Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

[redacted, gushing about Lockwood & Co]

Through the iron-barred window, Lucy could see young Emma being taken to the cab by the woman in the pink hat. The man with the matching pink tie toddled after them, carrying Emma’s tiny suitcase. He loaded up the meager luggage, kissed the pink-hatted woman on the cheek, and tousled Emma’s fair hair. Emma had matching pink ribbons tied around her ratty teddy bear and she hesitated briefly at the open cab, looking back at the orphanage somberly. Then, she vigorously waved at whoever was seeing her off and her gap-toothed smile lit up the world. Golden sunlight sparkled down on the trio like something out of a movie—a snapshot of a happy family, picture perfect, something to be seen in a catalogue.

What Lucy wouldn’t give to be in Emma’s shoes—to leave with a family that loved her, that would protect her, that cared beyond her Talent.

“Lucy?”

Jolted from her daydream, Lucy snapped her attention back to the debriefing at hand. “Yes ma’am?”

“Are you quite finished staring out the window?” Headmistress Mara demanded impatiently.

The cab rumbled as it pulled away, kicking up a little spray of rocks and dust from the gravel driveway. It vanished in an instant through the open gates that broke up the iron and stone wall surrounding Saint Catherine’s Home for Orphans. The tree-lined street beyond was lousy with cars rushing hither and thither, regular people enjoying their day with no sense of the terrible night Lucy had just had.

“Yes ma’am,” Lucy confirmed and tried to surreptitiously wipe her stinging eyes with her scratchy sweater sleeve.

Mara gave a derisive sniff, shuffled the papers on her desk, and then set them down in a prim pile. “You received another glowing report from Grimble,” she continued. “Twenty percent of the fee was deposited directly into your account. As you know, you will gain access to those funds when you age out.”

Lucy nodded absently. She had heard all this before, but it was routine after every successful case. She wondered how the script would change if she died on the job.

“The remainder of the fee will go to the orphanage to care for all who live here,” Mara continued hurriedly now that she had Lucy’s full attention. “Due to your excellent performance, Grimble has donated these gifts to you.” She handed over a cardboard box with Grimble’s Logo on it.

Lucy accepted the box with a nod but didn’t open it.

“You are dismissed,” Mara finished. “There will be an extra helping on your plate tonight, Lucy. You can send in the next agent, if you please.”

Lucy spared one final glance out the barred window and then exited the office with her little consolation prize tucker under her arm. Her rapier had been taken and stowed until her next case and she already missed its steadying weight at her side. Hard to believe she felt more at home with a bloodthirsty ghost after her than she did walking the orphanage’s drafty halls.

“Headmistress is ready for you,” she told the boy waiting outside the office.

He looked up from fiddling with a bloodied tissue and grinned widely at her before wincing at the strain in his split lip and jamming the tissue back against the weeping cut.

Lucy stifled a little gasp—both at the sight of his face and at the sight of his face.

Even coming in off an overnight case, Anthony Lockwood’s dark hair caught in the golden sunlight and flopped over his forehead in an enticing way. His pale skin glowed and his eyes sparkled despite the fact that he had just been out all night with an angry ghost. Lucy tried to smooth her hair, feeling the rat’s nest on the top of her head. She had been napping when Headmistress called for her and hadn’t bothered to neaten herself up with all the other orphans in daily class. How was she such a mess and Lockwood looked like he’d been happily up for hours? Well, aside from his hideously split and bloody lip, that was.

Steeling herself, Lucy dragged her attention back to the matter at hand. “Shit, what happened? You’re hurt.”

“Rough night,” Lockwood answered with a charming smile that might had flustered Lucy enough to send her scarpering under any other circumstance.

As it was, he immediately winced and blotted at his lip and Lucy was able to keep her blood inside her brain instead of having it all rush into her cheeks. She snapped open the Grimble box and raked through it. There were extra salt bombs, a jar of iron filings, and a single flare inside—all meant to help her survive her next case as compliments of the company she had worked for. It was completely sick that something meant to save her life was a reward for not dying. The better she performed, the more things she received to keep her alive for the next time someone needed her. Underneath those, she found a little box of bandages, a bar of chocolate with nuts, and a pack of spearmint gum. Lucy pulled out the bandages and popped open the lid.

“Save it,” Lockwood interrupted. He licked his bloody lip, folded the tissue over in search of a clean spot, and pressed the whole mess back against his mouth. “It won’t stick anyway.”

Lucy realized he was right and dropped the bandages back into the Grimble box.

Before she could say anything else to him, though, Headmistress Mara banged the door open and shouted far too loudly for someone who was waiting outside, “Anthony!”

Lucy jumped in surprise, realizing a hair later that Mara hadn’t pronounced Anthony the way she’d overheard Lockwood introduce himself—with a clipped T instead of a lispy TH. Besides, she knew that he preferred his last name anyway—something tragic about his parents being the only ones to call him by his given name, just like every other orphan here. They all had similar tales to tell anyone who bothered to listen, including Lucy and her ghost-touched mother.

Lockwood turned his winning smile towards the headmistress. His wound broke open again and he was forced to drop the smile in favor of blotting his bloody mouth.

Mara stared down at him. “I told her I was ready for you.”

“She told me,” Lockwood said languidly. “I was just about to head in.”

“This debriefing isn’t to your schedule, Anthony. Up and in. Now.”

Lockwood got to his feet stiffly, favoring either his ankle or his knee, still holding the tissue to his mouth. “Be seeing you, Luce,” he said.

The door slammed shut between them.

“Yeah,” Lucy told the wood, “Nice to see you, too.”

Then, she shook herself free from her worries, clutched the box to her chest, and hustled off to her dormitory.

There was little point in worrying about Anthony Lockwood. Lucy had first met him when she was transferred to Saint Catherine’s from Jacob’s Orphanage several months ago when it got too crowded and her Talent got too significant. He had been here the longest and, since he was Talented, he stood no chance of ever being adopted. Agents were too valuable, raising much-needed funds rather than finding a home. He was rented out for just as many cases as Lucy, if not more. His incredible Sight and skill with a rapier made him a top agent for any agency in need. Yet, somehow, he always seemed to come back injured and never seemed to have the bonuses that Lucy treasured. His flippant attitude towards the headmistress made it seem like he had a death wish, too.

Yet, he was still going strong—a light that couldn’t be snuffed no matter how hard the wind blew. At least, that was the impression Lucy always got from that brilliant smile he turned on everyone.

Putting him out of her mind, Lucy ducked into her bedroom. Since she was Talented, she had the dubious honor of sharing a dormitory with only other Talented girls and young women. Unfortunately, they were all deceased at the moment—all save for Lucy—so the large dorm room was hideously empty. The rows of stripped mattresses and bare frames looked like bones, open and raw like an uncovered grave.

Only a few nights ago, Diana slept a few beds away, snoring gently. Then, she had gone out on a case, been fatally ghost-touched, and never returned. There was not a sign she had ever lived here at all. Neither her few books nor her favorite floral nightshirt, not her small bag nor her single framed photograph of her dead family, nothing remained. Every trace of Diana was gone.

Lucy knew her own death would be just the same.

Shuddering, she focused on her post-case routine rather than dwell on the loss of someone she almost-considered a friend. She stowed her supplies into the ratty duffel she took on cases, mindful to keep track of what she had for next time, and treated herself to a strip of gum. Then, she drifted to the barred window and looked out at the yard below. It was too chilly for anyone to be playing outside, even if classes hadn’t been in session, and there was no longer any trace of the cab that had ushered Emma away to her new life. Lucy leaned her forehead against the cool glass and squeezed her eyes shut against the burn of tears.

She was happy for Emma—really, she was—but she couldn’t help the whisper of hunger inside her chest. She wished that had been her. She wished she was leaving and going to a happy home where she’d never have to fear for her life again. She wished she could have a family, a mother and father, a little sibling even. She wanted someone who loved her beyond what she could do for them. She wanted someone who cared for her, not just the strength of her Talent.

Unfortunately, her fate was a different one.

When she aged out, she’d have a little nest egg instead of a family.

If she died on the job, then no one would mourn her. She supposed she should be grateful for that.

Sniffling back her tears, Lucy turned away from the window, but the sight of Diana’s empty bed caught her heart like a snag and she hurried out instead. She followed the familiar path down from the dormitory floors, avoided the creaky step out of habit, strode past the empty classrooms, and emerged in the cafeteria. Dinner would start soon and there was no harm in snagging a choice seat close to the heater. Sinking into one of the plastic chairs, Lucy leaned over far enough to crack her back with a groan and then shivered as the wave of heat rolled over her. It was always cold in the orphanage.

Absently, she wondered if it was haunted.

Lucy patiently while the table filled in around her. Despite children crowding her in on all sides, she was still alone. Her Talent set her apart from her peers—a worker rather than a prospective adoptee, an agent instead of a child. No one spoke to her and, now that Diana was gone, she was completely alone. Across the large dining hall, the Talented boys all crowded together. Funny, she didn't see Lockwood with them. Maybe he had decided on more sleep instead of mysterious casserole.

Headmistress Mara sauntered in just before the chime that announced supper. She called each table by number up to the serving line and watched as scoops of casseroles and flaccid beans were dished out. Lucy shuffled along with everyone else, accepting each scoop as it came. When she stood before the casserole, an extra helping was heaped onto her tray. Beside her, a young boy whose name Lucy wasn’t certain of glowered greedily at her portion. Lucy hustled away, reclaiming her seat and digging in. When he returned to the table, the boy sat with his back to Lucy.

Since she was Talented, Lucy was excused from clean-up duty. Apparently, it was enough that she risked her life, but that didn’t stop the talentless orphans from whining to each other as she stacked up her dishes and left without taking a turn at the sink or with the washing up rags.

The hallway would usually have been deserted, the agents having hustled off to practice with their rapiers and the children still cleaning up. However, a dark-coated wraith startled her just outside the cafeteria and Lucy jolted, stifling a yelp of surprise only because she was used to doing so on cases.

Lockwood slouched against the wall, his big coat hanging off his shoulders and his hands thrust deep in the pockets. His split lip looked even worse now, the swelling having increased in addition to the injury itself, but it seemed to have stopped bleeding. He glanced at her and started to smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes before he winced.

“I didn’t see you at supper,” Lucy mentioned blandly.

She wasn’t entirely sure why she’d stopped to talk to him. She knew Lockwood in passing, but they had never been rented for the same case so she’d never worked with him. Talented Boys and Girls usually kept to themselves. Even though Lucy was alone now without Diana, she hadn’t thought to sit with Lockwood and his boys. Beyond that, he was a little too handsome to speak to without blushing so Lucy kept away to avoid making a fool of herself. Perhaps she chanced talking to him now because he looked kind of pathetic with his split lip and his too-big coat and his floppy dark hair and the way he couldn’t quite smile even though he clearly wanted to.

“That’s because I wasn’t there,” he said.

“No? Why’d you skip? It was ham casserole tonight, not tuna.”

“Headmistress decided that I didn’t deserve supper for my flippant attitude during debriefing today.”

Lucy’s eyes widened. “But you’d just worked a case! You should have gotten double portions like me.”

Lockwood regarded her. “I rarely get double portions. You get them every time?”

Lucy flushed, thinking of the way her leggings stretched across her backside and belly. “Yeah,” she admitted. “Headmistress always gives me double after I work.”

“That’s fortunate,” Lockwood murmured. “Must be why you rarely get hurt.”

Lucy looked at Lockwood a little closer—the way his threadbare dress shirt hung off his shoulders, the cinch in the cracked leather belt around his narrow hips, the big coat making him look wider and taller. He was scrawny beyond the onset of puberty, gangly arms and long legs stretched thin. Those cutting cheekbones and that sharp jawline weren’t just good genes at play. He was underweight.

“Wait here,” Lucy told him suddenly. “I’ll be right back.”

Lockwood didn’t get a chance to protest before she’d turned on her heel and darted back into the cafeteria. Cookie had already cleaned up the big silver pans that held the casserole and baked beans, not that there had been leftovers. The orphanage’s budget was always stretched thin. Those with Talent came and went like the tides, but the unluckiest orphans in needs of loving families stayed for years.

“Hi Cookie,” Lucy said lowly.

The old man adjusted his glasses and flashed Lucy a smile that showed a gold tooth. “How are you, Lucy? Rough case last night?”

“It wasn’t so terrible,” Lucy told him.

“Yeah? Tell me all about those ghosties, lass.”

Cookie’s jovial attitude was always contagious and she found herself relaying a few of the less-gory details. As he often did when Lucy told him about her cases, he beckoned her deeper into the kitchen and sneakily slipped her some snacks. What he shared depended on what he had leftover or what had been donated that week. Today, it was a sleeve of peanut butter crackers and a sliced green apple. Lucy was quite full from double servings and carefully stowed the snacks into a napkin in her lap. When she excused herself to check the lessons she’d missed, Cookie’s poor eyesight made him none the wiser that Lucy hadn’t eaten his offerings.

Lucy kept her prize hidden as she shuffled past the orphans still cleaning up and back into the hallway. Lockwood was where she’d left him, leaning casually against the wall with his head tipped back and his eyes closed. He had pulled his coat tightly shut against the chill and crossed his arms over his chest. He looked tired and worn.

“Hey,” Lucy said softly.

Lockwood peeled his eyes open and looked down at her from underneath his long lashes. “Hey.”

“Here.”

“What’s that?”

Lucy looked around surreptitiously, verifying they were still alone in the hallway. “Hold out your hands.”

He released his hold on his coat and cupped his palms together.

She carefully passed the napkin into Lockwood’s long-fingered hands, mindful not to brush him unnecessarily. “I got these from Cookie. It’s not much, but I figure anything can help.”

Lockwood peered into the folded napkin and his mouth dropped open in shock. “These are for me?”

“Yeah.”

“How did you get food from Cookie after hours?”

“He’s curious about ghosts. If I tell him about my cases, he usually takes me back to the kitchen and shares what he can. You can’t be too obvious about it, though.” Lockwood was still staring at her with something like awe so Lucy found that she nervously kept talking. “I usually see Cookie before cases. He gives me a midnight snack for later and sometimes a cup of tea to settle my nerves.”

Lockwood put a slice of apple into his mouth and folded the napkin reverently around the crackers. “Thank you,” he breathed shakily.

Lucy bit back the desire to tell him he didn’t have to thank her, that he should have gotten double-rations like she did, that Headmistress had no right to deny him supper when he was risking his life to bring in money for the orphanage, that they both deserved better than what they were getting. They deserved a childhood, deserved families, deserved someone who cared. At the very least, Lockwood deserved a full stomach! Lucy gnawed back the words like rocks in her throat. “After my next case, I’ll come sit with you at supper. I’ll give you my second helping.”

Lockwood’s dark eyes slashed up to Lucy’s face from where he had been worshipfully eating the apple slices in little bites. “What? No, I couldn’t.”

Lucy thought again of her backside and hips. “I can share,” she insisted. “Don’t make me look for you.”

Lockwood started to smile, but his lip pulled painfully and he dropped it. He just looked sad and hungry and young. “Okay,” he relented, “but only after cases, when you get double.”

Lucy wanted to fight him on it, but had a feeling he would choose this particular hill to die on. It was probably a testament to just how hungry he was that he had given in already. The Anthony Lockwood she had heard whispered about in the hallways was more stubborn than any mule. “Fine,” she agreed. “Goodnight, Lockwood.”

“Night, Luce,” he said to her retreating back.

Questions, comments, concerns?

Chapter Text

Happy Tuesday, everyone!

After crossing paths with Lockwood starving outside the cafeteria, Lucy found herself watching him more and more in the following days. Previously, she had tried very hard not to look at him lest he catch her staring and she immediately give her interest away by blushing like a schoolgirl. However, after having such an intimate conversation, it no longer felt like impolite or shameless staring. Instead, she noticed tiny details that she’d never seen before, learned his little mannerisms and quirks, and began to see beyond his handsome face.

She realized that his lip was slow to heal because he kept splitting it open again when he smiled. Lockwood smiled a lot—at young scared orphans and chatty preteen girls, at Cookie when he served meals, at Talented youths during rapier practice, at Lucy whenever he noticed her, at Headmistress Mara, at everyone who caught his eye. The smile had several different layers, sometimes kind and soft, sometimes sharp and blinding, sometimes lifted like a shield to hide his face. Lockwood had a thousand smiles, each more radiant than the last.

Yet, when he thought no one was looking, the smile slipped away and he just looked exhausted.

He worked more cases than Lucy, usually two or three to her one. The long nights risking his life clearly weighed on him. His thin face was deeply shadowed, dark circles the consistency of bruises lay beneath his eyes, and his skin dry and sallow from lack of proper rest and food. He had the same salt stains and magnesium burns that Lucy did. His hands were cracked and callused from wielding his rapier. His worn clothes hung off his shoulders and his big coat swallowed him.

Headmistress Mara sometimes seemed personally out to get him, Lucy thought. While he received the obligatory day off from classes to recover like all the Talented orphans did, Mara gave him nothing else—not additional rations or leisure time or even a pass on any classwork that he missed.

Lockwood scrambled to catch up, his eyes red-rimmed and his hair flopping over his forehead while he tried to study. Fortunately, he was a good student and if he found the time between cases and practice, he always got high marks. They were in class now and Lockwood had his head propped up to stay awake. He brought his pen to his mouth and then lowered it when he inadvertently tapped his wounded lip, working out the calculations in his head with his eyes half-shut.

“Anthony, if you’d care to join us,” the teacher snapped suddenly. “Do not nap in my class.”

“I wasn’t,” Lockwood told her.

Jolted from her musings, Lucy snapped her attention back to the problems in front of her. If she wanted to continue passing this class, she needed to focus herself. Failing the class would not excuse her from cases, but the extra lessons would cut into her rapier practice and her chances of survival would sink.

“Then perhaps you have the answer to this problem on the board,” the teacher said smugly.

“I do,” Lockwood answered and gave it, much to the teacher’s surprise.

“Very good.” The teacher scribbled out the answer and began explaining how Lockwood had gotten to the correct answer, taking the rest of them through it step by step.

Lucy’s attention strayed again, wandering over to Lockwood where he’d propped his head on his palm again. His cheeks were lightly flushed and a shy smile touched his lips. He looked pleased, but it was deeper than that. He didn’t look pleased that he’d gotten the right answer. Instead, he looked happy to have done something right at all.

After class, Lucy was called to Mara’s office and told she had a case. It was a simple one with Grimble and Lucy was pleased to see it was a team she’d worked with in the past. They were a smart bunch, though made up entirely of slim blonde agents and a bleached-blonde supervisor who always waited outside, smoking like a chimney. Lucy’s clothes always reeked after a case with them, but they were capable agents and the supervisor wasn’t the worst.

Lucy packed up and left the orphanage. The night was long and cold. The case went pretty much how Lucy had expected considering it took place in a row home where a toy train enthusiast had recently died of a massive heart attack. Lucy had Listened to the sounds of the trains, whistling and chugging until she found his most treasured steam engine. The only thing she hadn’t expected was the salt bomb that was thrown to combat the ghost, ricocheted off the wall, and exploded close enough to singe her hair. At least she hadn’t been ghost-touched while she was Listening.

“How bad is it?” Lucy asked one of the pretty blondes in her pressed Grimble uniform once the Source was secured.

“Could be worse,” she answered and stowed her rapier. “It’s not that bad.”

The stifled laughter of the other blonde agent made Lucy’s cheeks flush with shame. She felt around the back of her head at the sheared strands and thought it felt like the arse end of a rooster but forced herself not to panic. It wasn’t as though she’d had a hairstyle or anything resembling one beforehand. Besides, she’d been due for a trim anyway. Maybe this would make Mara send for the barber to get all the orphans a haircut that much sooner. Saint Catherine's couldn’t be sending their agents out into the field looking like barnyard animals.

Grimble dropped her off at the orphanage and took the Source to the furnaces. Lucy dragged herself up the concrete steps to the door, lugging her duffel and rapier. She was tired, exhausted from keeping up inane chatter with Grimble’s matched set of Barbies all night. She wondered how much faster she could have gotten through that case if they’d just stopped talking for five minutes. Lucy wasn’t sure if the front door would be unlocked yet, as she was back a little early, but when she tested the knob, the door opened. Gratefully, she ducked inside and kicked the door shut on the night’s chill.

Immediately, she became aware of someone standing in the dark foyer. Lucy jumped and snapped on her penlight, momentarily blinding Lockwood. He was lucky she recognized him before she threw a salt bomb in his face or leveled her rapier at his throat. Wearing threadbare striped pajamas and with his split mouth, he looked a little like a ghost himself, but there was no denying that Lucy was happy to see him.

“Oh, Lockwood. Did you just get in?” Immediately, she realized that was a stupid question as he was clearly still in pajamas. She snapped off her penlight so he wouldn’t see her kicking herself.

“No, I didn’t work tonight,” he answered.

“Just me, then.” Lucy was glad he’d gotten the opportunity to sleep or, at least, he should have. The fact that he was awake and downstairs lurking in the dark said a lot about how well he’d been sleeping.

“Are you alright?” Lockwood asked.

