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When the phone rang at two in the morning, Quill was the only person in Portland Row.
Holly and George were out on a job with the new agents, Bobby and Kat had retired to their own flats, and Lockwood…well, wherever he was, it wasn’t here. Quill stood from the kitchen table where he’d been balancing the budget, eyes heavy with sleep, and answered the phone before the sixth ring.
“Lockwood & Co., this is Quill speaking. How may I assist you?”
“Kipps.” It was Barnes’ voice, soft and gruff. Quill’s heart sank to the pit of his stomach. This was it, the call he’d been anticipating for months. Lockwood’s apparent death wish had finally come to collect; of course Quill would have to be the one to break the news to the others. Damn Barnes and his poor timing.
“Sir,” Quill said, barely keeping the tremble from his words. “Is it-?”
“She’s alive.”
What?
“What?” Quill asked. “Who?”
Barnes let out a huff of a laugh, closer to hysterical than mirthless. “Lucy,” he said. “She’s alive. She survived.”
If not for years of intensive training, Quill might’ve dropped the phone in his shock. Instead he felt his body go numb, then tingly, like he’d been electrocuted by another one of George’s stupid experiments. Lucy had been gone nigh seven months. They’d buried an empty coffin and mourned her properly. Everyone, barring Lockwood, had tried to move forward, had been trying so hard to keep afloat. What Barnes told him now didn’t make sense, didn’t fit into the bleak reality Quill had finally accepted.
It was too good to be true.
It couldn’t be true.
“I’m on my way,” Quill said instead of any of this. He needed to see her with his own two eyes before he tried to track down the others. He owed them that much.
The hospital was abuzz when Quill’s nightcab dropped him off. More agents and adults in suits than necessary seemed to be pacing the hallways, long queues at every payphone as people whispered and shouted and scoffed in disbelief. A nurse was threatening to empty out bedpans on a couple of reporters. Another was bringing tea and sandwiches to a handful of young DEPRAC agents. Quill recognized a few of them, and wondered if any had been on Lucy’s team before the accident.
Before he could push through the throng to find Lucy’s room, a warm hand caught his. Quill turned to find an older woman in a soft, cream sweater, hair tied back in a silk scarf.
“Mrs. Barnes,” he said, surprised.
“Quill, please,” she said. “I’ve told you to call me Yvonne.”
“Yvonne,” Quill corrected himself. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“I was there when Monty got the call,” she said with a shrug, pulling Quill along with her as they navigated past the reception desk. “He was so beside himself he could barely tie his shoes before running out the door. Probably would’ve fallen down a flight of stairs if I hadn’t come with.”
The one unusually bright spot of the past half year had been Barnes’ wedding. It was a small affair, but everyone at the agency had been invited despite the tension that still lingered. Even Lockwood had bothered to show up, though he slipped out early before Holly could cajole him into a dance.
(She was a dance-floor menace after three glasses of champagne, much to her chagrin and her girlfriend’s delight.)
Yvonne Barnes was someone who would have loved Lucy, just like the rest of them. She appeared rather plain at first glance, but had the confidence and presence of someone like Marissa Fittes. Quill knew she was the only reason Barnes hadn’t resigned after Lucy’s accident, certain that no other man in London had the insight and experience to keep the country safe as they navigated a new chapter of the Problem.
“She’s not awake yet,” Yvonne told him as they reached the end of a hallway, quieter and guarded by police and DEPRAC agents alike. “But the doctors believe she will soon.”
Quill had a million questions, but kept them lodged in his throat. He had to be hallucinating all of this, or maybe dreaming, and there was no point asking anything of someone who wasn’t really there. He thanked Yvonne as she stood back, waving him into the room.
The first thing Quill noticed was the beeping of the heart rate monitor, a soft but steady noise. Next his gaze found Barnes, slumped over in a chair next to the bed, eyes red with fatigue and perhaps even tears, not bothering to look up as Quill sat in the empty seat next to him.
And then Quill let himself look at the bed, at the figure there whose chest rose and fell with deep breathes, whose face had been plastered across the city for six-and-a-half long, long months.
“It can’t be,” Quill breathed. “She’s really…how?”
Barnes said nothing for a moment, shaking his head. Then, he murmured. “I don’t know.”
Quill couldn’t help himself; he laughed. “What do you mean you don’t know?”
Barnes’ mouth quirked, almost smiling. “She called us from a police booth.”
