eat a thing now.” 

“Of course,” Lockwood helped her out of her chair, ignoring the knowing smirk from both George and Holly as upon sharing another heated glance, the newlyweds rose from their chairs. Honestly, the way they both went on. It wasn’t as though he intended to haul her off to their chambers right this second.

At least, not unless she wanted him to…

“Where are we going?” He asked, catching her fingers as she slipped into the hall. 

“Oh, um, I’d like to change out of this into something more practical.” Lucy held up a swath of ivory silk, letting the pearlescent beads shimmer in the sunlight pouring through the windows. “I’ve never worn anything so fine, not even Jess’s ballgown. I’ll only dirty this if I wear it the whole day. Honestly, it’s a miracle I didn’t spill any of George’s gravy.”

A wicked thrill tumbled through his stomach. The beating of wings spread to every extremity as they turned the corner. A glance proved the hall empty.

“That’s very sensible of you, dearest.” Lockwood said innocently, before spinning her against the patterned wall. He propped his forearm above her. Lucy tilted her head back dazedly, exposing her pretty throat. Lockwood stooped nearer, tracing its length, sketching her clavicles. “Might I help you?” 

“Help?” Lucy matched his faux naivetè as she tucked her hands behind her back. “I wasn’t aware you had intimate knowledge of a lady’s clothing. It’s terribly complicated, you know.”

“I’m interested in knowing every intimacy that pertains to my darling wife.” He flashed a wolfish grin. “And I’m a quick study. Besides, I thought I’d give Holly and the others the rest of the day off in celebration of our nuptials.”

“Oh?” Her lashes dipped languidly over him, before with half-lidded eyes, she purred. “How magnanimous you are, sir.” 

Live coals ignited in his blood at the pitch of her voice, the cheek of her insistence on using honorifics. It was criminal, how she ensnared him with so little endeavor.

“Oh, it’s entirely for selfish reasons, Mrs Lockwood.” he clarified, fingering the frill of lace at her neckline. “I’m in a mind to begin my studies early, and I’d rather no one interfere.” Lucy gasped when he kissed her bare shoulder, tasting lavender water as he gently pulled at her sleeve, teasing it lower. Her fingers curled into the lapels of his frock coat. 

“Someone…” She stammered as he made a slow perusal of her decolletage, sweeping one hand around the back of her waist to drag her against him. “Anthony, someone will see us.”

Chastened, Lockwood bestowed her nose with a light peck, delighting in the smile that crinkled her eyes. “Forgive me.” He cleared his throat. “I suggest our chambers for further…analysis.” He’d been watching for the frisson of uncertainty her features had expressed the night prior. How desperately he longed to show her the very depths of his love for her, reaching to the blue of the firmament, descending to the uncharted depths of the sea. To fulfill his vows, to worship her with his body and all of his being. He leaned her forehead against hers, cupping her chin. “But only if you wish it, my love.” 

Lucy’s warm breath scudded across his fingers. Adoration bloomed in her gaze, forget-me-not blue as she swayed unconsciously towards him. Her lips shyly caressed his, geranium red flourishing in the garden of her complexion. 

“I wish it,” she said upon sinking back to her heels. 

She wasn’t on her feet for long. Lockwood swept her up in his arms, chuckling as she squeaked in surprise. God, he loved that sound, as well as the ones he drew from her lips as he kissed her deeply. A symphony of them would soon be following, if he played his part expertly. He pushed open his bedroom door and kicked it shut behind them.

The servants had, thankfully, finished moving furniture and clothing during the wedding breakfast, and everything was ready, with the additional touches of a fire burning in the hearth and rose petals strewn across the bed. Winter sunlight illumined the petals, each becoming a fiery ruby.

Lockwood stopped in his tracks. “I think Holly made some particular arrangements.”

“Of course she did. Oh, she forgot the curtains. Put me down a moment,” Lucy bade.

Lockwood complied, and she dashed over and pulled the folds of silver-threaded damask brocade loose, plunging the chamber into delicious shadow. He snuck up behind Lucy, his arms snaking around her waist and pulling her against him. His mouth attacked her bare shoulder.

“You know, I’m not sure she did forget,” Lockwood mumbled.

“Very…unlikely…” Lucy’s head fell back against his chest as he traveled up her neck, caramel strands tickling his jaw. Shivers ran down his spine, spurring him on.

“Now let’s see about this gown, shall we?” Lockwood studied the lacing on the back, puzzling over the design. He untied the bow and worked the loops loose. “As much as I adore that jumper you knitted me, Luce, I do believe this is going to be my favorite Christmas gift.”

Their gift-giving the previous morning had been brief, an hour of joy before preparations for the ball began, most of the gifts toys for Adèle. Lucy had looked quite nervous as Lockwood unwrapped the navy jumper, but he’d made sure to show his excitement over it, and don it straightaway. The sleeves were slightly different lengths, but he didn’t care; Lucy had made it, it smelled like her, and it was the best gift he’d ever gotten. He’d told her as much, and she’d positively beamed.

“I suppose I must say the same for the paint and paper, and the gown, and the bonnet,” Lucy murmured. She gasped again; he’d removed her bodice and corset cover and was working at the fastenings of her skirt, scattering kisses along her shoulder blades in the meantime. The end of the scar peeked out from the top of her corset. His fingers stilled, the hooks and eyes briefly forgotten. 

“What happened?” He swept his thumb over the mark, then reapplied himself, tender as he was able. 

 Lucy stood quiet for a moment, tensing automatically. 