Abruptly, Lucy recalled her singed hair and her hand flew up to touch it. She felt the grit of salt, magnesium, and dust all over her and awkwardly swiped at her face. Her fingers found a cut that smarted when she touched it, though the blood all felt crusty and dried. She winced, both in slight pain and mostly discomfort. Why did Lockwood have to see her like this when she was such a mess? Since cleaning up was a lost cause without soap and a mirror, she removed her rapier and propped it into the stand before jostling her duffel higher on her shoulder.

“Yeah,” she told him. “A salt bomb went off a little too close, but I’m fine.”

Lockwood wet his lips like he wanted to say something, but clammed up instead. He passed a hand over his stomach fleetingly.

“Don’t think I forgot,” Lucy said suddenly.

“Forgot what?” He looked surprised enough that Lucy wondered why he’d been down here waiting for her if this wasn’t about what she’d said.

“Lunch,” she said. “I’ll share my double portion with you. Did you forget?”

The foyer was too dim to tell if he was blushing, but his voice was very small when he answered, “No, I didn’t forget.”

“Good.” Lucy was too tired to address whatever was going on with Lockwood after being out all night. “Then, if there’s nothing else…”

“No, nothing.”

Lucy hefted her duffel onto her shoulder. “Night, Lockwood,” she said as she slogged upstairs.

Faintly, she heard him called, “Goodnight, Luce.”

Lucy dropped her duffel in her dorm, grabbed a change of clothes and her shower kit, and didn’t look in the mirror until she absolutely had to. Her hair wasn’t terrible, but it hadn’t been great to start with. The lank brown strands were shorter along one side and in the back, but if people looked at her straight on, they might not notice. The cut on her face was minor, but stung from the lingering salt all over her skin. Her hands were chapped from the cold weather and the haunted house. She couldn’t feel her feet in her crappy ectoplasm-resistant boots.

After defrosting in the shower for way too long, Lucy combed her wet hair and examined it again. It looked a little better now that all the burned bits had washed out and she’d combed it. A few artful sideswiped ponytails and she might be able to pretend it never happened. She put a band aid over her cut face with the hopes that it wouldn’t scar. A glance at the clock revealed she was cutting it close for lunch so she slung her stuff back into her dorm and hurried downstairs as fast as her sore muscles would allow. Everyone had been called up when she entered so Mara indicated she should go right through the line.

Cookie grinned in that way that showed his gold tooth as he plopped a second scoop of tuna noodle casserole on her tray.

Even though she hated tuna casserole, Lucy was delighted. She knew where Lockwood always sat with the other three Talented boys and, since her own Talented table was empty without Diana, she crossed to sit with him instead. The three boys immediately fell completely silent, as though Headmistress Mara herself or perhaps a ghost had decided to sit with them. For a moment, she thought she’d made a horrible mistake insinuating herself into Lockwood’s space, but then he scooted over to make space for her on the bench and she sat before she made a spectacle of herself.

“Hey Luce,” Lockwood said by way of greeting. “You know Edward, Tommy, and Scott, don’t you? Say hi, boys.”

“Hi,” Edward said with a little wave.

The other two kept their mouths shut, squinting at her suspiciously.

Thinking she might need to beat a hasty retreat, Lucy fiddled with her hair and then meaningfully divided up her heap of casserole to scoop onto Lockwood’s tray. The tuna landed with an unappetizing splat.

Lockwood watched it happen like he was in a dream.

“Sharing is caring,” Lucy told him and forked some overcooked noodles into her mouth. “In fact, on tuna casserole days, I’d be happy to share my entire portion with you.”

Lockwood barked a laugh, surprised out of his stiffness.

“Me too!” Edward agreed quickly.

Lucy smiled at him. “Tuna casserole is just the worst, isn’t it?”

“No way!” Scott protested. “It’s definitely Cookie’s wanna-be-lasagna!”

“Rather that than tuna any day,” Tommy added.

“I like both of those,” Lockwood chimed in.

Lucy laughed.

“You can have some of mine too, Lockwood,” Edward said cheerily and began scraping some noodles into a pile.

“No,” Lockwood said with surprising sternness. “You need to eat, Eddie. You’re a growing boy.”

Edward stared sadly into his tray, pushing the noodles around between bites.

Tommy tried to change the subject, drawing Scott into a debate about which teacher was the worst.

Lucy couldn’t help but realize she wasn’t the only one who saw Lockwood going hungry and wanted to do something about it. However, Lockwood wasn’t exactly wrong to push Edward’s offer away. Lucy’s double portion was harder to deny though. Stealing a glance over her shoulder at Mara, she didn’t think the headmistress was paying them any attention. When she turned her attention back to the table, she saw Lockwood was looking at Mara as well. He aborted the movement to anxiously gnaw his injured lower lip, saw Lucy staring at him, and smiled weakly instead.

“Thanks, Luce,” he said so lowly that she almost missed it.

Lucy stuffed another bite in her mouth. “No problem.”

After lunch, Lucy bid the boys farewell to take a nap while they had rapier practice. When she woke, it was to the end-of-day bell. She had about half an hour of leisure time until dinner and she didn’t want to risk falling back asleep so she dragged herself out of bed and went to the iron-barred window. The sun was beginning to sink, splashing the sky with a variety of pretty colors.

Lucy’s hand wandered to her burned hair, picking at it like a scab.

Someone cleared their throat. Lucy jumped and saw Lockwood standing in the threshold of her dormitory.

“Oh, Lockwood, I didn’t hear you. What’s up?”

He looked uncertain, like there was something uncomfortable that he wanted to ask but didn’t quite dare.

Hoping to soften whatever was bothering him, Lucy turned away from the window and sat down on her lumpy bed. “I’ve got cards. Fancy a game with me?”

Lockwood tilted his head. “A card game?”

“What other kind of game would you play with cards?” she asked cheekily.

He shifted, eyes darting away.

“I don’t really have anyone to play with now that Diana’s…” Despite wanting to make him feel more comfortable, she didn’t want to start crying so she choked the words off and swiped at her burning eyes. She pulled her duffel out from under her bed and removed a worn pack of playing cards, rasping her thumb over the surface of the deck. It was stained with ectoplasm.

Lockwood tentatively crossed the dorm and stood beside her bed, looking down at where she was seated. He was fiddling with his fingers, bending and twisting them like he wanted his knuckles to crack. “Lucy, can I ask you something?”

“Sure, anything.”

He hesitated and then ripped off the metaphorical bandage. “Why’re you helping me?”

Lucy tightened her grip on the cards until she thought they might cut her. Lockwood’s question came like a slap, but not directed at her. The words felt slapped out of Lockwood. They were tormented, twisted up, suspicious. He sounded like he couldn’t believe anyone would help him. Actually, it was worse than that. Lockwood sounded like he didn’t think someone would just help him without asking for something in return. Lucy wondered what price had he been expecting to pay. Then, she decided she didn’t want to know because, whatever it was, he had been willing to pay it for a full stomach.

There were a thousand things she wanted to say just then. She wanted to scream and cry, to throw herself at him and hold him tight, to punch and kick Mara for treating him differently. She wanted to say something inspiring, something loving, something perfect, but the words didn’t come. She gaped at him, hyperaware that as each second passed, he looked more and more unsettled by her silence.

Finally, she blurted, “Because we deserve better, Lockwood.”

It must have been the right thing to say because the stricken look on his face and the tension that had him braced for a punch began to fade. He exhaled a shuddering breath.

“If I can help anyone, I want to,” Lucy continued softly. “Don’t you?”

He nodded once.

She loosened her painful grip on the cards. “Isn’t that enough?”

Lockwood’s overwrought body sagged and he sat down on the bed beside her. They stared at each other and, though Lucy squirmed to be so close to him, she didn’t look away. She wanted him to see her, to really see her, and know that she meant every word she said to him. She was just a kid, alone in the world, just like him. Perhaps, if they had each other, for however long they lasted, they could be a little less alone.

With his injured lip, Lockwood’s smile was small and shy, but it was somehow the most honest smile she’d seen from him yet.

Lucy had to look away, but she could feel the heat burning high in her cheeks. “Want to play?”

“Yeah,” he answered. “Thank you.”

…

Headmistress Mara called Lucy to her office early in the afternoon, not long before supper. Part of Lucy worried that she’d been caught sneaking food to Lockwood yesterday when Mara had punished him with another skipped meal. That worry redoubled when she entered the office and found Lockwood already inside. He stood behind the only chair, hands clasped on the back of it and his teeth clearly gritted. He wore the big coat that he always had on cases, making himself look taller and wider than he really was.

“Ma’am?” Lucy asked.

If there was one thing she had learned in her years at Jacob’s Orphanage, it was never to be the first to apologize. Doing so was as good as a confession. Regardless, Lucy hadn’t done anything wrong. Speaking of hills to die on, Lucy was prepared to argue with Mara if this was about food. How could the headmistress cut Lockwood’s meals? Couldn’t she see how thin he was already? What if he dropped dead from starvation? To say nothing of his condition on a dangerous case!

“Have a seat,” Mara said, “since Anthony refuses to take it.”

Glancing at Lockwood, Lucy sat.

“You’ve both been rented out for tonight. Bunchurch needs someone with excellent Sight and Listening.” Mara looked hard at each of them in turn. Then, she pushed a familiar manila folder across the desk with Bunchurch’s logo in the middle of it. “Unfortunately, they only sent one copy of the case to us. I’ve chosen to give it to Lucy, as she is the more valuable asset.”

Lucy’s heart dropped into her stomach to be devoured by acid. What the actual hell?! Was Headmistress Mara really suggesting Lockwood fly into a nest of deadly ghosts without a single clue what was coming? The facts surrounding a case were almost as important as going in with a rapier and proper kit. Agents lived and died by their research.

Lockwood’s injured lip curled, but he swallowed whatever he’d intended to say.

Lucy grabbed the folder, suddenly worried that Mara would take it back when she said plainly, “It’s alright, ma’am. Lockwood and I can share.”

Lockwood’s fingers scraped her shoulders when he adjusted his grip on the back of the chair.

If Mara was surprised by Lucy’s allowance, she didn’t show it. “You both know the drill by now. Be prepared for pick up at five sharp.”

“Yes ma’am,” Lucy managed. She wondered if her disgust with Mara showed. She rose from the chair, briefly tugged Lockwood’s sleeve, and then headed out of the office.

Lockwood let the door slam behind them, his face white.

Lucy cut him off before he could speak. “I wasn’t just talking. We’ll share the file.” Then, in a lower tone, she hissed, “I can’t believe Mara said that.”

“It’s not the worst she’s ever said,” Lockwood bit out.

“It can’t even be true!” Lucy whirled to face him, clutching the file to her chest like a shield. “You’ve been here longer than anyone else. If anyone’s more valuable—” The word strangled her.

Lockwood put his hand on her shoulder and turned her away from the office. “We can’t talk here. Come on.”

Lucy followed Lockwood upstairs to the Talented girls’ dormitory. The empty beds were no less terrible today than they had been yesterday. Lucy looked away, her eyes stinging. Had Diana died young and early because of something similar to Lockwood’s situation? Had Headmistress Mara essentially left her to die?

Lockwood gripped at her shoulders and gave a little shake. “You shouldn’t back me up like that.”

Lucy was surprised enough that her tears dried. “What?” she demanded. “Why shouldn’t I?”

“At least, not in front of Mara,” Lockwood continued. He winced and his tongue briefly probed his injured lip. “In case you haven’t noticed, she doesn’t exactly like me. I worry about how she’d treat you if you didn’t make it a secret that you did.”

Lucy fought a flush. “Who says I like you?”

Lockwood’s eyes twinkled. “Fair enough.”

Lucy nudged him away with the edge of the folder. “We should look at this now and then get ready.”

“That won’t take long.” He shrugged, his too-big coat flapping at the shoulders. “Mara will put out our rapiers to grab before we leave.”

Lucy’s brow wrinkled with confusion and concern. “Don’t you have other gear to prep? Chains and stuff?”

Lockwood’s eyes lit up eagerly and then darkened. When he asked, “You have chains?” it was entirely without inflection.

Lucy swallowed. “They were extra payment for a job well done.”

“What else do you have?”

“A few salt bombs, a flare, iron filings, and my chains. Chocolate and gum. A box of band-aids.”

Lockwood gave a low whistle of awe.

“You’ve really never gotten anything?”

He shook his head. “You get them from the agencies?”

“Yeah. After the case as a reward.”

“I find it hard to believe I’ve never been given anything in all my years of working. I’m one of the top rented agents here.”

“Do you think… Mara keeps what they give to you?”

“There’s no sense in that. Salt bombs and magnesium flares would mean nothing to her. Perhaps she distributes them to others with Talent instead of giving them to me. There have been a few times that one of the younger boys came back from a scrape that they rightly shouldn’t have survived with the kits they’d been given. I know how cheap some agencies can be with rented orphans. They give all the flares and salt bombs to their agents, not us.”

Lucy knew exactly what he meant. Grimble was like that, outfitting the blondes with everything and giving Lucy one measly flare for emergencies. Thankfully, she’d had a salt bomb of her own to slip into her pocket, not that she’d wound up needing it. Lucy expected Lockwood to get angry at the thought of his life-saving supplies being given away, but instead his face softened. He was okay with things being taken from him, she realized, as long as they went to assist someone else.

Her heart squeezed inside a clenched fist, nails puncturing the vital organ, and she breathed, “Why would Mara do that to you?”

Lockwood looked at her, his dark eyes wide and deep in his pale face. Sorrow pinched in his forehead and the edges of his mouth. The bloody gash on his lip stood out starkly.

Something horrible suddenly occurred to Lucy. “What do you think happens to the nest egg we’ve been saving if we die before we can age out?”

Lockwood’s throat bobbed when he struggled to swallow. “Don’t ask,” he told her. “All it will get you is a skipped meal for being cheeky.”

A lump blocked Lucy’s airway, strangling her. That thought was too terrible to even consider, right? Headmistress wouldn’t… Lucy swiped desperately at her hair, breaking eye contact. “You don’t think…?”

Lockwood didn’t answer, instead changing the subject, “How long have you been at Saint Catherine’s, Luce?”

She looked at him again, startled. “Almost four months. Why?”

“And before that?”

“Jacob’s, up north.”

“You get a lot of cases up there?”

“Not really, no, just the occasional Type One or Two. Even with less of the Problem up north, adults started noticing my Talent. That’s why I was transferred to London,” Lucy admitted. She swiped a hand through her hair and then over her face. “I didn’t realize how bad the Problem was until I got here.”

“Saint Catherine’s is the premier orphanage for renting agents in London and I’ve been here since I was six,” Lockwood confessed as though she didn’t know. Everyone knew.

Lucy itched to touch him, to close her fingers around his sleeve and pull him closer. His words felt precious and fragile, hanging in the space between them like snowflakes. Indeed, a wintry chill went down Lucy’s back at his words. “How old are you now?”

“Almost sixteen. If I survive another few months, I’ll age out. I’ll get access to the funds the orphanage has put away from my cases. It should be enough…” He trailed off, eyes drifting past Lucy’s head to the window beyond. The sun was beginning to set, painting the sky with splashes of reds and pinks.

Lucy’s hand drifted to him without her express permission. She touched his wrist, unable to feel the heat or bones of him through his thick coat. Regardless, she couldn’t help but squeeze a little, wanting to soften that aching far-seeing look on his pale face. “Enough for what?”

He shivered at the touch and dragged his gaze back at her face. He smiled, winced, and then looked down to where she was still gripping at him. “To get my parents’ house back,” he murmured, “and open my own psychic agency.”

Hope bubbled up under Lucy’s ribs and she choked on anything she wanted to say to him. That sounded amazing.

Lockwood took her silence for something else though and started to pull away. “You must think it’s foolish.”

“No!” Lucy blurted and tightened her grip.

His gaze snapped to her face, startled by how she shouted at him.

Lucy cleared her throat again and swiped at her bangs for want of something to do with her free hand. “It sounds great. I’ll help you.”

“Help me?” Lockwood’s eyes narrowed. “How?”

“Help you survive,” Lucy answered. Already, she was imagining all the things she could do—getting extra food from Cookie when she could, continuing to give him some of her double portions, sharing her bombs and flares, lending him her chains, sparring in the basement when they had leisure time. Her eyes sparkled, renewed with sudden hope like the sun coming out after days of rainfall. “I’ll help you and when you age out…”

Lockwood stiffened, his arm jerked like he wanted to pull away from her touch on his wrist.

Lucy realized that he had expected this, the moment she would name the price of her assistance. He had been in the orphanage since he was six, she reminded herself. Had there ever been a time when someone wasn’t trying to take advantage of him? She thought of his skinny body, of Mara’s quiet torments, of how tired he looked right now. Had anyone ever tried to help him? Suddenly, the moment in her dorm when she’d asked him to play cards sharpened into focus.

Because she’d already started talking, she couldn’t stop now, but she softened her wishes so she wouldn’t scare him. “When you have your own agency,” Lucy continued, “will you give me an interview?”

Lockwood’s posture, which had been braced as though for a blow, softened. “You… you’d want to work with me?”

Lucy nodded eagerly. “I’ll be sixteen soon, too,” she said. “I’ll age out and I obviously have to keep working, but… some of the agencies scare me. They act like we’re disposable.” She glanced at Diana’s empty bed and shivered.

“I know,” he whispered. His fingers curled around her wrist where she still gripped him, anchoring her to him like a lifeline. She could feel him shaking slightly, every muscle in his body drawing tight.

Lucy stepped closer, almost into his space. She could smell the detergent drifting off his coat. “Let’s do it,” she murmured.

He stared into her eyes, unblinking.

Lucy fought a blush at his proximity, but didn’t look away and didn’t let go.

“Okay,” Lockwood breathed and then smiled. This was a blinding smile, but it was honest and warm. Lucy thought he must believe her, against everything he’d ever known, he believed her right now. “You and me, Luce.”

Almost knocked off her feet by the radiance of his smile, it was all Lucy could do to keep from blubbering. She swallowed, straightened her spine, and managed to squeak out, “I’m going to run down and see Cookie. Maybe he’ll be able to give us some snacks for our case tonight. You just… get ready!” She turned on her heel and scarpered from the dorm before Lockwood could respond.

Questions, comments, concerns?

Chapter Text

While Lucy scurried off to wheedle some snacks out of Cookie, Lockwood busied himself with the Bunchurch case file. His hands shook with barely-repressed anger as he tried to focus on the wriggling words. Just when he thought Headmistress Mara couldn’t sink any lower, she had honestly tried to send him on a case that had already claimed two lives with no information. He shuddered to think what kind of position he’d be in right now if he’d been on the case with anyone else or if Lucy hadn’t magnanimously decided to share with him.

Would this case have been his last?

He honestly didn’t know what would happen to his substantial nest egg if he died now. Any attempts at finding out had ended in punishment and Lockwood didn’t want to repeat that particular performance. The last thing he wanted was Lucy trying to find out on his behalf. No, it was better to be careful and stay alive—avoid the matter entirely.

Lockwood had just finished reading the case notes when Lucy strode back into the Talented girl’s dorm with a brown bag casually tucked under her arm. She grinned from ear to ear, apparently pleased with her haul. He wondered if she’d share whatever Cookie had given her with him. He wouldn’t blame her if she didn’t, but the thought of not missing supper swelled in Lockwood’s chest like a helium balloon. He was used to skipping meals, but it sucked every time, especially while fighting for his life on a case.

Lucy shook the bag slightly, smiling even wider. “More apples, some cheese, biscuits, even a little bag of crisps. Cookie also lent me his thermos full of tea. It might even still be hot when we open it.”

“You’re amazing,” Lockwood said and genuinely meant it.

Lucy blushed again, pretty and pink-cheeked, and fussed with her uneven hair briefly. Then, she quickly pulled her duffel out from under her bed and stowed the snacks carefully inside, along with the gum and chocolate she had told him about. Neatly-wound chains took up most of the space inside the bag. She had a handful of salt bombs and flares wrapped inside a ragged sweater.

Lockwood caught himself staring and quickly looked back at the file.

Lucy plopped down on the bed beside him, her junky mattress barely bouncing at the movement. “Did you finish?”

“Yeah.” He handed over the file, but Lucy didn’t immediately open it. “Thanks again, you know, for sharing.”

Fingers whitening around the folder, Lucy snapped, “Mara had no right to ever do that to you.”

“It’s the first time she has,” Lockwood admitted. “I’ve never been out on a case with someone else from the orphanage.”

“Me neither,” Lucy said. “I wonder what Bunchurch needs both of us for.”

“It’s definitely a Type Two, a strong one, maybe even part of a cluster,” Lockwood answered without really thinking about it. He figured Lucy would want to read the file herself. Despite everything she’d said about helping him, she’d never worked with him and had no reason to trust his interpretation of the case notes. However, Lockwood was surprised to find that she faced him a little more thoroughly and listened attentively.

“What makes you say that?” Lucy prompted when he just stared at her.