“You’re joking.”
“Thought someone was playing a bad joke on me when I got the call,” Barnes said. “The operator who answered the original call thought so as well. But we sent out an ambulance all the same and…there she was, passed out but alive.”
Again, Quill laughed. “Only Lucy,” he said. “I’ve watched her fall multiple stories beneath Aickmere’s and seen her barely escape getting blown up with the rest of Fittes House. I never should have doubted her uncanny ability to survive.”
Barnes grinned. “I’ll never forget arriving at Combe Carey, hearing about an explosion and evil monks and a vengeful spirit and seeing this tiny little girl covered in soot and blood glaring at me for having the nerve to try and arrest her. I knew from that moment she was going to be a bigger pain in my arse than Lockwood.”
That felt like a lifetime ago, when Quill still had a modicum of Sight and an endless supply of superiority. God, they’d all been so young then, three children taking on the world. Quill’s chest ached at the thought, and not for the first time wished he’d been more patient with them, if not kinder.
“How is she?” He asked, nodding at Lucy. “She’s been over there so long…”
Barnes nodded and cleared his throat. “Dehydrated and exhausted, but we won’t know much about her mental state until she wakes. No injuries they could find, no frostbite or- or ghost touch.”
Quill nodded. “Good. That’s good.”
“It’s aged her,” Barnes said, hand reached out as if to brush aside the newly-grey streaks in Lucy’s hair. He pulled back before he could. “But not much more than we’ve seen with any other person who’s gone over.”
“I’d expect her to look like my nan, given how long she’s been there,” Quill said, frowning.
Barnes hummed in agreement. “Where are the others? I’m surprised you’re here alone.”
Quill let out a long sigh. “On a job. I didn’t…I don’t want them to know until she’s out of the woods. Can’t give them false hope.” Lockwood wouldn’t survive it, he didn’t say.
“I can’t hold off the press forever, Kipps,” Barnes said softly.
“I know.” Quill sighed again. “Just…not yet, okay?”
“Okay,” Barnes agreed. “Okay.”
Quill was nearly asleep when someone said his name.
He glanced up and Barnes was already handing Lucy a cup of water. It was startling, to see her bright eyes awake and alert. Relief and guilt washed through him in tandem.
“Carlyle,” Barnes said, leaning forward in his chair. “How are you feeling?”
“Like death warmed over,” Lucy said, laughing. This girl had been through untold horrors and she was laughing. “But better than I should after three days on the Other Side.”
Three days?
Three?
Only three?
“Three days?” Kipps heard himself say.
Lucy nodded, and suddenly her survival both made sense and defied explanation. “I suppose it’s been a bit longer here. Did the others-? Did Christopher-?”
Barnes nodded, clearly more stable than Quill felt. “Your team made it out. All of them.”
“Good,” Lucy said. She and Barnes continued speaking, but Quill couldn’t hear over the rush of blood in his ears. How were they supposed to tell her that in three days her entire world had imploded? How was Quill supposed to tell her the shell of a man Lockwood had become?
“I’m lucky that gate I found was still up,” he heard Lucy say. “Else I’d be dead.”
Kipps and Barnes exchanged a look. There were no other gates in London, of that they were certain. Every property with even the loosest of ties to the Orpheus Society had been raided and cleared, and nothing they’d done had succeeded in rebuilding their own. “Very lucky,” Barnes agreed, and his tone made Quill wonder if he knew more than he let on. “Listen, Carlyle, there’s something you should know.”
“What is it?” Lucy looked up at them with wide, trusting eyes. Barnes faltered, words escaping him, so Quill stepped in.
“It’s been more than a few days since you crossed over,” he said carefully.
“Right,” Lucy said. “A week, then?”
Anxiety clawed at his throat. Quill shook his head.
Lucy frowned, brows knitted together in a heartbreakingly familiar way. “Two weeks? Don’t tell me it’s been three, Lockwood must be losing his mind!”
Tears sprang in Quill’s eyes and he glanced down to compose himself. For months he’d been the strong one, the one who’d let Holly cry into his shoulder and who bullied George out of sullen silences. But Lucy was his friend too and he’d missed her, dammit.
“Lucy,” he said finally. “It’s been six months.”
The horror in her face would haunt him for the rest of his life.
“You haven’t called them.”