“That was…um…well there was a short set of stone steps in the house, leading down to the kitchen.” Her voice wobbled precariously, fueling Lockwood’s immediate fury. “I was going down one day and he…John pushed me.” She reached behind her head, sifting between the strands. “I hit my head badly too, but you can’t see it now.” 

Visions of murder reddened his mind, and his hands trembled with an emotion other than nerves as they returned to her shirts. “I’ll kill him,” he whispered, knowing then that he would in an instant. “Such a man doesn’t deserve to live.” 

“Please, Anthony.” Lucy tilted her head to the side, rubbing her brow sweetly against his jaw. “Don’t let him spoil this. Just…” She bit her lower lip, pleading. “Love me.”

Lockwood caught her chin before she turned back, kissing her as if he could wipe away every cruel touch and action that cretin had imposed. 

“Nothing could be simpler,” he pulled away, favoring her closed lids, her precious button nose. “Loving you is like breathing.” He breathed in lavender at the nape of her neck. Studding kisses down the top of her spine, he pulled the skirt of her gown over her head, then quickly tugged up the first petticoat.

“Too many layers,” he growled into her ear, pleased by the shudder he felt go through her.

“Don’t be ungrateful about your gift. I had it wrapped special,” Lucy said, her confidence returning, driving him to bedlam.

The sultriness in her voice wrecked him, and he nearly ripped the last petticoat in his haste. He dragged her back to the bed, sinking down on the mattress with her straddling his lap, his lips burning along her collarbone, teeth nipping at the hollow of her throat.

“Anthony,” she whimpered as his fingers struggled with the corset laces. She found the pulse on his neck and pressed her lips to it.

He muttered a string of curses directed towards corset makers everywhere under his breath, as if they were solely to blame for his loss of coordination, and not the wildfire she ignited with that kiss, or the way her nimble fingers were making quick work of his cravat, vest, braces, and shirt. Those little fingers wandering over his chest, flirting with the band at his waist… “Infernal thing!” He spat at the corset.

“Nearly there, you silly seraph,” Lucy chastised with a giggle.

“Seraph?”

“You know, the burning ones. Angels. It’s how I see you, sometimes.” Her cheeks flushed a becoming shade of crimson.

Lockwood grinned, delighted by the comparison. “I’m afraid I might be of the fallen variety.”

“Then perhaps I need to redeem you.”

Lord, what her words did to him. He gave the lacing one last firm tug. “I’d worship at your feet forevermore.”

Lucy’s eyes darkened. She grabbed the front of her corset and pressed both sides of the busk toward each other, unhooking it.

Lockwood crowed as he pulled it free from her form and tossed it away. Now there was just a shift to contend with, the linen so thin he could feel every delicious curve, but also the ridges of her spine, her ribcage. Her hair had tumbled from its coiffure due to his wayward fingers, copper plaits and curls looping over her shoulders. It was like he’d removed the entirety of her protective shell, and here she was exposed, vulnerable, trusting him not to break her. She looked up at him, and he read the unease, the hint of fear in the azure fathoms of her eyes.

“You’re safe,” he assured her, cupping her cheek, kisses falling soft as feathers across the scar at her temple. He spotted another, circular on her upper arm, and shoved down his anger long enough to soothe the long ago ache. Lucy’s breath hiccuped as he traversed a slow, winding path to her mouth. “There’s nothing to fear, my love.” 

“I’m sorry, I’ve just never…and I’m afraid I’ll bungle it,” Lucy admitted.

Affection flooded Lockwood’s chest. “If anyone did, it would be me.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“I put on a good show.” Lockwood fiddled with the lace on the neckline of her shift. “We’ll go carefully, alright?”

Lucy hesitated. “Alright.” She leaned up to kiss him, arms wrapping around his neck, fingernails raking his scalp.

Lockwood decided she was wrong. He wasn’t the seraph; she was. An angelic being determined to take his soul captive, tie him to her forever. He offered himself willingly, body and soul, burning with her, muttering her name reverently, branding it into every centimeter of her skin as she repeated his, and so created their own paradise.

Afternoon found the newlyweds dozing, tangled in sheets and each other. Lucy awoke first, disoriented by the unusual lighting and strange surroundings, but soon remembered where she was. The strong arms latched tightly around her bare middle were a good indicator. She willed her sore muscles to move so she could rotate to face her sleeping husband.

His dark hair was thoroughly rumpled, ravaged by her fingers, if she recalled accurately. A sated smile curved his lips, and his eyelashes brushed against dark circles that seemed a paler shade of purple, his skin flushed and healthy, brow smooth, unbothered. Lucy studied him proudly; she was responsible for this change in him. She couldn’t help but kiss the cupid’s mouth.

He awoke quickly, reciprocated eagerly, pressing her back into the mattress. Supporting himself on one arm, he traced her cheek. “Morning, love.” Sleep deepened his voice. “Or is it noon?”

“Afternoon,” Lucy informed, tweaking his nose.

“Is it? I suppose we needed the sleep, after staying up all last night.” His grin rivaled the glow of the fire. “Was my worship acceptable?”

“Hmm. It’s hard to say, from just one service,” Lucy said airily, teasing.

“Then I shall have to offer my service again tonight.” Lockwood kissed her. “And tomorrow night.” Another languid kiss. “And the next.”

“Quite the devotee.” Lucy had to catch her breath, which she could see Lockwood was pleased as punch over, the cheeky thing. She loved him. “There’s just one problem.”

Lockwood’s brow wrinkled. “What might that be?”

“I’m finally hungry.”

The wrinkles fled, and Lockwood laughed.