Lockwood held out his hand for the folder and was only a little surprised when she handed it over. Flipping it open, Lockwood showed her the previous reports from Bunchurch’s agents—both of whom had been ghost-touched and died in the night, their supervisor none the wiser until the sun came up and he went to fetch them. The same supervisor would be assigned to Lockwood and Lucy and they would be alone without the support of any Bunchurch agents. Lucy shivered when she read the end results, gripping the papers more tightly in an attempt to hide her shaking hands.

Unfortunately, with the previous agents dead, nothing was known about what they’d faced. The background information was spotty, unconnected, and potentially unhelpful. The site of the haunting was the Hearthstone Tavern, a pre-Problem pub with a few rooms to rent or, at least, it once had been. The entire building had burned to a husk a few months ago and redevelopment had stalled thanks to the ghost or ghosts haunting the site. The adults that worked on rebuilding couldn’t agree on anything and the only agents that had gone against the haunting were dead.

“Aptly named,” Lockwood remarked. “Hearthstone Tavern and it burned to the ground.”

Lucy stifled a snort, glanced at him through her lashes.

“No one died in that fire,” Lockwood explained, “but there’s plenty of gruesome history before that. A drunk fell into the fireplace while it was burning and died of his injuries. The tavern-keeper’s wife died in childbirth and her husband killed himself in grief. More recently, a waitress tripped on the stairs and broke her neck going into the basement to get more beer.”

“I’d take any one of them over a cluster,” Lucy murmured. “This must be why Bunchurch wanted agents with great Sight and Listening Talents.”

“And orphans,” Lockwood added thoughtlessly.

Lucy tensed beside him.

Kicking himself for saying that outloud, he didn’t elaborate what he meant. Lucy was already doubting Mara now that she had been made aware of the way the headmistress treated him. The last thing Lockwood wanted to do was strip her of anything else that made her feel safe. He handed over the folder so she could look at the pictures—black-and-white historical images of the Hearthstone Tavern, more recent color photos, and finally insurance shots of the burnt-out shell that had once been a pub.

“Almost time to go,” Lockwood said to change the subject. “We should head down and get our rapiers. Maybe we can spar a little, warm up, before we leave.”

“Sounds good.” Lucy hefted her large duffel with a groan, slinging it noisily across her shoulder and tilting to the side when the weight of the chains dragged her down.

Lockwood pressed his lips together to hide a smile, wincing when his injury pulled. “Let me,” he offered and held out his hand.

Lucy adjusted her grip. “I can carry it.”

“I know you can,” Lockwood said, “but I can help you, too.”

Lucy regarded him with a tilt of her head and he wondered exactly what she was deciding about him in that moment. Did she think he would take her life-saving chains and run? That he’d break under the weight? That she’d rather struggle than accept his help? That he’d somehow ruin her well-stocked duffel before a dangerous case?

Whatever she’d been searching his face for, she must have found it because she loosened her grip with a sigh and said, “Thanks.”

Lockwood was surprised by the weight of the bag, but it wasn’t enough to knock him over. Mara kept him underweight, but was careful never to actually starve him. If he couldn’t fight ghosts, he was useless and she liked knowing he was useful. Adjusting the strap on his shoulder, Lockwood gestured for Lucy to exit the dorm ahead of him and followed her downstairs.

Mara never saw Lockwood off on cases and he wondered if she said goodbye to Lucy. When Lucy wordlessly collected the two worn rapiers that had been left out, Lockwood realized he wasn’t alone in just being dismissed into the dangerous night without a word of farewell or fondness.

Lucy opened the front door for him, holding it while he toddled out under the weight of her duffel. He set it down carefully on the concrete steps and accepted his rapier when she handed it over. He noticed that she’d taken the one with the cracked hilt for herself and opened his mouth to protest. Their equipment was honestly pathetic. The silver-edged rapier was all that stood between them and a horrible death and the orphanage couldn’t even be bothered to buy new ones with the funds they brought in.

“Lucy,” he began.

“Don’t,” she said and secured the broken rapier at her waist. “You’re the better fencer. You should have the better rapier.”

Lockwood couldn’t argue her logic. Instead, he said, “I hope Bunchurch brings spares.”

Lucy’s smiled was strained and hopeless. “That would be nice.”

Since there was still some time before the Bunchurch supervisor would arrive, Lockwood weighed the rapier in hand and then moved through a few forms to warm up his muscles. Lucy watched him wordlessly. Just when he began to feel self-conscious of her staring, she unsnapped her rapier and moved to stand beside him. Together, they went through some stretches and light forms.

“Want to spar?” Lockwood asked and hoped his eagerness didn’t show.

“Just a little,” Lucy admitted.

He faced off against her, one hand outstretched with a flourish. He telegraphed his first few swipes, gauging her skill level, and she wasn’t wrong when she told him that he was better. He could have disarmed her twice just in the first few seconds. However, Lucy began to parry him in earnest, matching him step for step and even managing a few strikes between his own. Delighted, he smiled so wide that his lip split again. Fresh blood dripped from the torn wound.

“Damn,” Lockwood muttered and quickly sucked the blood into his mouth before it dripped and ruined his shirt.

Lucy dropped her rapier and rummaged through her duffel. A moment later, she presented a paper napkin.

“Thanks,” Lockwood said and pressed it to his mouth.

“How’d that happen anyway?” Lucy asked him. “I know you said on a case, but…”

A ghost couldn’t have injured him or he’d have far worse than a split lip. Ghost-touch led to blue swollen skin and was fatal within the hour without medical attention.

Lockwood didn’t really want to get into what had happened, but Lucy had asked and he wasn’t about to lie to her. “I mouthed off to the supervisor on my last case,” he admitted.

Lucy stared at him as though waiting for more.

Apparently, Lockwood would have to spell it out. He envied her naivety. “So, the supervisor slapped me and he wore a ring, silver, star-shaped. The point cut me.”

Lucy’s eyes grew so wide they looked like they’d pop out of her head. It would have been funny in another circumstance. “A supervisor hit you?!”

Lockwood shrugged. “Said I had it coming.”

“That’s horrible! You should tell…” Even as she spoke, she trailed off with the realization that they had no one who would care—least of all Mara. Breathing shakily, Lucy dragged a hand through her ragged hair.

“It’s alright,” Lockwood told her lowly. “I’ve had worse.”

Lucy glanced at him. “Somehow, that doesn’t make me feel better.”

Before Lockwood could think of something else to try to set her mind at ease, a night cab pulled up the orphanage’s long driveway and came to a stop at the bottom of the steps. The iron-reinforced door swung open and the Bunchurch supervisor stepped out. He wasn’t someone Lockwood recognized, which was good because he could use a clean slate tonight. The man was middle-aged, portly, and bald as a baseball. He lifted a hand in greeting and only smiled at Lucy.

Lockwood grabbed Lucy’s duffel and started over to the cab with her at his side. Their pace matched, despite his long legs. Lockwood circled around to the boot of the cab, pleased to see that Bunchurch had packed some extra supplies for them including better rapiers. Lucy’s chains rattled when he dropped them in and slammed the boot.

“Evening,” the supervisor said when Lockwood circled back around. “I am Nolan. You must be Anthony and Lucy, correct?”

Lockwood didn’t bother to correct Nolan on his preferred name. There wasn’t much point. He’d be lucky if Nolan even remembered Anthony.

“Yes, sir,” Lucy answered politely.

Nolan held out his hand and Lucy shook it lightly. However, the moment went on a hair too long. Nolan held on to Lucy’s bare fingers and smiled down at her with flinty eyes.

Lockwood’s hackles rose. Despite not really caring what he was called, he interrupted, “I prefer Lockwood, actually.”

Nolan released Lucy and gave Lockwood’s offered hand a cursory shake.

“Pleasure,” Nolan said to Lucy. “Shall we?”

Lucy climbed in first and Lockwood scarpered after her. Even though it would have made more spatial sense for Lucy to sit in the middle, Lockwood didn’t want Nolan sitting beside her. When Nolan looked suitably annoyed at Lockwood’s placement, Lockwood knew he’d been sensible. Lucy glanced at Lockwood, smiling tightly as she surreptitiously rubbed her hand against her skirt like she had touched something foul.

The ride was quiet, broken only by the ticking of the cab’s meter.

Traffic was light as curfew approached so they arrived near the site in just a short twenty minutes. Nolan paid the cabbie and climbed out. He and Lockwood fetched the bags and watched the cab pull away. Lucy stood a little too close to Lockwood, her rapier bumping his leg at her proximity, but Lockwood wouldn’t ask her to step away for anything. Nolan was still leering at her. Though he couldn’t see much of her figure through her layers of ectoplasm-resistant clothing, including a worn jacket, the implication was hideous.

“I’ve brought some flares, salt bombs, iron filings, and chains for the case. Usually, they’d go with Bunchurch’s agents, but tonight, they’re yours,” Nolan explained. “For my part, I’ll be waiting here at the road. You’re welcome to come back if you need anything. I’ve also got some snacks, should you find yourself peckish at midnight.” He smiled directly at Lucy and licked his lips.

“Thank you,” she said respectfully. The last thing she wanted was to jeopardize getting the supplies he had brought. The Hearthstone Tavern haunting had already killed two agents.

Lockwood shouldered both duffel bags despite the substantial weight. “We’d like to get started before sunset,” he cut in, “if you don’t mind, Nolan.”

“Of course,” Nolan agreed. “You go right ahead, Anthony. Just give me a few moments to speak with Lucy and she’ll be right along.”

Lucy’s panicked eyes flicked to Lockwood’s face. She needn’t have worried. As if he was going to leave her alone—at all, with Nolan or with a ghost, Lockwood wasn’t leaving her.

“Oh, do we need to talk about the case? Something that wasn’t in the file?” Lockwood ask flippantly. He dropped Lucy’s duffel onto her shoulder with one hand. “Go ahead, Luce. Nolan can give me the rundown. My memory’s a little better than yours.”

“No, wait,” Nolan protested.

“Thanks, Lockwood,” Lucy interrupted, playing the fool. “I’ll just start setting up the chains, shall I?”

“That’d be good, thanks,” he agreed and watched her hustle down the narrow sidewalk up the street.

Nolan made a sound somewhere between a growl and a grunt.

Lockwood was careful to hide his disgust when he turned back to Bunchurch’s supervisor. There was absolutely no reason for him to be so annoyed that he wasn’t alone in the dark with an underaged girl. “Something on your mind, Nolan?”

“Do go off,” Nolan snapped. “I’ll be here. Tell Lucy she’s welcome to catch her breath here anytime in the night.”

“Just Lucy?” Lockwood couldn’t resist asking, his bloody lip curling over his teeth.

Nolan was wise enough not to answer that. “Try not to die.”

Lockwood hefted Bunchurch’s duffel and started walking after Lucy. He expected to have to walk all the way to the tavern alone in the encroaching night. However, he discovered that she’d waited for him just out of sight. She hurried over when she saw him, abandoning her duffel on the top of a nearby bench.

“Are you okay?” she asked urgently. “Did he hurt you?”

“I’m fine,” Lockwood assured her.

Lucy fluttered around him, her hands outstretched like she wanted to touch him but wasn’t sure she was allowed. She reached for him and then drew back, fingers twitching.

Lockwood dropped the second duffel beside the first and caught Lucy’s chilly fingers in his own. He pulled her a little closer. “Don’t be alone with him,” he said firmly.

Lucy nodded hastily, clinging to his hand. “No, yes, of course. I don’t want to,” she blurted. “I’ll stay with you.” Lucy seemed to suddenly realize that she holding his hand and standing too close. She took half a step back and lowered her eyes, but didn’t let go. She said softly, “Thank you for not leaving me with him.”

“That was never going to happen,” Lockwood assured her and gave her fingers a squeeze. “You and me, right?”

“Right.”

“We’d better move,” he continued. “It’s getting dark.”

Lucy picked up one duffel and Lockwood grabbed the other. Together, they continued towards the site of the haunting. The corpse of the Hearthstone Tavern occupied a corner of the street that would be busy in the daytime but was deserted at night. It was prime real estate, which explained how it had stayed in business for so long despite its morbid history and the current Problem. Immediately beside it, there was an unoccupied house and a moderately-sized park. The tavern backed up to a small river which burbled quietly.

Lucy and Lockwood stood a moment together in the street, just looking at the bones of the burnt-out building and the low stone wall that framed it. Thorny bushes crawled over the wall, burned in places and crowding out in others. Death glows hung like lanterns where parts of the building had once stood, invisible to Lucy’s poor Sight. They couldn’t set up their chains in the road and the park offered some sanctuary but was too far from the tavern if they needed to retreat. They’d have to set up on the site itself if they had any hopes of survival.

“Shall we?” Lockwood asked.

Lucy nodded jerkily.

In the fading sunlight, they crossed the street and stepped through the gap in the low stone wall that surrounded the tavern. An iron gate had been removed and set aside, swallowed up by hungry briars. A small patch of gravel had been cleared of debris by workmen. Lucy quickly dragged the chains out of her bag and made a rough circle in that meager space. It butted up against the wall so they could always jump it if they needed to—if they had the time to run, that was. She clipped the two ends together with a small lock and Lockwood stepped gratefully into the circle with her. They let out a collective sigh of relief. At least now, this one section of the site was safe.

Lockwood swapped the janky rapier from the orphanage for one of Bunchurch’s newer ones and watched as Lucy did the same. Then, they took the time to go through the rest of Bunchurch’s supplies and divided the salt bombs, flares, and silver nets between the two of them equally. They kept Bunchurch’s extra chains on hand in case they found a good place to make a second circle. The iron filings were too finicky to use as true protection against a Type Two, but it would slow one down if thrown so they each took a vial for their pockets.

Thankfully, they hadn’t even touched Lucy’s stockpile and were well-outfitted except for sustenance. Clearly, Nolan had kept those on his person as a kind of bribe. Thanks to Cookie, Lucy wouldn’t have to stoop to Nolan’s level for tea and biscuits.

“Well, Luce,” Lockwood remarked. “I think we just might survive.”

“That’s not funny,” Lucy said around a smile.

“Should we take a walk before it’s fully dark?”

“Definitely.”

Stepping out of the protective circle of chains was easier now that Lockwood had something besides a crusty rapier to defend himself with. The salt bombs, flares, and silver seals dragged against him with comforting weight. Though he was rarely alone on cases, he was usually with agents from the agency that rented him. Being in that position made him the odd duck, the stepchild, the expendable one. With Lucy, his heart was warm despite the dire circumstances. Things were different on this case. For the first time in a long time, Lockwood really felt like someone had his back.

Together, they walked the outer edge of the lot where work boots had trampled the grass into dust. The tavern had burned to an absolute crisp. There was nothing left of the original structure and everything had collapsed into the basement. They Looked and Listened. As he could tell from the road, Lockwood could see death glows all over the burned tavern, fresh and old alike.

“Hear anything?”

“A kind of noisy hum,” Lucy confirmed, “like people talking in a pub.”

Lockwood nodded.

“At least we can rule out the Source being inside the tavern,” Lucy remarked. “No Source would have survived that fire.”

“That’s a blessing and a curse,” Lockwood said, “because that means the Source could be anywhere else.” He gestured at the large lot, scattered with the debris of its long life.

A worn bench took up residence against the low stone wall, painted a thousand times and currently some inscrutable shade of green. A simple plaque sat in the middle, etched with a worn year and an illegible name. Inset into the wood, there was a simple flask carved with a fish that had seen better days. The workmen had left some hardhats and vests draped on it in their haste to leave the haunted site. Some bare thorny bushes that maybe bloomed with roses stood on either side of it. Rocks and boards were scattered everywhere. Over the years, people had carved their names, initials, and hearts into the stone wall. Something could be buried anywhere. Anything could be a Source, even something as small as a nail. Without great Sight and Listening, they could be here forever. They could easily die here.

“See anything?” Lucy asked.

Even though he didn’t really want to tell her, it was vital that Lucy knew everything he did. “The freshest death glows are at the base of that tree. It must be where the agents died.”

Lucy’s head snapped around and then she faced straight ahead, glancing at the tree from the corner of her eyes. When she was able to make it out, she shuddered. “Both of them… right there…”

“Maybe it can help us,” Lockwood murmured. “Knowing where they…” He trailed off, watching Lucy as she approached the tree slowly.

Realizing what Lucy was about to do, he stepped closer to her with his hand on his rapier. Touch was not his strongest Talent and he didn’t envy the agents who had it. He had enough horrible memories rattling around his own skull without adding anyone else’s. Lucy placed her palm on the trunk and closed her eyes, breathing slow and deep when she accessed her Talent. He kept his eyes on their surroundings, but couldn’t help noticing the way Lucy’s body arced as though touched with a live wire. Her eyes squeezed shut, her jaw clenched, her knuckles whitened, and then she stopped breathing entirely.

Questions, comments, concerns?

Chapter Text

Ugh, who else is enjoying/suffering from Daylight Savings Time?

There was a part of Lucy that hated her Touch. Listening was bad enough, but Touch could be worse in a thousand ways. With her hand resting on the charred bark, Lucy submitted herself to the death throes of those two unfortunate agents. Their terrible screams lanced through her eardrums like knives, but she Listened harder, hoping against hope for any words that might come through and give them some clue what they were facing now. She heard no words in the endless screaming and felt nothing from her Touch besides pain and terror. The agents had been ghost-touched, left swollen and cold and, without anyone to help them, death came in moments.

The same thing could easily happen to her and Lockwood.

With a stifled cry, Lucy snatched her hand away from the tree and stumbled over her own feet as her physical senses returned like a splash of scalding water. A rush of pain and nausea stemmed out from her inner ear, spread through her skull, slithered down her spine, and coiled like a poisonous snake in her guts. Bile crept up her throat and she desperately swallowed, trying not to be sick. She squeezed her eyes shut and sucked in air, hissing it out through her nose. God, she hated her Touch. Listening made her vulnerable, but Touch left her raw and invisibly scraped all over as though her brain had been dragged along the bottom of the Thames.

It wouldn’t have been so bad if she’d been able to learn something, but suffering through the psychic deaths of those agents had been pointless. She’d learned nothing. All she’d felt was pain and death, heard the wordless screaming, smelled the stench of charred flesh, and felt an icy cold that made her bones ache. There was no hint of what kind of ghost the agents had faced before dying.

Her eyes stung with tears that she hastily scrubbed away. Swaying lightly as she regained control of her body, Lucy planted her feet and brought her hand to her rapier. The weapon put up a tiny barrier between her and her Talent, giving her some space to breathe. At once, she became aware that Lockwood had his shoulder pressed up against hers. His presence was steadying and sure, solid as any stone. The pale disc of his concerned face swam in and out of focus.

“Are you okay, Luce?” Lockwood asked, instead of the usual, ‘Did you learn something?’

Lucy sniffled, trying to clear the taste of iron and salt from her mouth. She wished she’d put the mint gum in her pocket. She’d kill for a piece right now. “I’ll be fine. It was awful, though,” she croaked.

Lockwood pressed against her, using his height advantage to curl protectively around her. His body radiated warmth and his coat smelled faintly of lavender, further pushing away the memories swarming Lucy’s head. He had stayed right at her side the whole time, close enough to touch while she was using her Talent, and then quickly closed the space when she was drowning in the aftershocks.

“Let’s go back to the circle and talk there,” he suggested.

“Yeah,” she agreed, though she was loathe to step away from the comfort of his closeness.

Their attempt to regroup in relative safety was thwarted when Lockwood grabbed Lucy’s arm in a bruising grip and dragged her backwards. She didn’t protest, sensing immediately that there was more at play than just being suddenly manhandled. Squinting at their dimming surroundings, she spotted movement and was grateful that Lockwood’s Sight was so amazing.

Another agent might never have seen the ghost until it was too late.

From the ruins of the Hearthstone Tavern, a wide shadow twisted and stretched. It lumbered out of the blackened rubble, shedding blobs of flesh that hissed and popped like frying bacon fat when they hit the ground. The smell of burnt meat and hair assaulted them. This was what had killed the agents. With the memories of her Touch and their deaths so close to the surface, Lucy stumbled backwards and gripped at Lockwood’s sleeve to steady herself. He unsheathed his rapier and flashed a complex ward into the air between them and the hideous ghost. It slowed, but only marginally.

“The sun is barely down!” Lucy hissed.

“Throw a salt bomb and when it explodes, we’ll both run for the circle,” Lockwood told her. “Do it—now!”

With Lockwood holding it at bay against the point of his rapier, Lucy grabbed a bomb and hurled it right into the spirit’s face. It howled in agony and the tang of salt and iron made the stink even worse. They didn’t hesitate any longer. Instead, they both whirled and ran as fast as they could back to the circle of chains. Only once they were safely inside did Lucy look back over her shoulder at the place where the ghost had skulked previously. There was no sign of it save a few smoking ectoplasm burns on the ground and the lingering smell of smoke.

Lucy panted for breath, more from fright than the brief sprint. “How could it fully manifest now? A Type Two shouldn’t be so strong this early.”

“It’s either really fresh or really old,” Lockwood reasoned. There was a lot of chatter at Fittes and Rotwell, but no one could agree on what precisely made one ghost stronger than the next. The best they could figure was that age had something to do with it. Or it was all about emotion, no one really knew.