Quill looked up at Kat. She handed him a styrofoam cup of coffee and sat down in the waiting room chair next to his. Lucy was visiting with her DEPRAC team and Quill wasn’t sure he could face the pathetic one, not after he didn’t do much to stop Lockwood from breaking his nose.
“How do you know that?”
Kat shrugged. “They’d be here if you had.”
She had a point. “Why are you here?” He asked.
“Wanted to see if the rumors were true.” Kat cast him a sidelong look. “And there are rumors.”
Agents were the biggest gaggle of gossips Quill had ever met, and he’d attended his grandmother’s book club. He pinched the bridge of his nose and willed away the headache that was building between his eyes.
“I just…what if it’s not real?” He asked quietly. “What if the doctors missed something and she- she-”
“They deserve to know, Quill.” Kat had a way of cutting through his bullshit, tone sharp and words sharper.
“They deserve to know she’s going to be okay. And I can’t guarantee that, not yet.”
With a sigh, Kat stood, brushing non-existent lint from her trousers. “Barnes says they’re discharging her this afternoon. Take her home. Don’t let them find out from some gossip rag.”
Even Quill could admit when he was defeated. “Alright,” he said, giving her a sheepish look. “When did you get so smart, huh?”
Kat rolled her eyes, hand going to her waist where a rapier should have been. She didn’t carry one as often as she used to these days, with her Listening fading and her agency gone in a terrible blaze. “I’ve always been smart than you,” she said. “You’ve just finally caught on.”
Then she was gone, off to do whatever it was she did these days when she wasn’t working with Lockwood & Co. In the blink of an eye, Kat had grown from a sullen child to a fully-fledged young woman, no longer following in Quill’s own footsteps, always at his heel. It was a lonely thought, but one that filled him with pride as well.
Quill sighed and stood. There wasn’t much point delaying the inevitable. He headed to Lucy’s room and braced himself for what came next.
Lucy fidgeted the entire cab ride to Portland Row, tugging at her hair and running her fingers over the crow's feet that now lined the corners of her eyes. Quill watched her quietly, resisting the urge to slap her hands away.
“Lockwood probably won’t be at the house,” he said instead. The cab pulled to a halt outside number 35 and Quill paid the driver. “He…he comes and goes.”
He exited the cab first, then turned to pull her to her feet. She swayed for a second, then steadied, gripping Quill’s elbow. “Where does he go?” She asked.
“He doesn’t say.” Quill led her slowly up the steps. “Flo might have some idea, but he’s grown…secretive. Reclusive. A bit barmy.”
Lucy tightened her grip on his arm. “He hasn’t…he hasn’t been too reckless, has he? On jobs?”
Quill bit back a harsh laugh. “He would have to show up to jobs first. Cubbins runs the show these days.”
“Oh.” Lucy considered this. “Oh, no .”
“Yeah.” Quill laughed. “It’s going about as well as you can imagine.”
To be completely honest, it was going better than Quill ever expected. Cubbins wasn’t a natural-born leader, but he was smart enough to get the job done. They were all lucky to have Holly around to keep him from turning into some sort of unkempt, unhinged despot.
Taking a deep breath, Quill opened the front door to see Holly leaving the kitchen, a pitifully sparse tea tray in her hands.
Her scream of shock and euphoria was almost worth keeping Lucy’s homecoming a secret. Quill felt as Lucy was wrenched from his arm and pulled into a tight hug. Holly was in tears in seconds, and the guilt returned, creeping, to the back of Quill’s mind.
George’s reaction was more muted, but no less heartbreaking. The surprise was apparent on Lucy’s face, discomfort giving way to confusion when he hugged her. Quill kept himself busy, cleaning up the mugs Holly had dropped and changing the sheets on Lucy’s cot. The others sequestered themselves in the library, and Quill couldn’t blame Holly and George for their inability to look away from Lucy. They’d dealt with ghosts their whole careers, the dead come back to haunt the living, but they’d never considered what would happen when the dead came back to life.
“The papers are saying Miss Carlyle’s back from the spirit world,” Ben said as Quill talked him and Carrie through a series of training exercises. Holly had tried to take charge when the agents had arrived that evening—Ben from his mum’s house and Carrie from her day off—but Quill insisted she spend more time with Lucy, as she was clearly loath to leave her friend for longer than a few minutes.
Fast work, Quill thought. “Yes, she’s upstairs. Resting.” He added, casting a look at the two children.