Lucy grabbed the Bunchurch file and paged through it. “So,” she said pensively, “either the waitress who fell and broke her neck or the drunk that fell in the fireplace.”

“What I saw said ‘drunkard’ more than ‘waitress,’ I think,” Lockwood told her and briefly explained what he’d seen. To his sharp Sight, the hulking frame looked exceedingly masculine. He’d had the impression of a scraggly beard and stained shirt, beady eyes in a wrinkled face, a wide mouth with yellow teeth buried under the charred blackness that swathed the ghost entirely. “Plus, it looked burned to me.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Lucy said with a shudder. “My Sight’s not so good. I could smell it though.”

“It’s possible that it’s a Changer,” Lockwood admitted. “What I saw might not mean anything.”

“Time will tell that,” Lucy said. “When it comes back, a Changer will probably take a different form.”

“Unless it’s a cluster and we see a completely different spirit.”

Lucy pinched the bridge of her nose with a shaky hand. “We can’t stay in the circle all night and it will just keep getting stronger the longer we wait. We should walk through again now. Since we’re prepared, it won’t get the jump on us. We need to locate the Source, just like always.”

Lockwood smiled and adjusted his belt. “I like your thinking, Luce.”

“Before that, I want to Listen, if you don’t mind staying.”

“Not at all.”

They stepped just outside the iron chains so that the protection wouldn’t interfere with Lucy’s Talent, but they could beat a hasty retreat if something happened. Listening left Lucy very vulnerable since she liked to close her eyes to get the best readings and suddenly shutting off her Talent to use her mortal senses left her dangerously disoriented. Lockwood stood at her side, almost touching, close enough that they could brush hands or Lucy could grasp him for support. She sucked in a deep breath, flashed him a wan smile, and let her eyes slip closed.

At first, she was aware only of her own breathing and Lockwood’s. Then, she heard the distant thrum of night traffic, the wind rustle the trees in the nearby park, the river burble peacefully behind the tavern, and a nightbird cry shockingly close. She breathed deeply and let those sounds filter away, tuning them out individually while leaving a little opening for Lockwood’s steady breaths. She wanted to stay aware of him, to know if something happened. She usually would have left a crack for her immediate surroundings to protect herself, but she knew Lockwood wouldn’t let a ghost sneak up on her. He had already protected her once tonight.

Shutting out the sounds of nature and civilization, Lucy’s inner ear turned entirely to the Hearthstone Tavern. She heard chattering and music, layered over and over each other like an onion. Time stretched out, the jangle of an old banjo to a jazzy piano to modern radio. The voices remained much the same, snippets of the same conversations and arguments had in bars for centuries. There was the sound of beer chugging from a tap, food frying, cards slapping on tables, glasses sliding on a polished surface. It all felt normal, nothing psychically charged in a way that helped Lucy pick out the ghost.

As she blocked out those noises too, focusing deeper, Listening beyond, her stomach swooped suddenly. She stumbled, dizzy behind her closed lids, and bumped Lockwood’s shoulder.

“Steady,” he breathed and put an arm around her firmly. “I’ve got you.”

Lucy hummed, unable to speak so deep in her Talent. She hadn’t wrenched herself out of it, trusting Lockwood to protect her.

She Listened underneath the surface of the tavern’s memories. A modern air conditioner hummed at first, but it faded to the hiss-and-pop of a fireplace. The sound of the fire drew her in, beckoning. It had been such a long day at the docks, hauling fish and drinking cheap whiskey. What she wouldn’t give to get the cold out of her bones. Maybe she could just slide her chair a little closer. She heard and felt the legs scraping on the stained wooden floorboards. She sat again, leaning back in her creaky chair. Yes, that was just what she needed. The warmth, the fire, the whiskey, the bowl of stew, the pretty barmaid, everything.

There was a sudden loud noise—a glass shattering somewhere behind her in the tavern.

Startled, Lucy jolted on her chair where she had been leaning back comfortably. The chair gave a terrible crack and then a weak leg broke out from underneath her. She screamed and flailed, plummeting. All at once, the fire was too close and she was burning! Embers stuck to her flesh. Her clothes and beard caught fire, engulfing her. She smelled cooked meat and scorched hair and river mud and dead fish.

Someone frantically threw a drink on her.

All at once, the fire soared higher and hotter.

She burned! Hot—so hot—warmth, too much, burning, burning, screaming.

Pain seared up her throat and into her mouth, shaping into a scream that she had to grit her teeth to stop. Lucy stumbled, her knees turned to jelly by the agony. She clutched desperately at anything nearby to steady herself, locking her fingers in worn woolen fabric so she wouldn’t topple into the crackling flames. Staggering, she felt someone pull her back from the searing fire and over the iron chains. Abruptly, the connection snapped and she became aware that she was clinging to Lockwood like someone drowning, clawing at his coat with both hands, crying out in pain and fear.

Concerned but unwilling to loosen his hold, he gripped her in return and rubbed his hands slowly down her tense shoulders to where her white-knuckled hands clutched his coat. When he realized she was looking at him, instead of through him, he smiled warmly and said, “There you are, Luce. I knew you’d come back.”

“Thanks,” Lucy croaked. Her mouth was dry and barren. “That was rough.”

“What did you hear?” Lockwood kept stroking her arms, rasping his thumb over her tight knuckles until she loosened her grip and took a shuddering breath. When he felt her relax against his chest, he rested his arms supportively around her and linked his fingers together in the small of her back. Absently, he stroked his thumbs over her jacket.

Lucy knew she should let go of him and stop clinging, but she couldn’t bring herself to. She stayed in the circle of his arms, her eyes fixed on his collarbones, gripping his coat. She was safe from the raging current of what she had heard and felt so long as she held on to him as an anchor. “The tavern through the years. When I Listened deeper, I heard the drunk that fell into the fire decades ago. I think it must be him.”

“I agree,” Lockwood said. “Any idea what the Source might be?”

Lucy shrugged, feeling the weight of his arms bob with the motion. His thumbs momentarily stilled before rasping against her jacket again. “I feel like it must be something in the tavern, but…” She glanced at the ruined husk. Everything in the tavern had burned to cinders. No Source could have survived. “What if the Source is the fireplace? It’s the only thing that could have survived such a blaze.”

“I was worried you’d say that,” Lockwood answered. “How are we supposed to find it in that mess?”

“I could Listen for it. I’d probably hear it if I got close enough.”

“I wouldn’t be much help. I doubt I’d see much from a death-glow that old.”

“But you can see the ghost. That’s more important.”

“Honestly, we can just toss a big silver net over the whole fireplace. We just need to find it.”

Lucy glanced thoughtfully at the burned structure. “Actually, that’ll be easy.” The last thing she wanted to do was leave the safety of Lockwood’s arms, but she needed more information. Breaking his hold gently, she grabbed the Bunchurch file and showed Lockwood the photos of the tavern before it had burned. Blueprints had been included too. Between the two items, it was easy to pinpoint where the fireplace had once been.

“Okay,” he agreed. “Let’s check it out.”

Lockwood unsheathed his rapier while Lucy took a magnesium flare in one hand and their biggest silver net in the other. She put a second in her pocket and gave Lockwood another for backup. Together, they crept around the tavern until they reached the wall where the fireplace and chimney had once stood. Broken bricks had been cleared away already by the workmen, leaving the remains of the old stone fireplace in a neat stack. There was no sign of the ghost so Lucy threw the net over the whole mess.

However, the Source proved not to be the fireplace almost immediately.

With a howling scream, the burned ghost surged up from the ruined tavern. He rushed them, arms spread wide and mouth opened in an ear-splitting scream. Lucy dropped her flare in her desperation to cover her ears, not that it helped because the psychic noise cut right through her skull. Lockwood hurled his own flare, backing Lucy up with his free hand on her shoulder while the other gripped his rapier.

“It’s coming right back, rematerializing. Should we run for the chains?” he asked.

Lucy could barely hear him through the screaming and crackling inside her head.

The burned man swept towards them, screaming in agony, shedding bits of flesh and hair all over in his wake. ‘Want warmth!’ he shrieked into Lucy’s skull. ‘Want warmth!’

What she had heard sharpened to a point—he’d worked the docks, pulling in fish, drinking whiskey to keep warm.

“I know the Source!” she shouted at Lockwood, screaming to hear herself over the howling in her head. “Hold it off! Ten seconds!”

Lockwood nodded once and uncapped another flare, blockading the ghost with his rapier and the magnesium light.

Lucy ran for the bench, recalling the flask set into the wood in tribute. ‘Our best customer, gone too soon,’ she realized the plaque said. Jabbing the tip of her rapier into the wood, Lucy viciously pried the flask out of the bench and if she’d had any doubts, they were assuaged by the scream of rage that bellowed out of the ghost and the icy-cold chill that bit through her fingers when she touched the flask. Fumbling with numb fingers, Lucy withdrew the smaller silver net from her pocket and wrapped the flask up like a horrible present.

The screaming and crackling stopped so sharply that she felt deafened. Her ears rang and her eyes watered. She stumbled and went to her knees. Her frozen fingers trembled, clumsy as she tried to wrap the flask more securely.

Lockwood bounded over to her, the flare still burning brightly in hand. “You found it!”

Lucy nodded. With how silent the tavern was now, she was certain it was just the ghost of the drunk and not a cluster of angry and unlucky spirits.

Lockwood offered his hand and hauled her to her feet, tucking her in against his side. The magnesium flare illuminated their surroundings protectively as they made their way back to the circle of chains. Even though Lucy could tell they had secured the Source, she still felt better once they were inside the safety of the chains and Lockwood had turned on the lantern. He took the Source from her cold hands and bound it tightly with twine before setting it aside.

“You did it,” he said with a smile. “That was brilliant, Luce. How’d you know?”

She told him about everything she’d heard. “Sorry I didn’t put the pieces together right away. I risked our lives over that stupid fireplace.”

“Hey,” Lockwood protested. “Don’t beat yourself up. Anyone would have thought it was the fireplace. Hell, I thought it was some blasted brick from the chimney when the net didn’t work, but you were smart enough to think on your feet and find the right Source. We’re alive because of you.”

Lucy smiled. “Actually, I wouldn’t have lasted five minutes without your Sight. My guard was down and I would have been ghost-touched while the sun was still fading.”

“We make a good team,” Lockwood told her cheerfully. His smile radiated brighter than the lantern until he had to stifle it because of his split lip.

“We do,” she agreed and hoped her blush wasn’t so visible in the dim light.

Lockwood gazed at her a moment, his expression that haunted unsettled thing she’d seen before, like he was braced and waiting for the other shoe to drop. Then, his face softened and he sat down in the dirt with his back against the stone wall. Tipping his head back, he briefly shut his eyes and exhaled a long breath. “I’m glad you’re here, Luce,” he said so lowly that she almost didn’t catch it.

Her heart warmed. “Me too,” she whispered, wondering if he’d been able to hear her too.

…

Lockwood hadn’t heard her. His heart was thumping too loudly in his ears. For just a moment there, he’d thought she’d run and leave him to die. It had lasted only an instant, a fleeting and terrible thought that surged up from the black pit in his chest, but it had been there all the same. When the horrible burned husk of the drunk’s spirit had vanished before his rapier pierced it, Lockwood had almost collapsed in relief. Now, he hated himself for doubting her, but years of disappointment were hard to shake.

Lucy walked tentatively across the circle and dropped down beside him, first on her knees and then her backside with a thump. Her shoulder pressed against his, warming him even with the cold stone wall against his back. He was grateful that she hadn’t tried to keep a respectful space between them. After what they had just been through, he didn’t mind the assurance that she was still alive, that he was, that they both were. Lockwood sighed and adjusted his weight so he was pressed to her from shoulder to knee.

Lucy rummaged in her duffel and pulled out the snacks Cookie had given her. She unscrewed the thermos and the comforting scent of black tea drifted out. There was even a little wisp of steam coming off the top.

Lockwood shut his eyes and breathed deeply, pulling the aroma into his bones in lieu of drinking it. What he wouldn’t give for a cup of—

“Here,” Lucy interrupted his musings and passed the thermos into his field of view, forcing him to take it. “Have some first.”

Lockwood wanted to insist that she drink before him, but she’d already thrust it into his hands. He couldn’t feel the heat through the metal thermos, but the smell was almost more comforting than half-remembered baking cookies in his childhood home. He breathed it in and blurted, “You’re sharing?” before he could stop himself.

Lucy looked at him sadly and finished removing the little selection of snacks from her bag. She spread them on a cloth napkin in her lap and pushed reassuringly right back up against his shoulder. “Of course I am,” she said, “and my double rations when we get back, too. You and me, remember?”

Lockwood drew in a sip of tea, feeling the explosion of heat and flavor to his bones. He shivered and realized she could have felt it where she touched him.

Lucy didn’t comment. Instead, she handed him an apple slice and slab of sharp cheddar.

Reverently, Lockwood put both into his mouth as he handed the thermos over.

Lucy took a sip and nibbled a wedge of apple herself. It didn’t pass Lockwood’s awareness that she carefully portioned more of their little feast to him, but he didn’t argue. She kept handing him the thermos, only taking it back when he’d had a sip. When the perishable apple and cheese was gone, Lucy moved on to the biscuits. They were plain, but still one of the best things Lockwood had tasted in weeks. He savored each bite until Lucy split the third biscuit down the middle and gave him his half. Then, she opened the salty crisps and shook the bag out onto the napkin. Only then did Lockwood feel brave enough to help himself. Lucy smiled and passed him the thermos again.

“Thanks,” he said when they finished and stowed the empty cloth and thermos back into the duffel.

Lucy stared at the ring of thorny bushes surrounding the property, her gaze distant. “Should I go see Nolan?”

A renewed chill shot down Lockwood’s spine. “What? No! Of course not!”

Lucy glanced at Lockwood, studying him in the wan light of the lamp. “He said he had food for us. I just have to get it.”

Desperate, Lockwood grabbed her arm. “No!” he insisted. “You’re not doing that. If you’re still hungry, I’ll go—”

Lucy looked away.

Lockwood’s stomach curdled around what he’d just eaten. “No,” he breathed. “You wouldn’t… not for me…”

Lucy’s silence was condemning.

“No,” Lockwood told her. “I’d rather starve than see you go to him.”

“It might not be so bad,” Lucy murmured. “I don’t even know what he wants from me.”

“Anything he wants in exchange is too much,” Lockwood growled. “Don’t go. Not for me, not for anything.”

Lucy relented quietly, “Okay.”

Lockwood became aware that he had dragged her against him, his knuckles turned bone-white where he gripped her jacket, his shoulder jammed against hers, their foreheads almost touching, her breath coming in little puffs against his face. He knew he should let go, put some respectable distance between them, and take a deep breath.

In truth, he barely knew Lucy and here he was, right up in her space like they were best friends. He should act like the stranger he was, especially now that their lives were no longer at risk, but… it had been a long time since he had been this close to someone. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d been hugged or had his hair ruffled or felt the warmth of another body through his clothes. Most recently, he’d been slapped with a sharp ring, his lip cruelly split.

His fingers shook where he held on to her. He trembled all over, heightened wherever they touched. Just a minute longer, he told himself, and then he would let go.

However, Lucy shut her tired eyes and leaned forward to rest her forehead on his collarbone with a sigh. She gripped his coat in return, hanging onto him like her bones had turned to liquid, dangling from him like a clean sheet out on a sun-soaked clothesline. Lockwood relaxed immediately, dropping his cheek to rest on the curve of her skull. Her hair tickled his chin and lips, stirred with his every shallow breath. Slowly, the tension drained out of him. He shut his eyes too, slumping forward into her until they shored each other up like the arch of a house.

He wanted to say something, but the silence between them was precious.

Instead, he memorized every scrap of this moment like the important facts of a challenging case. He etched into his mind the warmth of Lucy’s body where she leaned against him, the scent of soap in her hair and on her clothes, the way her grip on his coat almost hurt where she caught some of his skin beneath, the way the chill of the ground seeped into his legs, the way she rose and fell against him with each breath. This moment would survive—real and priceless—in his mind, something he could unpack whenever he needed it, whenever he needed to remember what it felt like to have someone care about him.

Lucy shifted, digging her forehead into his shoulder a little more firmly. “My head is pounding,” she admitted. “I can still hear the screams.” She didn’t release the grip she had on his coat, instead bringing up her free hand to press into her tangled hair. She tugged on the strands and whimpered so softly she must have tried to hide it.

It was only because he was so close that Lockwood heard it at all. He wished he could do something to make her feel better. Slowly, he brought his free hand up to her head and placed his palm over hers. His fingers fit between hers and curled around the bone of her skull, cradling the back of her head delicately. Hesitantly, he gave a little stroke of her chestnut tresses with his fingertips, wondering if this was going too far.

“Feels nice,” she murmured and let her hand drop, leaning a little into his fingers.

Taking it as permission and welcome, Lockwood ran his hand from the crown of her head, down the back of her skull, to the base of her neck, and then started at the top again. Lucy relaxed more and more with each gentle touch, sighing and whimpering by turns. What started out as a companionable pat soon lapsed into something more tender. Lockwood eased her strands through his fingers, scratched idly at her scalp, and rubbed his thumb into the soft place at her temple. Catlike, Lucy turned into every touch with her eyes still shut and her face pressed into his shoulder. Sometimes, her soft skin brushed his bare neck, making him shiver.

He could have stayed like this with her forever. Honestly, he wouldn’t have minded. For once in his life, he wasn’t pleased to see the glorious sunrise after the long night of a dangerous case.

“Hey,” he whispered. “We’d better start packing. The sun is coming up.”

Lucy scraped herself away from him, her fingers still gripping his coat even as his hand slipped from her choppy hair. She blinked as though waking from a dream, lines drawn on her face where his coat had been pressed to her skin.

Lockwood reached to smooth them with his thumb and caught himself at the last moment. Whatever this was, whatever it had been, there was no guarantee that it would extend beyond right now. He didn’t want to spoil the memories he had carefully hidden away by being too presumptuous and getting slapped in the face. His lip still throbbed.

Lucy’s sleepy gaze cleared and she uncurled her fingers from his coat, taking a moment to mindlessly smooth the wrinkles she left in the fabric. “Oh, right,” she said. “Thanks, you know, for that. My head hardly hurts anymore.”

“Anytime,” Lockwood said and wondered if she could tell how much he meant it. It had felt just as good to hold her as it would to be held.

Lucy rocked to her feet with a groan and doubled over to rub the life back into her stiff legs. Lockwood realized just how long they had crumpled together on the ground when he stood and found an almighty cramp running down his calf. Hissing and wincing, he unclipped the ends of Lucy’s chain and began winding it up. Lockwood was careful to stow her chains back in her bag beside Cookie’s empty thermos. The supplies Bunchurch had given them had all been used up so there was little to stuff back in the logoed duffel. Finished, he hefted both duffels onto his shoulder. Lucy carefully bundled the Source under her arm, harmless inside its silver net. Together, with the sunrise at their backs, they headed back to where Nolan was waiting.

Their adult supervisor dozed on the bench, his arms folded and his head slumped. A large thermos of tea and a box of chocolate biscuits lay out beside him along with an inviting blanket. Apparently, Nolan had fallen asleep waiting for his chance to get Lucy alone. Lockwood resisted the urge to kick Nolan’s outstretched leg, but only just. Instead, he cleared his throat loudly.

Nolan jumped to alertness, fumbling at his lap where a trashy novel hung from one hand. “Oh, Anthony, Lucy,” he said quickly. “Did you need something?” The latter was aimed firmly at Lucy.

“It’s dawn,” Lucy said plainly. “We’ve secured the Source.”

His eyes widened and he confusedly rubbed his bald head. “Have you?”

Lucy held out the Source. Despite being safely constrained in a silver net and tied heavily with twine, he still hesitated to take it from her. Once he had it, he held it far away from his body like it was toxic waste or a ravenous insect. Lockwood fought a grin at the supervisor’s expense. Stealing a glance at Lucy revealed she was having the same problem.

“How about that?” Nolan said finally. “Congratulations. Good job.”

Lockwood hated how the praise, even from someone as contestable as Nolan, settled like a warm ember in his hollow chest.

“I’ll just call us a cab,” Nolan continued and skuttled down the street to hail one in the early hours.

Lucy and Lockwood dropped their bags and sat on the bench he had vacated. Shamelessly, Lucy grabbed the box of chocolate biscuits and tore it open. She gave Lockwood a handful, stowed some in her bag, and then helped herself to one. She had just poured them each a cup of stone-cold tea from Nolan’s thermos when he returned with the cab. He pulled up short at the sight of them eating, but didn’t say anything when Lucy gave him a beaming smile and thanked him for breakfast. Lockwood loaded up their bags and quickly insinuated himself into the middle seat once again.

Nolan gave the cabbie directions to the orphanage and the cab pulled away. The drive took longer now that people were out and about, the curfew ended for another day, the ghosts weaker for the risen sun. For his part, Lockwood was exhausted and wanted to sleep until supper. However, he wasn’t going to rest with Nolan here and Lucy still vulnerable. Instead, he sat up straight and gazed out Lucy’s window. She was just as alert as he was, glancing anxiously across his body at Nolan. The cab pulled up the orphanage’s long driveway and idled.

“Bunchurch will be in touch should we have further needs for your unique Talents,” Nolan said, which was the party line that Lockwood heard after every case. “Once I return to headquarters and file my reports, payment will be processed and any rewards forwarded to you. Thanks for your service.”

“You’re welcome,” Lucy said instead of the usual, ‘It was our pleasure.’ Working with Nolan had certainly not been pleasurable.

Lockwood climbed out of the cab after her, retrieved her duffel, and watched the cab pull away in a spray of dust.

Lucy gave a full body shudder. “I need a shower after that,” she groaned and rubbed an invisible chill off her arms. Then, she met Lockwood’s eyes and smiled weakly. “I’m grateful you were with me. If I’d been alone…”

Lockwood swallowed. As much as he wanted to reassure her, there was nothing he could say that wasn’t just a bald-faced lie. He could protect her from ghosts, use his Sight to see them and his rapier to cut them down, but he couldn’t do anything against adults. They had too much power—over her and over him, over the whole world as they knew it. There was only one thing he could truly give her.

“Luce,” he began and his voice came out a croak. Clearing his throat, he tried again. “If there’s ever anything I can do for you, anything at all, please come to me. I’ll do anything I can to help you, even if it’s just listening.”

Lucy sniffled. Her gaze dropped to his mouth, staring at the injury on his lip where he’d been hit in the face by a supervisor on his last case. “Thanks, Lockwood,” she said finally. “Just… thanks.”

“Come on, we should go in. We might still get breakfast if we hurry.”

Lucy nodded and accepted her duffel back. They let themselves in, the door having been unlocked at dawn for their return. Lockwood latched it behind them again and followed Lucy upstairs to the Talented girls’ dorm. He lingered in the threshold while she stowed her bag, tucked Cookie’s empty thermos into her jacket, and then accompanied her downstairs to the cafeteria. Lockwood started to peel off at the entrance, saddened to see that the serving line had been cleaned up and all the dishes were done. They were too late for breakfast after all.

Lucy grasped his wrist and gave a little tug, tipping her head towards the kitchen with a smile. Instead, Lockwood followed her over where she rapped on the door and waited for Cookie to swing it open. The old man goggled at them both behind his dirty glasses before grinning widely.

“You’re back!” Cookie said with clear delight, showing his gold tooth. “How was it?”

“Better for your tea,” Lucy answered. “Thanks again.”

“It was no trouble. I forgot I had that old thing.” Cookie squinted at Lockwood.

Lucy elbowed him. “This is Lockwood, you know him, don’t you, Cookie? He’s Talented too.”

“I do indeed,” Cookie confirmed. “Usually keep to yourself, don’t you, my boy?”

Cookie glanced around the empty cafeteria and then beckoned them both into the warm recesses of the kitchen. Lockwood sighed as the heat from the big oven seeped into his bones. Lucy took the thermos over to the little sink, washed, and dried it while Cookie fussed with something out of sight. A moment later, Cookie slid two plates across the counter.

“Cold eggs are a crime,” Cookie said, “but I think you can stomach cold sausages. I have some bread here, too. Just let me toast it.”

Lucy sidled up to Lockwood and bumped him, smiling.

Cookie bustled around, slicing some bread on the wrong side of stale, but once it was toasted and slathered in butter, it was the best thing Lockwood had tasted since the chocolate biscuits pilfered from Nolan. Lucy ate beside him, nibbling the dripping bread and sausages daintily. While Cookie was more attentive to Lockwood’s tale of the case, she slipped extra sausages onto Lockwood’s plate and busied herself with the toast. Lockwood didn’t want to argue with her in front of Cookie, so he just finished the cold sausages gratefully.

“Jolly good,” Cookie said with a light smattering of applause when Lockwood finished their tale. “I was worried about you kids. You never know if our young agents are going to come back or if I’ll be ordering flowers for a headstone.”

Lockwood swallowed a lump in his throat that had nothing to do with cold breakfast. He hadn’t realized they even got flowers if they died.

“Off with you,” Cookie said. “I’ll see you both for lunch.”

Lockwood followed Lucy out of the kitchen in a fog, his stomach full and warmth tingling all the way to his toes. He stared at her when she smiled.

“I need to shower and sleep,” Lucy said. “Wake me for lunch?”

“Sure,” Lockwood agreed.

Waving lightly, Lucy headed out of the cafeteria and disappeared into the girl’s wing of the orphanage. Lockwood stood in the hallway a moment longer, wondering what he had done to deserve this stroke of luck and how it would all inevitably go sour on him. As soon as that hideous thought came, he banished it and replaced the darkness inside him with the memory of holding Lucy’s tired body in his arms, stroking her hair while she breathed into his neck.

Questions, comments, concerns?

Chapter Text

After the events at the Hearthstone Tavern, Lucy didn’t really want to leave Lockwood. Despite how exhausted she was, she would have liked nothing more than to find a quiet spot and stay with him until lunch. She wouldn’t mind tucking herself against him again. However, she hadn’t been lying when she said she wanted a shower. The heat of Cookie’s kitchen had banished the chill in her bones, but the way Nolan had looked at her made her skin crawl. She didn’t want to think about what might have happened if Lockwood hadn’t been with her, if she’d been alone with Nolan or paired with another agent willing to turn a blind eye.

Lucy grabbed a change of clothes and her shower kit before heading down the hall to the girls’ bathroom. The other orphans were all in class so she had the bathroom to herself. Picking a corner shower stall in the far back of the room, Lucy pulled the flimsy curtain shut and started the water before she began peeling off her ectoplasm-stained clothes. A few minor burns and bruises had worked their way to her skin beneath, but she was unscathed thanks to Lockwood’s protection. Glancing once more at the curtain, Lucy ducked under the water and began to scrub herself down.

She worked the grit out of her hair, pausing with her fingers against her scalp to recall Lockwood’s gentle touch. She shut her eyes, turned into the warm water, and savored the memory of it. Usually, her head ached for the next two days after using her Talent so aggressively on a case, but something in Lockwood’s touch had relaxed her fatigued brain enough to release the tension and pain. She was tired and sore, but she felt worlds better than she normally would have.

Shaking free of her reverie, Lucy finished washing, dried off, and quickly redressed. She didn’t really fancy being naked and vulnerable right now, though she knew Nolan was back at Bunchurch and she was supposed to be safe in the orphanage. After seeing how Mara treated Lockwood, she was beginning to doubt it was really safe anywhere. She dropped her filthy clothes into the Talented laundry baskets and returned to her dorm. Diana’s empty bed still haunted her so Lucy curled up on her side with her back to it. Thankfully, sleep came quickly.

It felt like she had only shut her eyes for a few minutes before someone shook her gently at the shoulder.

Blinking in the bright sunlight, it took Lucy a moment to realize Lockwood had come to wake her. “Is it lunchtime?” she mumbled.

Lockwood smiled in a way that was almost as blinding as the sun, forgetting to favor his injured lip. “Yeah. Come on, sleepyhead.”

Lucy grasped his offered hand and let him pull her out of bed. She stuffed her feet into boots and followed him down for lunch. The cafeteria was its usual hubbub. Groups of orphans lined up by turns for sandwiches and sliced vegetables. Headmistress Mara, from her usual place, called each table for their turn. When she spotted Lockwood and Lucy, she gave a little nod of recognition. Something curdled in Lucy’s stomach. They could have died last night, nearly had died, and all Mara gave them was a nod?

Lockwood brushed against Lucy’s shoulder, jarring her from her thoughts. “Sit with me?”

Lucy nodded and followed him over to a table that hadn’t yet been called. The same three Talented boys sat at it, all younger than Lockwood by almost half, eight- and ten-year-olds that goggled at Lucy like they’d never seen a girl before. They had been chattering, but clammed up when Lucy took her seat beside Lockwood. It had taken a few jokes to get them to warm up to her last time too.

“Lockwood, she your girlfriend now?” Tommy asked, feigning nonchalance by picking his nose.

Lockwood smiled dazzlingly. “Jealous, Tommy?”

With a fire-engine-red blush, Tommy sputtered and looked away.

Lockwood laughed. “You’re being ridiculous. Lucy’s Talented like us.”

“Why isn’t she with the girls?” Scott asked.

Lucy didn’t want to answer.

Thankfully, Lockwood tactfully avoided Diana’s recent death. “She’s sitting with us now and she can do so again whenever she wants. Be polite like I told you.”

The boys quieted again, still giving Lucy glances that bordered between curious and affronted at her presence. Lucy scooted in a little closer to Lockwood, her thigh pressing to his under the table. Comfortingly, Lockwood dropped his hand out of sight and squeezed her knee.

“Table seventeen,” Mara called.

The boys scrambled from the table and up to Cookie’s line, grabbing trays and shoving each other. Lockwood and Lucy followed at a more sedate pace. It didn’t matter how quickly an orphan ran, they all got the same measly meal. Lucy would only get extra for dinner, not lunch or breakfast. Lockwood and Lucy slid down the service together, gliding their trays along. Cookie handed over sandwiches, then a scoop of sliced raw vegetables, and a single biscuit for dessert. Drinks—mainly water and a few pitchers of milk—were already on the tables. Accepting their fare, Lockwood and Lucy headed back.

The one good thing about the slim pickings at mealtimes was that no one bothered to complain. There was no fuss over vegetables or crusts on bread. Everyone was happy to eat what they were given, regardless of age. Lockwood dug in gratefully, eating almost fast enough to make himself sick. Lucy nudged his elbow. Swallowing with difficulty around a large bite, Lockwood forced himself to slow. When lunch was over, the orphans cleaned up excepting those with Talents. After mealtime, if they didn’t have classes, they instead went into the basement to practice with rapiers.

Lucy and Lockwood were technically excused, since they’d been out on a case all night, but Lockwood flashed Lucy a smile and asked, “Want to spar?”

Lucy thought of her empty dorm, Diana’s bed, the nightmares that were probably waiting, and nodded.

The younger boys clattered down ahead of them, fighting over the better rapiers before pairing off in the spacious basement. Lockwood took two plain rapiers from the sideboard and handed one to Lucy. Then, he ushered her over to a little corner farther from the others. Lucy assumed the position to spar, one hand outstretched for balance.

Lockwood shook his head. “Spar might have been the wrong word,” he said. “I want to teach you some things, if that’s okay?”

“Teach me?” Lucy fought back an instinctive raising of her hackles. Usually, when someone offered to teach her something, they were saying she wasn’t good enough and she hated that.

“We could have died on that case,” Lockwood said lowly and immediately took the wind out of her sails. “I know some different warding knots and a few techniques that don’t require getting so close. I want to teach them to you, if you’ll let me.” His voice was soft enough that he clearly knew what he was thinking. “I just want to help.”

“Okay,” Lucy agreed. She lowered the rapier between them. “Okay.”

Lockwood smiled, the cut on his lip pulling. “Great.”

In the following hour, Lockwood taught Lucy several complicated warding knots. They all had interesting place- or culture-related names. Half of them, Lucy forgot right away. Some, she was able to execute with only a few mistakes. She wasn’t a quick study and Lockwood had been unbelievably patient, but it was clear Lucy was going to need more than one lesson for these knots to stick, to say nothing of some of the complex fencing forms Lockwood had shown her.

Lockwood scuffed his shoes when the hour ended and they had to leave the training room.

Lucy took the question out of his hands. “Will you show me again?”

He grinned. “Of course,” he answered quickly. “Anytime you like.”

“After supper?”

“Definitely.”

Lucy followed Lockwood up the narrow staircase out of the basement, past the classrooms, and back upstairs to the dorms. He walked her to hers and left her at the door, promising to wake her for supper. Lucy watched him as he walked down the hall to the boys’ dorm. He was limping a little, something she hadn’t noticed before. Honestly, they’d had a few too many close calls during the tavern case. She wouldn’t be surprised if she had pulled something in her adrenaline-fueled state and was limping tomorrow when she finally felt it. Lucy returned to her bed and slept another few hours.

…

After the case at the Hearthstone Tavern, the days emerged into a sort of pattern. Lucy still worked a lot of cases as did Lockwood, but they hadn’t been rented together since. Whenever they had free time, they spent it training together and teaching looked good on Lockwood. Lucy was starting to see what kind of leader he’d be when he eventually opened his own agency. The thought of potentially working for him, with him, at his side made her heart pound in the best way. So, Lucy was delighted to report that she had memorized all Lockwood’s warding knots and could withstand a duel with him for almost a full minute. She didn’t suppose she’d be disarming the fencing prodigy anytime soon, but it was plenty of skill to head off a shambling ghost.

Panting hard, she fetched her rapier from where Lockwood had flung it from her hand.

“You’re getting better every time, Luce,” Lockwood assured her. “I might have to watch my back.”

Lucy snorted. “Hardly.”

Lockwood’s split lip had finally healed and he turned the full wattage of his smile on her.

Lucy’s heart skipped a little and she almost fumbled the rapier. “You never told me where you learned all this.”

“Sure, I did. I had classes, just like you.”

“I never learned a Persian warding knot in my training.”

Lockwood dodged the question effortlessly. “Perhaps I read it in a book then.”

Despite all the time they spent together and the unquestionable bond that had sprung up between them, the things Lucy didn’t know about Lockwood could fill an entire encyclopedia from A to Z. Well, perhaps Lucy could fill in the T section because there was no question that she trusted Lockwood implicitly. However, Lockwood played his cards so close to his chest, it was like he didn’t even have a hand.

Lucy didn’t really mind his lack of sharing. She supposed it had a lot to do with his upbringing. Being raised in the orphanage from the age of six had left Lockwood hurt and wary, like a puppy that had been kicked instead of petted too many times. Lucy didn’t grudge him, even if she wished he would share a story of his life when she told one of her own. The trust was still thickly-wound between them. Lucy knew Lockwood wouldn’t let her down.

They ran through a few more bouts until Lucy gave up any attempt at defeating him. They shelved their rapiers and headed upstairs. After supper, the orphanage wasn’t exactly quiet. Everyone crowded in dorms and bathrooms, ran wild in the wide halls, or played games in the classrooms. They had book clubs and chess clubs and even a group that played Agents and Ghosts when it was particularly dark. Despite how Lockwood was treated by Mara, the orphanage wasn’t a terrible place. There were certainly worse places out there for orphans.

At least, Lucy had thought that once.

Over the intercom, Mara’s voice called, “Lucy Carlyle to the Headmistress’s Office. Lucy Carlyle.”

Lucy raked a hand through the muss of her hair. “Wonder what I did now,” she grumbled.

Lockwood tensed at her side. “Want me to come with? I can wait outside.”

“It’s okay,” Lucy said. “I’ll come see you after. Maybe we can play cards.”

Lockwood nodded and walked as far as the hallway where Mara’s office was before peeling off and heading for his dorm. Lucy smoothed out her clothes, knocked, and entered at the word. Mara looked as she always did, thin and austere with her hair wound up on her head in a tight bun. She stood behind her desk just so she could look down at Lucy. Lockwood had once said that she looked like a bird on a branch and now Lucy couldn’t unsee it.

“Evening ma’am,” Lucy said by way of greeting.

“Have a seat,” Mara instructed. “You have a case.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Tonight.”

Lucy glanced outside. The sun had already set. “Ma’am?”

“I know it’s unorthodox, but Bunchurch has need of your unique Talent. Supervisor Nolan will be along to pick you up shortly. Go on and get ready.”

Lucy’s blood ran cold. “Um, ma’am, are there other agents on this case?”

“Not that I’m aware of. It’s just a Stone Knocker.” Mara pushed the file across her desk.

Lucy couldn’t move, not even to take it. She did not want to be alone with Nolan.

“It should be open and shut for you,” Mara prompted, “even solo.”

Lucy tried to work some spit into her mouth so she could speak but all that escaped was a dry rasp. “Ma’am, I don’t want to go with him,” she croaked finally.

Mara’s brow wrinkled. “What’s this now?”

“I don’t want to go with Supervisor Nolan. Last time I worked with him, he wanted to get me alone. I had a bad feeling, with the way he looked at me—”

Mara laughed dismissively. “Don’t be foolish, Lucy. Supervisor Nolan is a grown man. What interest do you think he has in a child like you?”

Bile rose in the back of Lucy’s throat. “Ma’am,” she insisted.

“Stop,” Mara cut her off. “I’ll not have any more of this prattle. You’ve been rented for a case, you’re going, and that’s final. Solve it quickly, if you’d like my advice.”

Lucy snatched the folder and bolted from the office. Before she’d even fully thought about it, she had bypassed her dorm and barreled through the doors of Lockwood’s. The trio of boys gave shouts of alarm at her sudden appearance. Tommy even made another snide comment about Lockwood’s girlfriend just barging in. Lockwood’s head snapped up when she tripped inside. He quickly put aside Lucy’s worn deck of cards and crossed the dorm, grasping Lucy at the elbow and turning her into the shelter of his body. She wondered what she looked like for him to immediately shield her like that.

“What’s wrong?” Lockwood asked, his voice a low rumble that she felt where she pressed against his chest. “What is it? Luce?”

“Bunchurch,” she choked out. “It’s Nolan.”

Lockwood stiffened, pressing closer to her. His mouth touched her temple. “What about him?”

“He’s rented me,” she rasped. “Tonight, alone, for a Stone Knocker.”

Too many ears were listening. The young boys all stared at them, even through the barrier of Lockwood’s slim body. Without his great coat, he seemed too small to hide her entirely. Lucy gripped at his shirt, clinging with fingers that shook. The papers in the folder crunched between them. Lockwood threw the folder on his bed, tucked his arm around her, and ushered her out of the dorm. The hall ended at a big bank of iron-barred windows, but it felt close and safe with the wall at her back, the windows to her side, and Lockwood caging her in from the front. Lucy sucked in a deep breath, blinking her stinging eyes.

“Tell Mara what he tried to do.”

“I did!” Lucy sobbed.

Lockwood stiffened further, every bone in his body ramrod tight.

“She didn’t care,” Lucy continued. Her teeth chattered and her hands trembled. She felt entirely ready to shake apart. “She said I had to go. She told me to solve the case quickly if I was worried. She said Nolan was an adult and he’d never be interested in—” She wheezed, her heart knocking against her ribs so hard that she couldn’t breathe. The air felt punched out of her.

Lockwood pressed Lucy’s quivering body to the wall with his full weight, caging her in on all sides. To the outside eye, it must have looked untoward, but Lucy felt safe there. She had never realized exactly how tall he was, tall enough to envelope her entirely, his head bowed down over hers so that she felt his breath on the top of her head. Her shaking hands clutched the shirt at his waist, twisting in the well-worn fabric. Lockwood was dressed to relax, not to go on a case. The softness of him all around her did something to weaken the hysteria building in Lucy’s chest. She sucked in air, her face against his chest, filled with the scent of detergent and lavender and Lockwood.

“It’ll be okay,” Lockwood told the top of her head. She felt his lips move against her hair. “It’ll be okay, Luce.”

“What do I do?” Lucy whispered.

Lockwood lifted his head, but didn’t move away. He leaned entirely against her from shoulder to knee, the heat of his body soaking through her thin clothes. “Are you ready to move?”

Lucy nodded.

“Come with me.” Shifting away from her, Lockwood was ready to catch her shoulders when her knees buckled. Gripping her at his side, he hustled back down the hallway and into the Talented boys’ dorm.

The three young boys looked up when they returned and Lucy cringed under their gazes. She was certain her face was splotchy and her eyes were puffy from crying. She should really go back to her own dorm, try to clean up and get ready to face whatever was coming next. She had never considered herself a coward, but…

“Boys, I’ll be covering for Lucy,” Lockwood said.

Brow furrowing, Lucy looked up at him.

However, the moment he spoke, the atmosphere in the dorm changed entirely. Tommy, Scott, and Edward all began a flurry of movement. Edward started gathering things for Lockwood, ectoplasm-proof clothes and the like. Tommy and Scott laid out a boardgame conspicuously in the middle of the room. For his part, Lockwood brought Lucy over to his bed and sat her down.

“For this to work,” Lockwood told her, “Mara can’t know yet so you can’t sleep in your bed. Instead, you’ll sleep in mine and I’ll go on your case.”

Goosebumps flashed down Lucy’s arms. “Lockwood, no—”

“I’m going,” Lockwood said firmly. “And you’re staying here where Nolan can’t touch you.”

Lucy swallowed, her throat as dry and dusty as an attic. “But—”

“Mara doesn’t see you off. She won’t know until the reports come in tomorrow. I’ll go with Nolan and I’ll make sure he never requests you alone again.”

“What are you going to do?” Lucy breathed.

Lockwood gave her a brilliant smile, blinding and painful in its intensity. “Stay here. Can I borrow your chains?”

“Yes, of course, but Lockwood—”

“I need to get ready,” he interrupted. “Don’t leave my bed.”