“You must be so happy,” Carrie said with a wide grin. She was a funny little thing, all positive attitude and boundless energy. A bit like Lockwood, when he was her age, with none of the grief.
Quill smiled but didn’t answer. “Off, off,” he said, shooing them down to the basement. “Go train. Carlyle’s return hasn’t rid the city of Visitors just yet.”
The kids didn’t put up a fight and headed down to spar in high spirits. It was a bit unnerving, Quill realized, to know they were likely the last generation of agents that would ever be needed. By the time their Talents faded, Visitors would no longer plague the night.
It should have been a happy thought, but instead Quill felt a familiar queasiness deep in his gut. He started preparations for supper, just to buy himself a bit more time before he headed upstairs again.
The next day passed as usual. George and Flo came in and out, tracking grime across the floor to Holly’s dismay. Lucy met the new agents, spent time resting and catching up with the others. And Quill—well, he was good at keeping busy, and there was always something to do at Lockwood & Co.
Before he left for the evening, Lucy cornered him in the sitting room, hands on her hips. Still too wan for his liking, Lucy looked more alive than she had since coming back. Her eyes were bright and she was more steady on her feet, though Holly forbade her from even thinking about work for at least a week.
“You’ve been odd since I got home,” she said, backing him into a corner.
Quill scoffed. “According to you lot, I’ve always been odd.”
“Kipps,” she said brusquely. “Is it about Lockwood? I’m worried about him, too.”
“No,” Quill sighed. “I mean, I am. Trust me, we’ve all been worried about him for quite some time.”
Lucy scowled, picking at the fraying ends of her jumper. “Are you cross with me?”
“Why would I be?” Quill asked. “You’ve not broken my favorite mug, have you? I was certain it was Cubbins who dropped it.”
“Then why are you being so cagey?” Lucy crossed her arms. “What did I do?”
The back of Quill’s throat grew tight and he heard himself say, “You died, Lucy. You died and it- it broke us. All of us. And I was supposed to keep you safe, keep them safe, but I failed you and when you came back I couldn’t even tell the others because I was so afraid of failing them as well.”
Lucy gaped at him, clearly unprepared for his reaction. After a moment she shook her head and said, “That’s not…you’re not a supervisor. That’s never been your job here.”
That almost made him laugh. “I’m the adult,” he whispered. “I’m supposed to protect you.”
“We’re all adults,” Lucy said, and she reached out to touch his arm. “I’m not a child, Quill.”
“You are to me,” Quill admitted, and he was horrified to realize his eyes were burning with unshed tears. “You’re always going to be that absolute brat I met five years ago.”
“Back when you refused to learn my name and called me Julie?” Lucy kicked at his foot teasingly.
“Back when you followed Lockwood around like a baby chick,” Quill retorted. Lucy’s face fell at that, and Quill reached out to pull her into a hug.
“He’ll come home soon,” he said. “And when he does, I think the shock of seeing you will knock him straight on his bony bum.”
Lucy laughed wetly, nodding into Quill’s shoulder. “I know a thing or two about not keeping people safe,” she whispered. “If something’s happened to Lockwood-”
“It certainly won’t be your fault,” Quill said immediately. “But nothing’s happened to him. He’s the only one of us who refused to believe you were dead. Marissa Fittes herself couldn’t kill him until he’s found you.”
Lucy pulled back and wiped at her eyes. “Okay,” she said. “I’ll trust you on that one.”
“Good.”
A comfortable silence fell between them for a moment, and Quill was wondering if he should call a cab home now when Lucy said, “Holly tells me you spoke at my funeral.”
“Did she now?” Shit.
“Yes,” Lucy continued, a horribly mischievous grin on her face. “Something about that time with Bickerstaff’s ghost and you being a damsel in distress-”
“You have no proof,” Quill said, backing away, trying to skirt around the sofa to make his escape. “And that’s taken out of context.”
“Oh, is it now?” Lucy cut off his path, light on her feet for a recently dead girl. “And the proper context would be…?”
“You know, my cab should be here any minute, I haven’t time to tell the story-”
“Liar.” Lucy quirked an eyebrow. “Start from the beginning.”
Quill sighed, deeply, and let himself be corralled into a seat next to Lucy. And for the first time in months, when Lucy laughed and gasped and cried, he didn’t feel like he’d failed anyone at all.