Then, he grabbed the bundle of his working clothes from Edward and ducked out of the dorm to change. He was gone for what felt like seconds and then swished back in his great flapping coat. He’d slicked his hair out of his face and washed up, smelling more strongly of lavender soap than before. Lucy hadn’t moved. She was frozen stiff, still slumped at the edge of his bed, her feet dangled to the floor, her knuckles white where she gripped coverlet. Lockwood towered over her like this and her neck cracked when she looked blearily up at him. Lockwood smiled and gripped her shoulders, jockeying her back against his pillow and then pulling the blanket up over her fully-clothed.

“Wait for me here,” he said. “The boys will watch out for you. If someone comes in, pull the covers over your head.”

“Lockwood,” she whispered.

He pressed a dry kiss to her temple, smiled one more time, grabbed the folder, and then darted out of the dorm.

Lucy wanted to shout after him, wanted to chase after him, wanted to go on the case like she was supposed to. But a large part of her couldn’t deny that when she’d come to Lockwood, she had hoped he would do something to protect her. Lucy lost track of how long she lay there, staring at the empty doorway where Lockwood had last stood. Eventually, the chime to signal lights out played throughout the orphanage and the three Talented boys who had been playing quietly nearby began to ready themselves for bed. Lucy didn’t get up, not even to brush her teeth. She just stayed in Lockwood’s bed, surrounded by his scent and the warmth of his blankets.

It was just as dark in the Talented boys’ dorm as it was in the girls’. Faint moonlight drifted in through the window and a sliver of electric light slanted in from the hallway. In the semi-darkness, Edward padded over on stocking feet. When Lucy looked at him, he smiled around a missing front tooth.

“Hello Edward,” Lucy whispered. “Is something wrong? I know I shouldn’t be in your dorm.”

Edward shook his head. “It’s okay,” he lisped.

“Are you worried about Lockwood?”

“A little,” Edward agreed, “but he’s done this before.”

Lucy tightened her grip on the blankets, twisting them up in her fingers until they matched her insides. “He has?”

“Yeah,” Edward whispered, “with the man from Tendys and the woman from Grimble.”

“Eddie,” Scott hissed across the room. “You aren’t supposed to say.”

“It’s okay,” Tommy said. “Lucy’s covered for. She’s one of us now. Lockwood said so.”

Scott didn’t argue further.

“When a supervisor wants you alone to… do things,” Edward continued, “Lockwood goes instead when he finds out. After that, they never ask for you alone again.”

“What does he do?” Lucy breathed.

“I bet he fights them,” Tommy answered dreamily. “When I’m older, I’m going to do the same thing for other kids!”

“You’d have to be good with a rapier, stupid,” Scott retorted.

“I’ll get good!” Tommy protested.

Edward perched on the edge of Lockwood’s bed and comfortingly patted Lucy’s hand. “Lockwood will protect you, Lucy,” he said softly, “just like he did for me.”

Lucy thought of Lockwood’s split lip, the one that had taken forever to heal because he kept splitting it open when he smiled. Not for the first time, she wondered if anyone was protecting Lockwood. “Thanks, Edward,” Lucy answered instead.

Giving her hand one final pat, Edward scurried over to his bed and pulled the covers over his head. Tommy and Scott settled down as well. Within a few minutes, one of them began to snore. Lucy lay awake for much longer, staring at the water-stained ceiling in the dark. A square of moonlight tracked across the floor and then the wall.

The orphanage was large and housed a lot of children so Lucy wasn’t necessarily concerned that Mara would find her sleeping in Lockwood’s bed when she was supposed to be on a case, but it felt foolish to risk it by moving. Even though she really wanted to wait downstairs at the door, she stayed in Lockwood’s bed. Lucy was used to pulling all-nighters so she stayed up, listening to the boys snoring and a ratty branch tap-tap against the windowpane. She wasn’t sure what time it was, as it was still quite dark with no sign of the sunrise, when Lockwood returned.

Lucy sat up quickly, almost bolting out of bed to meet him, but something made her stop and study him with eyes well-adjusted to the dark. He had paused in the threshold of the dorm, gripping at the doorframe like he’d lost all his strength. He rested his forehead against it, breathing in jagged gasps that raised and lowered his shoulders drastically. Though he had changed into plain pajamas, he had his coat pulled over them. It swamped him, playing on how slim and lean his body really was. Finally, he dragged himself away from the door and limped heavily into the dormitory.

“Lockwood,” Lucy breathed when she saw him take his first staggering steps.

He startled as though he hadn’t expected to find her awake, his face twisting with pain before his smile slotted defensively into place.

“How’d you get in?” Lucy asked. The front door stayed locked until dawn.

“I left a window unlocked downstairs,” he told her and shuffled into the dorm. It was clear he was doing all he could to hide his limp, his pain, whatever had happened. “The art room doesn’t have bars.”

Lucy realized he’d done this enough that he had a plan to get back inside the orphanage. Haltingly, she wondered how many times he’d covered for another young agent, another lonely orphan.

He sank down on the edge of the bed. He had showered, his hair hung wet and lank around his pale face. He smelled strongly of soap and mint. “Did you try to sleep?”

She brushed off his concern with her own. “You’re hurt.”

“I took a piece of your gum. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Lockwood, please.” The words scraped out of her like frost on glass. “What happened with Nolan?”

“He won’t ask for you alone again,” Lockwood answered without meeting her eyes. “You can go back to your bed now, Lucy.”

“Lockwood—”

“Lucy, please.” His voice came out small and cracked. “I need to sleep. Nolan won’t ask for you again. You’re safe.”

Lucy carefully slid out of Lockwood’s bed but didn’t leave. A chill began seeping through her socks. She lingered at his side, staring at the top of his head. He kept his face downturned, his shoulders hunched, and his coat drawn tight around his body. There was a strange bruise on the fine skin of his throat, oblong and dark with defined edges. It wasn’t from being hit. With startling clarity, Lucy suddenly realized what Lockwood did to make sure no adult supervisors asked for anyone else alone.

Tears welled in her eyes and she sniffed hard in an attempt to staunch them. “Oh, god, Lockwood…”

He jerked as though her words struck him and adjusted the collar of his coat to hide the marks. He still refused to look at her. A red flush crept up his neck and into the tips of his ears.

“Can I…” What could she offer? Really, what could possibly help him right now? She finally whispered, “Can I hug you?”

His gaze snapped up to her face and the surprise in his expression allowed a few tears to overflow. What had he expected her to do or say when she realized what he’d been through? Had he thought she’d run away or be disgusted with him? How could he think she’d be anything other than horrified on his behalf? How could he even have…? Lucy swiped desperately at her wet eyes. This was not the time for her to cry.

“Not right now,” Lockwood whispered in a voice that broke at the edges, “not after…” He shut his eyes, breathing shakily in and out.

Lucy gritted her teeth to stop a sob from escaping. She wanted to say something, but what could she say?

Blinking his glassy eyes open, he tentatively reached for her, hesitated, and then pushed through with a whisper. “Could you… hold my hand?”

Gratefully, Lucy dropped to her knees and wrapped her fingers around his. The skin on his knuckles was raw and cracked from being scrubbed. She cradled his shaking hand in both of hers, bringing it up to her mouth to breathe warmth onto his cold skin.

“Please, don’t… don’t tell anyone,” Lockwood whispered.

“No one, I promise.”

She stroked his hand tenderly, rubbing her thumb over the pulse in his wrist, massaging his palm and fingers as gently as she dared. When she pushed the sleeve of his coat up a little, she discovered a ring of bruises around his wrist where he’d been gripped. She struggled not to break down, not to sob and scream at the unfairness of it all, not to just grab him and hold him tight. She had to be strong now. She had to give him what he needed, not take what she wanted.

His voice was a cry. “Luce…”

“I’m here,” she breathed into his skin.

“It was worth it,” he murmured. “To protect you, it was worth it.”

Her tears overflowed silently. She bowed her head into his hand and pressed her mouth over his knuckles in a dry kiss. She felt like she was in audience with someone holy, a merciful god or loving king. She almost told him it wasn’t worth it, that she wasn’t, that she would never be, but how could she say that to him now? How could she ever say that to him when she could feel his scrubbed-raw skin and the way he trembled on the edge of losing his breath?

Instead, she whispered only, “Thank you, thank you,” into his cupped palm until the words felt like physical things that he could tuck into his heart.

Questions, comments, concerns?

Chapter Text

Lockwood was too sore to get out of bed the next morning.

When Tommy proudly told Scott it was from fighting off Lucy’s supervisor, Lockwood didn’t correct him. Only Edward looked at Lockwood with the same horrible understanding that Lucy had last night. Edward had been rented for cases alone too many times before Lockwood realized what was going on and put a stop to it. Well, stop was a strong word for what he’d done. Rather, Lockwood had redirected it onto a more suitable target.

Feigning sore muscles and a sprain was easy, considering his pain ran deeper and fouler than that. Lockwood curled up under his blankets, shut his eyes against the sunlight, and waited for Mara to get the reports from Bunchurch. His lumpy mattress wasn’t doing his aching body any favors. He breathed slow and deep, pacing himself as he tried and failed to find a more comfortable position to lay. At least his pillow still smelled faintly and sweetly of Lucy.

Just after breakfast, Lockwood heard the telltale click-clack of Headmistress Mara’s low-heeled shoes in the hall. There was no door into the Talented boys’ dorm so there was nothing for her to slam open, but the noise of her angry steps more than made up for it. She ripped the blanket off his bed and her upper lip curled in distaste. “Get. Up.”

“No,” Lockwood answered. The loss of his blanket was heinous, especially considering how raw and exposed he felt, but he wasn’t about to grapple with her for it. Even moving to sit up so he could face her on more even footing felt like too much, but there was no chance he was having this confrontation curled up like a child. He held her angry gaze without blinking.

“I have had enough of this behavior, Anthony,” Mara ground out. Her knuckles were white where she gripped his stolen blanket. “I got the report from Bunchurch. I know you stole Lucy’s commission and you claim you’ve hurt yourself too badly to get out of bed on a Stone Knocker. Edward could have handled it alone! You’re pathetic. Now. Get. Up.”

Lockwood swallowed, his mouth tasting of stale salt and suffering. “I worked last night. You owe me the day off from classes.”

“You stole that case from Lucy. You’ll get no such rewards,” Mara snarled. She shook her fist, blanket and all, in his face. “You don’t deserve them. Get up and go to class. Without breakfast. We’ll see if you do enough to earn lunch.”

Not that Lockwood wanted to eat anyway, but the easy denial of meals stung nonetheless. He opened his mouth to rebuttal, flinching when the blanket flapped in his face like an accusing finger.

Lucy’s voice rang from the threshold. “Oh, ma’am, I didn’t know you were checking on Lockwood.” She strode confidently into the dorm, carrying a single mug with steam wisping gently off the top. To Lockwood, she continued, “Cookie asked me to bring this up, since you’re under the weather.” She turned an insipid smile on Mara. “It’s flu season, you know, ma’am. Half the girls in my wing are down with aches and upset stomachs today.”

Mara gritted her teeth, but she rarely abused Lockwood where others could see or in a way that left marks. Instead of continuing to harangue him, she bit out a simple, “Rest up. Class resumes as expected tomorrow.” Then, she flung the blanket at him like a punch and beat a hasty retreat.

Lucy watched her until she was sure the Headmistress was well out of the dormitories, before she crossed the room to Lockwood’s bedside.

“Perfect timing, Luce,” Lockwood said with forceful cheer as he rearranged the knotted blanket across his lap.

“You don’t have to pretend for me, you know,” Lucy said lowly. “Here, I brought you some tea and painkillers.”

Lockwood stared at the little white pills as they transferred from her palm to his. “How did you get these?”

“Nurse Henderson is on today. He gets squirrelly when you bring up a particular woman’s problems and just wants you out as fast as possible. I told him a long-winded story about my cramps and he almost threw the whole bottle at me.”

“Oh, then you should take these.”

“Lockwood.” Lucy pushed his hand back. “I was lying. I got these for you.”

“Thank you,” he murmured and popped the pills with a sip of sweetened tea. “You’re amazing, Luce.”

“Can I sit here?” Lucy asked and gestured to the edge of his bed.

Lockwood shuffled aside a little to make room for her. “Yeah.”

Lucy carefully sat beside him, reached for him, and hesitated.

Lockwood slid his free hand across the coverlet tentatively.

Smiling, Lucy wrapped her fingers around his and rasped her thumb over a stretch of unbroken un-scrubbed skin. “Can I do anything else for you? Do you want something to eat?”

“My stomach is in knots right now,” Lockwood told her. He gratefully gripped her warm fingers, surprised by how greedy he was for the tender contact. “The tea is plenty.”

“Okay,” Lucy murmured. “Just let me know.”

Lockwood sipped the tea sparingly, savoring the flavor and sweetness.

Lucy sat beside him long after classes had started, stroking her thumb over the ridge of his knuckles. She didn’t say anything, but she didn’t have to.

Lockwood’s stomach clenched further, sending nausea swimming up his throat. “Luce,” he began.

She looked at him, her eyes soft and sparkling.

“This doesn’t change anything,” he insisted. “I’m still the same person I was before. I—”

“I know that, Lockwood,” she interrupted. “It’s not about… that. I want to be here because you’re my friend and you’re hurting. Like Tommy said, you fought hard and you deserve to have someone take care of you after a battle like that. So… if you need something, let me know. I’ll get it for you.” She met his eyes with a spine of steel. “I’ll cover you, too.”

His own words hit him like ice water, stealing the breath from his lungs and the words off his tongue. He helplessly squeezed her fingers and whispered, “Thank you.”

“You and me,” Lucy confirmed.

…

It took several days for Lockwood to walk without limping. The muscles in his lower back howled, but the painkillers Lucy snuck to him kept him from feeling like he wanted to curl up in bed and die. She kept up the illusion of their usual activities, but made countless little adjustments so he didn’t overexert himself and no one would notice that he was hurt at all. Headmistress Mara had taken to watching them both like a hawk. However, Lucy suddenly needed more training on fencing forms and warding knots and insisted that Lockwood lean against the wall (out of her way!) while she ran through them.

Lockwood had been orphaned since he was six years old. He had always thought he was independent, self-sufficient, all that noise, but having Lucy helping him made everything easier. He was beginning to wonder how he had ever gotten along without a friend like her. She kept him company. She slipped him painkillers when she could. She snuck him food when Mara was being particularly vindictive. She always checked on him after every case, often getting up too early and suffering a lack of sleep the next day since only agents who had worked got daytime off.

Lockwood wouldn’t say he grew reliant on her support or even that he expected it, but it became an intrinsic part of his day. For once in his life, he was almost happy. He felt like he had a family again. As his birthday approached, a bizarre anxiety cropped up under his ribs. He had been looking forward to aging out for as long as he could remember. He had always planned to take his nest egg, wrestle his parents’ house out of limbo, open his own agency, and make a name for himself. Lucy was only a few months younger than he was. They wouldn’t be apart for long, but the thought of leaving her behind, even for a little while, made his guts twist.

“Whatcha thinking about?” Lucy asked as she plopped into a seat beside him. It was study hall and everyone was crowded in the cafeteria to work through their daily homework. She spied his open workbook. “Ugh, math. Not my best subject. Sorry, I can’t help you with that.”

“What? Oh, no, this is easy. I can teach you if you like.”

“Could you? I’m going to get Saturday lessons at this rate.”

“Yeah, no problem.” Lockwood worked through the next six problems with Lucy and left her to do the seventh on her own. Despite how down on herself she always was, she was a very quick study if someone just took the time to teach her.

Lucy polished it off and then grinned at him. It was like the sun coming out from behind the clouds after days of rain.

He opened his mouth to say he was worried about the months they’d be apart, to ask if she had any ideas about how they could stay together, to demand how she had ingrained herself so deeply in his heart that he couldn’t bear leaving her behind. However, before he could speak, the intercom squawked to life and Mara called, “Lucy Carlyle and Anthony Lockwood to the Headmistress’s Office. Lucy and Anthony.”

Lucy folded her workbook with a sigh. “Let’s go.”

Lockwood packed up his belongings and followed her out of the cafeteria. They dropped their books off and then met outside Mara’s office. Lucy knocked and Lockwood opened the door for her. Together, they stepped inside and shut the door behind them. Mara was perched behind her desk, looking down her nose at them. Lockwood kept his joints loose and his posture tall. Whatever she thought they’d done, he wasn’t going to act guilty. Instead of scolding them for some conceived affront, Mara handed over a case file with the Fittes logo on the front.

Lucy accepted the file, barely resisting ripping it open right then and there.

“Fittes has rented you both for the night,” Mara said. “If I hear one complaint about you, Anthony, so help me…”

Lockwood just nodded. It was practically unheard of for Fittes to rent orphan agents. They had all the top Talent on their payroll already. What need could they possibly have for orphans like Lockwood and Lucy? Was it Bunchurch all over again? Looking to get some orphans killed hunting a difficult ghost rather than lose more agents with loving families?

“Get ready,” Mara instructed. “Pick up is at four.”

“Four?” Lockwood repeated. The clock on the wall said it was only just after three. They didn’t usually get picked up until five.

“Yes, four. Chop chop.”

Lucy tugged Lockwood’s sleeve. “Ma’am,” she said by way of departure and let the door shut behind them.

“Fittes needs us?” Lucy squealed and desperately opened the case file. “What do you think it is?”

Lockwood doubted it was anything good, but he held his tongue as Lucy poured over the first page.

“We’re getting support,” she said with awe. “A supervisor, of course, but another agent from Fittes is on the case too.”

Lockwood watched as she turned the page and found the rest of the file empty. There was no background, no pictures, nothing. They were going in blind.

Lucy wheezed. “Do you think it fell out?”

“No,” Lockwood answered and guided her down the hallway to her dorm. “Get changed and meet me at the door in twenty.”

“Right.”

He left her at her dorm. Thankfully, it was no longer empty. A Talented child, just turned five, had moved into Lucy’s dorm last month. The same three boys were housed in Lockwood’s dorm and he had plenty less to prep than Lucy, since he still hadn’t gotten any rewards from his cases. Whether that was because he hadn’t earned them or because Mara held them back remained to be seen. Lockwood changed his clothes, shrugging into his big coat and snapping on his empty work belt. He stopped to brush his teeth and smooth back his hair. There was no harm in looking his best for Fittes.

Lucy wasn’t waiting for him at the door yet, but their rapiers had been put out. Surprisingly, Mara had chosen two of the newest models that didn’t have chipped blades or cracked hilts. He secured his rapier, leaned up against the wall, and folded his arms to wait. A few minutes later, Lucy clattered downstairs with her duffel slung over her shoulder. Neither of them had any ‘good’ case clothes to put on. Everything they had was ragged and stained. Until it completely fell apart though, the orphanage wasn’t going to purchase more ectoplasm-resistant clothing. Like him, Lucy had tried to fix her hair. Thankfully, the burned patch had evened out after a trim.

“I can’t believe we’re working with Fittes,” Lucy said as she secured her rapier and handed Lockwood the duffel.

“Don’t get too excited, Luce,” he cautioned. “We have literally no idea what we’re getting in to.”

Lucy opened the folder mournfully, turning the single sheet over and looking at the blank back. “What time is it?”

“Close enough that we should wait outside.”

Lockwood opened the door for her and they stepped out together. Though the sun hadn’t begun to set, it was already brisk outside. It would get even colder once the sun completely faded and the ghosts came out. Lockwood shivered a little inside his coat, wishing he’d had a few more layers to put on underneath. Lucy, somehow, never seemed as cold as he was.

To keep warm, they did a little round of sparring with the rapiers until a set of bright headlights pulled up the orphanage’s driveway. It wasn’t a cab. Instead, it was a largish passenger van with tinted windows. The Fittes logo, a silver unicorn with a lantern, was embossed in white against the black paint. The side door slid open and a friendly young agent peered out at them.

Olive-skinned and dark-haired, he grinned warmly and offered, “Do you need help loading up?” He adjusted his glasses on his nose, staring at them curiously.

“No, thanks,” Lockwood answered and tossed in Lucy’s duffel. He offered his hand so she could climb up and then slid in after her. The interior of the van was pretty roomy, almost unnecessarily so, but mountains of gear filled most of the available space. Lucy’s ratty duffel stuck out like a sore thumb against all the sleek Fittes bags.

The agent pulled the door shut and called, “We’re ready.”

The van rumbled over the uneven stones and pulled out onto the road. St Catherine’s orphanage diminished out the rear window, dark and austere against the blue sky.

“You must be Anthony and Lucy. I’m George.” He stuck out his hand, shaking Lucy’s first and then Lockwood’s.

“I prefer Lockwood, actually.”

George bobbed his head. “Fair enough. Don’t call me Georgie and I think we’ll get along fine.”

Lucy fished around under her backside and came up with a small square silver glass. What looked like a fingerbone sat sedately inside.

“Oh, that’s mine,” George said. “Forgot I had it with me.”

“Do you often carry around Sources?” Lucy ventured.

“Damn it, George!” came the disgruntled voice of the driver. “I told you to leave that at headquarters.”

George rolled his eyes. “It’s for an experiment.”

“You’re not allowed to take those out like library books.”

“No one stopped me.”

“I’m going to as soon as I stop this car first.”

George made a little yapping motion with his hand. “Promises, promises. That’s our supervisor, Quill Kipps. He’s not all bad, once you get past the ginger hair.”

“Oye!”

Lockwood saw Lucy crack an unwilling smile. After everything that happened with Nolan and Mara, she rarely trusted adults anymore, but it was hard not to fall into the banter between George and his supervisor. Kipps was younger than most supervisors, perhaps in his late twenties, freckled, with broad shoulders and smart eyes. For his part, Lockwood leaned back and tried to figure out where they were going. They had more than left the outskirts of London behind and were winding into the pricier districts. Maybe that’s why they were so early—to get through heightened security or compensate for a long drive?

Kipps pulled into a restaurant parking lot where the cartoon face of a mustached Italian chef grinned down at them. “Do not move the van,” he said firmly at them in the rearview mirror.

Lucy stiffened.

Lockwood’s eyes widened. Did Kipps really think he was stupid enough to hijack a Fittes van?

Cheekily, George responded, “Scouts honor.”

Lockwood realized with surprise that the scolding was not directed at him or Lucy, the suspicious orphans, but at the Fittes agent.

“You were never a scout,” Kipps snapped. “If I come out and this car is gone—”

“That was one time! Just go!”

With a huff, Kipps slid out of the driver’s seat and slammed the door.

“He’s going without us?” Lucy asked and leaned forward between the seats to get a better look at the restaurant.

Lockwood squinted. With the sun still so high, it was pretty much impossible to spot any death glows, not that he expected them to be in the parking lot anyway. Still, it was weird that the Fittes supervisor was going into the building without his agents.

“He won’t be long,” George told them.

Sure enough, after just a few minutes, the side door to the van slid open and two big pizza boxes were passed in. The heavenly smell slapped Lockwood harshly. George hastened to grab them while Kipps jostled in a six-pack of cokes and then himself. Slamming the van door behind him, Kipps sat down on a duffel of chains with a groan. Something in his knee popped audibly and he rubbed at it.

“I wish it was summer so we could eat at the park,” Kipps muttered as he handed out paper plates and napkins. He propped the pizza boxes on a crate of supplies, flipped open the lids, and handed out cokes. “I hate eating in the van just because it’s cold.”

Lockwood awkwardly rotated the icy-cold soda in his hands, wondering what he was holding it for.

George dragged a big cheesy slice of pizza onto his plate and bit into it delightedly. Steam fogged up his glasses and he yelped at the heat.

“Slow down, you glutton,” Kipps scolded. He seemed to realize that Lucy and Lockwood were both just sitting there, staring at them. “Dig in,” he told them. “I always get pizza before a big case. Everyone operates better on a full stomach.”

Lucy blinked. “Really?”

“Yeah, really,” Kipps confirmed. “Eat up.”

It took Lockwood an embarrassingly long time to realize that he and Lucy were being fed before a case. They helped themselves to a slice and bit in with twin moans. Lucy quickly stifled hers, embarrassed at the outburst and blushing adorably, but Lockwood leaned into the skid.

“I can’t recall the last time I had pizza,” Lockwood said.

“Now that’s just criminal,” George remarked.

“What do they feed you at the orphanage?” Kipps asked with genuine curiosity.

“Casseroles and the like,” Lucy explained. “Lots of potatoes and peas.”

Kipps didn’t ask anything else, instead steering the conversation to the case at hand. “You probably noticed there wasn’t any information in your case file. That’s because we like to go over it beforehand while we’re eating. George?”

George slurped up some strings of cheese and grabbed a second slice. He spoke from memory rather than open the file with greasy fingers. “We’ll be at the Langham Hotel, focusing our efforts on Room 333.” (1)

“The Langham?” Lucy repeated in shock. Thankfully, she didn’t choke on her drink.

Cheese stuck to the roof of Lockwood’s mouth and he subtly tried to unstick it. Why on earth would Fittes, London’s most prestigious agency, need orphans on a case at London’s most prestigious hotel? Lockwood was almost starting to worry that this was Nolan all over again, only layered beneath a veneer of pizza and expensive rooms. He glanced at Lucy. She had leaned forward with excitement, her eyes bright and smiling, her short hair bobbing around her cheeks. In that moment, Lockwood resolved to himself that it didn’t really matter. He would sacrifice anything to keep that smile on her face.

George polished off his second slice and went in for a third.

Lockwood and Lucy were both still savoring their first slices so Kipps pushed the second pizza closer to them. “Please, eat your fill. Whatever’s leftover can be our midnight snack, but I’ve got biscuits too.”

Lucy finished her slice and helped herself to a second. Just so he wouldn’t look out of place, Lockwood did the same.

George continued, “Last year in October, Doctor Clarence Cartwright murdered his newly-wedded wife, Moira, on their honeymoon in cold blood and then turned the gun on himself. The Langham Hotel cleaned it all up the way they were supposed to, salt and the works up to DEPRAC standards, but the bad doctor has been sighted inside and near the room by numerous staff and guests. A few people were even ghost-touched, nothing fatal, thankfully. As it stands, a large portion of the third floor is unusable thanks to the haunting. The Langham Hotel would like the Source located and removed ASAP.”

“If they followed DEPRAC instructions after the murder, how could they have missed the Source?” Lucy asked.

George dried his hand on a napkin and belched. “That’s why we need someone with great Sight and an expert Listener. Whatever the Source is, it avoided the usual methods of preventing it.”

Kipps folded all the trash into one pizza box and kept the leftovers in the other. Despite the fantastic treat, Lockwood and Lucy could barely finish two slices each. “Do you have any more questions?”

“Will you be going in with us?” Lockwood asked.

Kipps slid open the van’s door. “Yes, of course, I always go in with my teams.”

Surprise must have showed on Lockwood’s face because Lucy elbowed him lightly.

“I’ll be there too, if anyone cares,” George put in.

“Sorry,” Lucy said. “We’re just not used to that much… support.”

Kipps nodded thoughtfully.

“Orphans are like canaries to miners, aren’t they?” George asked.

Kipps glared at him. “George!”

“He’s not wrong,” Lockwood admitted. “If we work with established teams or other agents, it usually in the same capacity as a canary. Send us in first and see if we die horribly and then have the next team avoid doing that.”

“It’s not like we have families that will miss us.” Lucy gave a little shrug of agreement. “We’ve just got valuable Talents, is all.”

Kipps and George both grimaced.

“Well,” Kipps said finally, “it won’t be like that this time. I’ll be there for whatever support I can provide in any capacity, even if it’s sitting in the iron circle and making tea, and George will work alongside you throughout.”

Lockwood blinked, surprised by Kipps’s candor.

“Let’s get moving,” George said with a glance outside. “We want to be in the room and prepared before the sun sets.”

Kipps slammed the van’s door, dumped the empty pizza box in the trash, and slid behind the wheel. The drive to the Langham Hotel didn’t take long at all. Kipps pulled up in front of the grand hotel and parked under the stone arch where ritzy guests could unload their bags in safety from both spirits and bad weather. Ghost lamps were usually quite ugly, but the ones surrounding the hotel had been spruced up and embellished. George slid open the door and hopped out. Lockwood followed, offering his hand habitually for Lucy to step down. Together, they stood staring up at the massive building.

“It’s modeled after a Florentine palace,” George told them.

Palace was pretty much the right word. The hotel towered over them at least seven stories. How would a person measure the tower that stood head-and-shoulders above the rest of the building? It was entirely sculpted from blonde stone edging on golden in the sunlight, scalloped and frilled at the edges like an expensive cake. Tall chimneys puffed merry smoke into the sky, promising warmth. Most of the windows glowed amber, the curtains all enticingly pulled back. There was a little crop of darkness on the third floor, the site of the haunting, Lockwood presumed. Potted shrubs and seasonal flowers framed the fantastic glass doors. A chandelier hung outside in the foyer above the steep staircase.

A footman in uniform waited just inside. He hastened out with a luggage cart when Kipps waved. “Evening.”

Kipps began slinging duffels onto the luggage cart. “We’re the team sent from Fittes.”

The footman looked them over. Abruptly, Lockwood felt seriously underdressed in his ratty ectoplasm-stained gear and too-big coat while George and Kipps both wore well-fitted grey uniforms. When Lucy pinched his sleeve, he knew she felt the same and moved a little to stand in front of her, blocking the footman’s judgmental stare.

Kipps cleared his throat, snapping the footman’s attention back to the bags. “We’re expected,” he said firmly. “If you’d take our gear to the third floor, we’ll handle things from there. The proprietor is waiting for us, isn’t he?”

“Oh, yes, sir,” the footman answered hastily. “He’s in his office.”

“Thanks,” Kipps answered. “Let’s go everyone.” Despite the footman clearly expecting a tip, Kipps ignored him in favor of settling Lucy’s well-worn duffel on Lockwood’s shoulder. “Thought you might like to keep that on hand.”

Lockwood gripped the strap tightly, momentarily wondering if that was meant as a slight, but then he saw the look on Kipps’s face and decided it had been intended kindly. Lucy smiled as well, gratefully adjusting the zipper to make sure the meager supplies she had remained safely inside, before walking at Lockwood’s side.

The interior of the hotel was even more grand than the outside, if such a thing was possible. The floor was highly-polished to a blinding shine and Lockwood caught his awed reflection on it. A large receiving foyer spread out before them, peppered with plush sofas, armchairs, and ornate wooden tables at artful intervals. Several large pots with sprays of colorful plants were placed around on the tables and floors, depending on the height of the arrangement. A sleek black piano was propped open and invitingly angled. All the lamps and chandeliers were warmly aglow, banishing any shadows. It smelled richly of lavender and a roaring fire blazed in the hearth.

A prim young woman greeted Kipps from behind a sleek desk. “Mr. Kipps, I presume. Mr. Santee is waiting for you.” Then, she gave detailed directions on how to reach the proprietor’s office.

“We’d like to scope out the third floor before we speak with him,” Kipps said levelly. “Did he leave a key for us?”

The young woman seemed surprised to be questioned. “Well, yes, but…”

“I’ll be having that first,” Kipps told her. “Once we’ve secured the floor, we’ll meet with him. It’s safer for my agents to get a first reading and set up iron circles while the sun is still up.”

“Oh,” she remarked and handed over an ornate brass key. “It’s a skeleton key. It’ll open almost all the doors in the hotel.”

Kipps pocketed the key. “Thanks. We’ll be along to see Mr. Santee shortly.”

With that, he bundled them into the lift and punched the button for the third floor. The elevator climbed smoothly and fine music tinkled through the speakers. When the doors slid open, they found that the footman had already upended all their bags in the third-floor hallway, apparently miffed not to have been tipped or scared of the ghost or both. Kipps began wordlessly sorting them out, handing out bags to Lockwood and George by turns.

“I can carry some,” Lucy put in. She was carrying her duffel, which Lockwood had handed over as his arms were filled.

Kipps shouldered the last of the bags. “We can handle it.”

Again, Lockwood wanted to bristle on Lucy’s account or step between her and Kipps protectively, but he simply got the impression that Kipps was being kind the only way he knew how.

Lucy didn’t protest and blushed lightly, looking away from Kipps’s easy smile.

“You can have custody of the key,” Kipps said. “Open doors for us.”

Lucy accepted the key. “I’d be happy to.”

“Alright,” Kipps instructed. “We’ll set up an iron line and a wedge in the doorway of Room 333 with a chain circle just outside. That will be our base of operations for the night and I’ll stay there. Damn, I forgot the pizza in the van.”

“We still have tea and biscuits, don’t we?” George asked.

“Yeah, we do, but the pizza won’t be good in the morning,” Kipps said mournfully.

“Sure it will, cold pizza for breakfast,” George answered.

“You’re an animal,” Kipps retorted.

Lucy bumped against Lockwood and whispered, “They seem nice, don’t you think?”

Lockwood agreed with a smile and a nod. Despite everything he’d been through with adult supervisors, Kipps seemed genuinely invested in helping them and keeping them alive—and not just George, he was even worried about his rented orphans. The pizza comfortably filled Lockwood’s hollow stomach.

“Lucy,” Kipps said, “if you please.”

Lucy jogged ahead and unlocked Room 333, letting the door swing wide without entering herself.

Kipps dropped the bags and strung out an iron line before using a wedge to keep the door from closing under any circumstances. Once he had made a circle of chains and stacked the bags neatly inside it, he said, “Alright, team. Go ahead and take some preliminary readings. Use your Talents. Retreat here if anything happens.”

“Roger,” George said and hiked up his sagging bottoms. He headed nonchalantly into Room 333 whereupon he began taking the temperature and jotting it down. He hummed as he worked.

Lucy stepped inside and Lockwood was quick to follow her. Together, they breathed in the room for a moment. Like the rest of the hotel, it was opulent to the point of excess. A comfortable sitting room greeted them first with cream-colored couches and gold accents. A massive king-sized bed loaded with embroidered pillows dominated the space behind it with a chandelier hanging overhead. The door to a bathroom was visible beyond, a big mirror reflecting a claw-footed tub and tiled shower. Thick brocade drapes had been drawn open and pinned invitingly back to show the view of London outside. Even in the semi-darkness, it was stunning.

Lucy shut her eyes to Listen better, but Lockwood kept his open. He could see a faint death glow on the bed, seeping up through the covers like a stain, but it was surprisingly large. Perhaps the doctor had laid down beside his murdered wife before offing himself? There was little explanation for how big it was otherwise. Honestly, it seemed big enough for three people laid out side by side.

“Hear anything?” he whispered to Lucy.

“Not much,” she answered and leaned lightly against him. Sometimes, she got disoriented and lost her balance while Listening. It was safer to reacquaint herself against Lockwood than risk Touching something in the room. “Maybe someone crying. It’s really faint. I can’t even be sure it’s coming from this room.”

George finished his readings and circled around to them. “Finished?”

“Yes,” Lockwood answered.

“Cool, let’s regroup with Kipps.”

Their supervisor had waited patiently in the circle of chains. Kipps was leaned against the wall with a new detective paperback in hand and reading glasses perched adorably on the end of his nose. He looked up when they emerged. “Anything to report this early?”

“Nada,” George answered. “No spikes or dips in temperature.”

Kipps looked patiently at Lucy until she answered, “A faint crying, but too weak to get anything yet.”

Lockwood added, “A really large death glow on the bed, big enough for three almost.”

“That’s unusual,” Kipps remarked. “Reports only mentioned the doctor and his wife. No one else was supposed to have died in this room and everyone who was ghost-touched survived.”

Lockwood shrugged. “Just telling you what I saw.”

“I appreciate it,” Kipps answered.

A pleased flush worked up Lockwood’s face. He could feel it heating the tips of his ears and looked away before Kipps noticed.

“Alright,” Kipps said. “Let’s meet with Mr. Santee so we can get this show on the road.”

“Think he’ll give us room service?” George asked.

“No,” Kipps scolded, “and you are not going to ask for it.”

“You’re no fun.”

“No civilians, George,” Kipps said. “I know you don’t want to see anyone get hurt.”

George polished his glasses and didn’t argue the point.

They loaded back into the lift and followed the directions to Mr. Santee’s office. It was just as lavish as the foyer and Room 333, not that Lockwood should be surprised anymore but he was. Mr. Santee was a robust man with a large bushy grey mustache and bright cheerful eyes. He shook Kipps’s hand excitedly and reiterated some instructions against using magnesium flares except in dire circumstances. They didn’t want to burn the hotel down, after all. Kipps agreed politely. The two adults were to reconvene in the morning and Mr. Santee promised them breakfast—a fact which made George’s eyes sparkle behind his lenses and Kipps shoot him a stern look. Then, the meeting was over and the case began in earnest.

(1) The Langham Hotel in London is real and haunted. I fact-checked all over the place but didn’t really find anything solid to support any of the ghost stories associated with Langham’s Room 333 so I made up all the details surrounding this case. [This is NOT an advertisement for the Langham Hotel.]

Questions, comments, concerns?

Chapter Text

Lucy hadn’t felt this good about a case in a long time. To say nothing of the fact that Lockwood had her back, she found George endearing. She had a feeling he was going out of his way to be funny or overzealous to make her and Lockwood more comfortable. Kipps was being nice too and she had a feeling he would actually care if he saw one of them get ghost-touched or threatened. She bumped her shoulder into Lockwood’s, smiling as they all crowded into the iron circle and began loading up their work belts with salt bombs, iron filings, and magnesium flares. Kipps also handed out shiny Fittes rapiers with silver tips and handguards.

“The flares are for emergencies only,” Kipps reminded them. “But I don’t value the hotel’s furniture over any of your lives. We have insurance for a reason, so…” He looked meaningfully at each of them, holding Lockwood’s gaze the longest.

Lucy was surprised to see Kipps put on a belt as well, along with a rapier, like he was going to jump into the fray.

Kipps caught her looking and smiled. “Don’t worry. I’ll stay out of your way, but I like to be prepared. When I’m with agents, I don’t exactly have to see ghosts to point something that goes bang in the right direction.”

Lockwood smiled brilliantly at Kipps as he tested out the weight of the new rapier with a few experimental jabs. “You’re an unusual supervisor.”

“I don’t know what kind of supervisors you’ve had in the past, but it wasn’t that long ago that I was an agent. I know how dangerous things are in the field,” Kipps answered simply.

Lucy thought of Nolan sitting down the block from the burned-out tavern on the safety of an iron bench, of how he held food at ransom for favors Lucy didn’t want to think about, of how Nolan had requested her alone and gotten Lockwood instead, of how Lockwood couldn’t walk the next day. If there were more supervisors like Kipps, maybe they wouldn’t be in the position they were so often in. If she’d had a supervisor like Kipps, maybe Diana would have lived.

Lucy sucked in a breath to steady herself.

“We should get started,” George said and checked his digital thermometer. “The temp’s dropped two degrees and the sun will be completely down any minute.”

Kipps brushed his hands together, unpacked a small folding stool from the duffel, and sat down. “I’ll be here,” he said. “Just shout if you need something.”

“Thanks,” Lockwood said and followed George into Room 333.

Lucy hustled in after them, glancing back over her shoulder at the propped-open door and the iron line. Kipps removed his detective paperback and began to read, trusting them thoroughly even though he was prepared to assist at a moment’s notice. Something warm and safe came to life inside Lucy’s chest. She hadn’t felt this way on a case since the tavern with Lockwood and even that had been tainted by Nolan’s treachery. This was a glimpse of what it would be like to work for Lockwood, she realized. This was what it would be like to have a boss, a coworker, a supervisor—someone—who cared.

George moved slowly through the room, taking fresh readings of the temperature. He turned on a few lamps sparingly to give them enough light to navigate by without the constant need for flashlights or bumping into furniture, but not enough to interfere with their Talents. Lockwood followed, his sharp eyes picking out details that Lucy’s poor Sight would miss. Lucy brought up the rear, her ears perked for psychic noise.

The trio stepped into the bathroom after getting middling readings from the rest of the suite. George turned on the lights over the sink, momentarily blinding them with the influx of five bulbs. Climbing onto the counter, he loosened four of the bulbs until only one remained lit. That was more than enough to see in the large windowless bathroom, especially with the mirror reflecting the glow. Honestly, a little less light would have been ideal.

Lockwood suddenly shaded his eyes with his hand and tightened his grip on his rapier with a hiss.

“What’s up?” George asked, pausing where he was taking readings of the twin marble sinks and getting nothing around the golden spouts.

Lucy had been about to examine the tub, her hand poised to Touch the cool porcelain, but she stopped at Lockwood’s reaction.

“I couldn’t see it before,” Lockwood said. “It must have blended in with the tub and the high light, but there’s a huge death glow in the tub. It’s just as big as the one on the bed.”

George tested out the tub, but the temperature only dropped a single degree. He jotted it down. “I believe you,” he said. “My Sight’s not that great. I’ve got a little bit of everything, but nothing like the two of you.”

“You know about our Talents?” Lucy asked.

George bobbed his head without looking up from his notes. “There’s a database for the orphanages that all the agencies have access to. We can see agents for rent—age, Talents, pictures of you, success rates, case records, you know.”

Lucy didn’t know. She shivered at the thought of Nolan sitting at his desk at Bunchurch, maybe staring at Lucy’s headshot right now or worse, staring at Lockwood’s.

George kept on talking, oblivious to the dark thoughts swirling in Lucy’s skull. “The database has all the orphans in London ranked, actually. You and Lockwood are the top billing for Sight and Listening. That’s why Fittes booked you for this case.” He paused, took off his glasses, cleaned them, and put them back on. The light glinted on his lenses oddly. “The hotel wants this taken care of in one night so we needed the best researcher, that’s me, and the best agents, that’s you.”

“And Kipps?” Lockwood asked. He turned slightly away from the tub, squinting and rubbing his eyes.

“You can’t argue he’s one of the best supervisors you’ve ever been with,” George said. “I might squabble with him, but he knows the job and he cares. You can’t ask for better than that.”

Lockwood didn’t disagree.

“My Touch isn’t great, but I’ll try to get a read on the tub if no one else can,” George continued.

Lockwood’s Touch was abysmal so he shrugged.

“My Touch merges with my Listening most of the time and I wanted to check out the tub anyway. I’ll do it,” Lucy said. She stepped up to the tub, standing between it and Lockwood to block the glow, and stretched out her hand. The porcelain was cold, but not alarmingly so. She rested her palm there, took a deep breath, and shut her eyes.

For a moment, she only heard the faint noises of the hotel coupled with Lockwood’s nearby breathing, the light beep of George’s thermometer warning them that the temp had dropped another degree, and George shifting on his slightly-squeaky shoes. Then, those living sounds faded out.

Like before, she heard faint sobbing that rose and fell slightly in pitch as she shifted her hand around the tub. Holding the curved porcelain lip, she took a few steps alongside until her knuckles bumped against the spout. Like water suddenly disgorging from the faucet, she heard a loud wet gush. It exploded through her head and stained her mouth with the taste of copper. Behind her eyes, she saw the tub streaked with blood, a woman lying in the bottom of it, weeping in her flowered nightdress. The vision coalesced, the details sharpening like an image under the magnifying glass.

If she just looked a little closer, she could make out—

A warm hand closed around hers and peeled her fingers off the spout. Lucy gulped fresh air, washing out the taste of blood, even as she hissed, “What are you doing?” She recognized Lockwood’s tall lean shape, standing too close for casework. She almost blushed despite George watching from just a few feet away and her annoyance with having the connection broken. “I almost had something.”

Lockwood’s rapier rasped as he pulled it loose and pointed it through the shadows. He dragged Lucy wordlessly away from the tub and, sensing his urgency, she shut her mouth and let him. Ducking behind him to stay out the way of his rapier, she wrapped her fingers around a salt bomb, prepared to throw it at a moment’s notice. She squinted at the tub, but her Sight was poor compared to her Touch and Listening.

George squinted too. “What do you see?”

“There’s something coming up the drain,” Lockwood answered.

The thermometer beeped. “We lost another two degrees. It’s below freezing.”

Lucy’s breath plumed in front of her face. Her fingers were cold, but the orphanage didn’t supply gloves. Lucy and Lockwood were lucky to have the quality coats that they were wearing and that was only because they couldn’t freeze to death on a case. Dying via ghost-touch was fine, but dying because they’d been deprived the proper clothing for plummeting ghost-temps wasn’t. Lucy flexed her hands, but didn’t dare stuff them into her pockets for warmth. The bathroom was too small for more than one rapier to be out so she kept her hand on the salt bombs.

In the dim light, she saw George finger a flare.

“Here it comes,” Lockwood said.

Lucy stepped back to give him room and George pushed his glasses further up his nose. It was visible enough that Lucy could just make it out if she looked from the corner of her eye. It was a bizarre shape, bulbous and malformed, mostly head with overlarge eyes and grasping hands and a huge mouth that yawned open.

Noise lanced through Lucy’s skull and she envied that her companions couldn’t hear it. A baby screamed and cried, the sound echoing off the bathroom walls and rebounding in Lucy’s head. She doubled over, clapping one hand to her ear but keeping the salt bomb in her other.

“Lucy.” Lockwood’s voice cut through the screaming. “What do you hear?”

“A baby,” Lucy groaned. “It’s a baby screaming.”

“That thing is a baby?” George demanded.

“The impression of one, at least,” Lucy gritted out.

The screaming hadn’t lessened at all. In fact, the distorted infant dragged itself out of the drain with weak spindly arms and continued sliding up the tub. It inched along, howling and wailing, leaving a long streak of ectoplasm on the porcelain. Once it had spanned the length of the tub, it tried to drag itself up the gentle slope to climb out but proved incapable. Lying there, it screamed even louder, thrashing on its back with its arms waving in the air, splattering ectoplasm all over the tub. Where its legs should have been, there was just a knot of writhing flesh and umbilical cord.

Lucy stumbled against the sink behind her, whimpering as the sound stabbed through her eardrums and left her lightheaded.

In response, Lockwood thrust the point of his rapier into the spirit and dispelled it with a flick of his wrist.

The noise cut off and Lucy shakily exhaled in relief.

Lockwood stared at the tub a moment longer to be certain that it wouldn’t rematerialize before he turned to face Lucy. “Are you okay?”

She nodded weakly. “Just a headache.”

George took a fresh reading of the tub, but the temperature hadn’t dropped further. “I don’t think the tub is the Source and a baby that size wouldn’t have been able to fit down the drain.”

Lucy swallowed bile at the morbid thought. She’d heard of babies born in bathtubs and toilets, left for dead by their mothers. Saint Catherine’s was full of the happier-ends to those stories, if being left without anyone who cared in an orphanage could be considered better than dead.

“I don’t think it was actually the spirit of a baby,” Lockwood said. He rested a hand lightly at Lucy’s shoulder, his fingers working into the tense muscles at the back of her neck while giving the illusion of an innocent touch. “The impression I got was that it was part of something, like a piece broke off.”

“We could be working with a Changer,” George said. “Maybe it’s the mother, manifesting as the baby she lost? Or the doctor, representing the family he never got?”

“Changers don’t have to take a form that relates to them,” Lucy put in. “It could look like that just to freak us out.”

George glanced at her. “Are you freaked out? We can regroup.”

Lucy flushed and pulled away from Lockwood’s steadying hand. “I’m fine,” she bit out. “It was just loud.”

“Hey,” George interrupted before she could march out of the bathroom and show him just how fine she was. “There’s no shame in taking a break. I could go for a cup of tea.”

Lockwood murmured, “Tea?”

Lucy softened. George wasn’t making fun of her, she realized. He was just being kind. When had kindness become such a rarity in her life that she couldn’t recognize it? “Yeah,” Lucy relented. “I’d like that.”

“Let me take a few more readings and then we’ll regroup with Kipps.” George puttered around the tub, taking the temperature at different heights and depths and near the drain. Nothing came up abnormal. In fact, the temperature had risen a few degrees since Lockwood dispelled the baby. “Okay. Let’s go.”

They moved carefully back through the suite and into the hallway where Kipps waited with his book. When they emerged, blinking owlishly in the harsh hallway light, he closed it and gave them his undivided attention. He didn’t look alarmed or unhappy to see them—the opposite, in fact. Kipps flicked on the electric kettle he’d unpacked without even being asked.

Lockwood stared while it boiled. His eyes widened further when Kipps passed out plastic mugs, tea bags, and little paper packets of sugar. Cradling his mug in hand, he leaned up alongside Lucy so that their shoulders brushed, smiling with just a touch of sadness when they sipped their tea together.

Kipps opened a packet of biscuits and shopped them around, insisting Lockwood and Lucy take two. George didn’t even protest.

“How’s it going?” Kipps asked once they were all settled.

“Okay,” George answered. He plopped down to sit on one of the bags of chains, crunched his biscuit, and slurped his tea. “I think we’re dealing with a Changer.”

Kipps listened attentively as George relayed what they’d seen in the tub. “Nasty,” he agreed and passed the biscuits around again.

In the full light of the hallway, wrapped inside protective iron chains, with a warm cup of tea in her hands and chocolate biscuits settling her stomach, Lucy felt the knot inside her brain loosening.

“More?” Kipps offered, indicating the teapot and the biscuits.

George brushed crumbs off his lap. “I’m good. How about you, Lockwood, Lucy?”

Lockwood drained his last sip. “I’m ready.”

“Set your cup where you’ll remember it’s yours,” Kipps said. “We’ll probably have tea again so there’s no sense in putting them away. Mint gum?”

George took a stick and so did Lucy, remembering the taste of blood in her mouth, but Lockwood shook his head.

Kipps stood to see them off, giving a simple, “Be safe,” as farewell.

George, Lucy, and Lockwood stepped back into Room 333. While they’d regrouped, the night had changed and deepened. The ambience of the room was different. The lamp George had lit before flickered irregularly, casting the room in little spurts of shadow and brightness. The bathroom was completely dark, despite the fact that they hadn’t turned the light out when they’d left. A low fog crept along the plush carpet and a bizarre smell hung in the air, something burnt and metallic.

“Gunpowder,” George observed and flicked on his penlight to combat the wavering lamp.

Lucy and Lockwood did the same.

“Can you Listen, Lucy?” George asked. “We’ll stay close.”

Lucy took a deep breath, steadied herself by leaning into Lockwood’s shoulder, shut her eyes, and Listened. The crying had ceased, baby or otherwise. Instead, she felt a low crackle start in her inner ear and spread. It was like something burning, probably piggybacking off the singe of gunpowder in the room.

“The death glow on the bed is the same,” Lockwood said lowly. “I don’t see much else, just the fog.”

“Temps dropped, but nothing alarming. How about you, Lucy?”

“I hear something burning, I think.”

“There’s not a fireplace in the room,” George reasoned.

“It’s hard to explain. It’s crackly, like a fireplace, but not.” She shook her head. “I’m not sure what it is.”

“Stand ready,” Lockwood said abruptly. “It’s forming at the window.”

Lucy and George spun around, stepping up on either side of him, curving around slightly so their backs were protected. Lockwood had his rapier in hand, squaring off to the spirit head on. This time, they faced a man—middle aged, clean-shaven, with a fop of curly hair on his head. He wore a suit that had seen better days, untucked and rumpled. He was talking to someone or himself, caught in the loop of his death. He gestured, hand jabbing out accusingly, and Lucy saw his gun catch the other light. Thankfully, the gun was no threat to them now.

“It’s the doctor, Cartwright,” George told them. “He looks just like his picture.”

“This could be the moment he kills his wife. Lucy, what’s he saying? I can’t hear it.”

Lucy narrowed her eyes, trying not to focus on what she was seeing and just Listen. His voice came in little bursts, like a radio with shoddy signal, and Lucy relayed what she was able to pick out. “He’s barking mad,” she told them. “Yelling stuff like, ‘You did this on purpose. You know what this meant for me. How could you?’ He’s definitely talking to someone else. His wife, probably.”

“Think he’s mad that she was pregnant?” George asked.

“We don’t know if she was pregnant,” Lockwood said.

Lucy listened to the ghost a while longer, but nothing became clearer. He kept yelling the same bit over and over, unresponsive to them even though they were standing just a few feet away. Finally, Lockwood jabbed his rapier into the ghost and they watched it disperse. George took measurements all around the window, jotting notes, but there was no sign of the Source.

Like with the baby, it didn’t rematerialize for a long time. They stood together, attentive to their surroundings.

“On the bed,” Lockwood said finally, “it’s the wife now.”

The woman in the flowered nightgown Lucy had glimpsed in the tub was sitting on the bed, slumped against the headboard with her legs drawn up to her chest. She sobbed into her cupped hands, her face completely hidden. Fair hair hung in strips down her shoulders. Other light wisped off her. Was that a large bloodstain on the bed or just a deep shadow?

Lucy Listened and the words came more easily this time. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she told Lockwood and George. “She just keeps repeating it.”

“That’s unhelpful. What could the Source be?”

“Nothing in the tub or by the window,” Lockwood said thoughtfully. “I bet the bed will be the same. The hotel would have sent it off to the furnaces after the murder.”

George hummed in agreement, watching the woman from the corner of his eye. “The Source must be something small. Something that could have been overlooked.”

Lockwood slashed his rapier through the woman, sending her away. The constant apologies vanished.

Before Lucy could investigate, a gunshot exploded through her head. The agony of her splintered skull pulled her legs out from underneath her and she fell to her knees with a yelp. Her hands flew up, clutching her pounding skull, digging her fingers through her short hair. Tears sprang to her eyes and she bit her lower lip to stop from screaming. Another gunshot reverberated through her, shooting in behind her eyes and lancing through her ears, leaving her blind and deaf to her surroundings.

Lockwood dropped beside her and she only knew it was him because he immediately put his arm around her back and crushed her into his chest, dragging her to her feet. His scent was familiar, comforting. She let go of her head to clutch his coat with numb fingers, unable to draw breath through the pounding in her skull. A third horrific shot tore through her, feeling like it had taken bits of skull and brain matter with it. Lucy’s eyes watered.

A salt bomb went off.

The atmosphere popped, abruptly releasing the pressure inside her head, and she gasped in air gratefully.

“Are you okay? Luce? Talk to me,” Lockwood said urgently. She got the feeling he had said that more than once. His hands chafed life back into her stiff arms and cold hands.

“I heard gunshots,” she choked out and made an effort to stand under her own power. “They were so loud.” She didn’t mention how her skull had felt like it had taken a direct hit.

“Gunshots,” George mused. Suddenly, he turned his eyes on the bed and said, “Help me move this.”

Lockwood was loathe to leave Lucy’s side, but she pushed against his chest until he let her go. Stumbling along beside him, the three of them shoved the massive bed aside. There was fresh paint, wallpaper, and carpeting everywhere. Lucy had no idea what George was doing when he began to paw all over the wall as high as he could reach and then dropped to his knees to do the same on the floor.

“Lucy, help me,” George grunted. “Your Touch is better than mine.”

Lucy swept her hand over the wall. “What am I looking for?”

“A stray bullet,” George said.

“A what?”

“I can’t be sure, but it seems to me that someone under so much duress wouldn’t have been a crack shot,” he explained. “I bet the doctor missed at least once. If the bullet went through the bed and into the floor or the wall, it would have plenty of psychic charge, enough to be a Source.”

“You have no idea if that happened,” Lucy protested, but she didn’t stop feeling around the wall.

“I don’t, but we know the Source is something that got left behind when DEPRAC cleaned up the murder scene. It has to be small.”

Lucy couldn’t argue his logic.

“It’s back,” Lockwood told them. “I’ll hold it off. Keep looking.”

Lucy stole a glance over her shoulder and her stomach curdled. On the other side of Lockwood’s penlight lurked a horrible conglomeration of the doctor, the wife, and the baby. It bobbled and swayed, dripping ectoplasm all over the carpet in little hissing burns. It was sobbing, crying, yelling, babbling all at once and Lucy desperately tuned it out. Lockwood stepped lightly, forming a big arc around George and Lucy and keeping it at bay with several complicated warding knots. He sprinkled his iron filings too, slowing the lumbering mass down further.

George scrabbled around on the floor for the Source while Lucy focused on the wall. Without gloves, the smooth wallpaper was positively freezing. Lucy groped along, using her Touch as much as the temperature for guidance. Then, finally, she felt a spike of deathly cold and a bolt of horrible emotion that twisted up her heart and sucked all the air out of her lungs.

“Here!” she croaked and began clawing at the wallpaper.

Lockwood threw a salt bomb and the following shriek rattled her teeth. Lucy didn’t allow herself to look back.

George bolted to his feet and his gloved hands joined hers. He had a pocketknife and slashed the paper aside, jabbing the point deep into the wood and carving out a chunk where Lucy had indicated. Underneath the newly-splintered paneling, there was the flash of something metal that glowed with other light. George pushed the knife underneath and it popped out as though imbued with the desire to escape. Lucy grabbed for it but missed. The bullet landed on the carpet and rolled towards Lockwood’s exposed back.

A wisp of plasm arced off it—the Changer preparing to take shape right behind Lockwood where his back was turned. He wouldn’t know until it was too late.

Lucy dove like a prized catcher going after a foul ball, scrambled a salt bomb off her belt, and slammed it down on the bullet with her bare hand. There hadn’t been enough time or space to throw it. The salt and magnesium quelled the Source and the Changer vanished immediately. It didn’t even have time to scream.

Sprawled on the floor, smelling the burned carpet and expended magnesium, Lucy peeled her hand off the ruin of the salt bomb and Source. A copious amount of blood dripped from her scorched palm, but at least she seemed to have all her fingers. Her ears rang, her vision swam, and her stomach rolled. She would have fallen if not for the fact that she was already lying prone on the floor, staring at her damaged hand in shock.

George gave a little whoop of relief and Lockwood said something.

Lucy heard them only distantly. Her entire world sank underwater, crushing and cold and then black.

Questions, comments, concerns?

Chapter Text

Rapier in hand and mid-thrust, Lockwood overbalanced when the horrific conglomeration of the doctor, the wife, and the (potential?) baby suddenly disappeared. He recovered and pushed some sweat-dampened hair out of his face. His heart thumped pleasantly in his chest. He loved fencing, liked casework, relished forming warding knots and throwing salt bombs when he knew his life wasn’t in immediate danger thanks to shoddy equipment, terrible agents, or horrible supervisors. Since none of the three were involved with Room 333, he was almost enjoying himself despite the inherent danger. Grinning, he slipped his rapier back into his belt and brushed his hands together.

George whooped victoriously.

“Nice,” Lockwood agreed. He turned to face Lucy and George as they’d been bottled up protectively behind him while they secured the Source and he faced the Changer.

Immediately, he saw Lucy lying facedown on the carpet with her hand outstretched towards him. The fragments of a slat bomb spilled between her fingers and the carpet was burned. His heart dropped like a priceless vase from his chest to his stomach, shattering amidst the acids. Lucy started to drag herself upright with a groan and the fist around his ribs loosened briefly when he realized she was still alive. She wasn’t dead. She hadn’t been ghost-touched. The Changer hadn’t slipped past him using its Source and hurt her.

She was okay, right? He wanted to ask, but his voice dried up.

Pushing herself upright with her other hand, Lucy half-slumped half-knelt on the floor like a sail with the wind taken from it. Carefully, she lifted her hand off the used salt bomb and her faced turned chalk-white. Her eyes glazed over as she stared at her bloody hand. She shut her eyes and turned her face away, shaking all over while blood dripped freely from her palm. She looked like she was going to be sick. Lockwood saw the Source lying in the middle of the salt bomb and realized immediately what she had done to quell the Source—what she had done to protect him.

He dropped to his knees beside her, both to stop his legs from buckling underneath him and desperate to confirm that she was alive. His voice shook as he choked on her name. “Luce, Luce, hey.”

She wouldn’t look at him. She kept her eyes shut and her face downturned.

“What happened?” George asked. He had taken his dirty glasses off to clean them, but Lockwood’s voice gave away that something had happened. He vigorously scrubbed his lenses. “What’s wrong? Lockwood? Lucy? Hey.”

Lockwood doubted she wanted him to touch her right then, but he couldn’t resist. He put his arm around her shoulders, tentatively at first, and then pulled her into his side when she slumped without resistance. Her bloody palm drooped into her lap as though severed from the rest of her. He wrapped his fingers around her wrist and felt her pulse. She was alive.

She was going to be okay.

He would make sure of it.

He adjusted his hold on her bloody hand. A weak whimper slipped between Lucy’s clenched teeth at his cautious touch and her arm twitched in pain. The noise punched into Lockwood as hard as any fist, as fiercely as any blow from someone bigger or stronger. He supported her injured hand carefully, mindful not to jostle it. She whined again.

“Luce, hey,” he breathed. “It’s okay, it’s okay.”

She bit into her lower lip hard, gritting her teeth. Tears slipped down her ashen cheeks, first one, then more until she was silently weeping in earnest. Her body shook against his hold with the force of her sobs, of her pain. Tiny whines and whimpers slipped out, even though she tried to bite them back.

Lockwood’s throat tightened. He’d never seen Lucy cry like this before, not even when she’d first come to Saint Catherine’s or when Nolan had asked for her alone. He cupped the back of her head and turned her face into his neck. He couldn’t think of what else to do besides hold her close, protect her from prying eyes and ears. Guilt swarmed up under his ribcage, building like poison behind the back of his tongue and in his eyes.

Lucy was crying and it was all his fault. She was hurt because of him. If he’d been paying attention, if he’d been a better agent… but he wasn’t. He wasn’t good enough and now she was hurt because of him.

“Lockwood,” Lucy whimpered. She clutched at him with her good hand, clinging to his coat. “Please, please.”

He kicked away his self-deprecation. There would be time for that later after Lucy was taken care of. Right now, she was all that mattered.

“I’m here,” he assured her. “It’s okay, you’re okay. I’ve got you.”

“My hand,” she breathed.

Lockwood forced himself to look, even though the sight of her injury turned his stomach.

The salt bomb wasn’t powerful enough to have taken off her fingers, but the small explosion had turned the flesh of her palm into charred meat and embedded several shards of plastic deep into her flesh. Salt crusted on the raw wounds and blood dripped freely from the gouges in her palm. The Source—the stray bullet—lay in the middle of the salt bomb where it had rolled free behind Lockwood’s back. She’d brought her hand down on top of it to protect him.

“It’s okay,” he whispered. “I’ll take care of you.”

Finally, George got his glasses back on. “Oh, shit. Lucy!” He started towards them, both hands outstretched.

“Don’t!” Lockwood insisted. “Secure the Source first!” The last thing he needed was to see another person hurt tonight because of his incompetence.

“Right.” George swept the Source, salt bomb and all, into a silver-glass case.

Now that George was watching, Lockwood felt Lucy try to pull away from him. He loosened his grip, but couldn’t let her go entirely. Someone would have to pry him away from her now—or she’d have to tell him herself.

Lucy peeked at her bloody hand in Lockwood’s and swiped at her wet cheeks with her sleeve. Through tears and gritted teeth, she said to George, “I’m okay. It’s not that bad.”

George’s eyes widened comically behind his glasses. “But—”

“I’ll take her to the bathroom,” Lockwood interrupted, “and try to wash the salt off.” That would give Lucy more time to collect herself.

“We have a first aid kit,” George said as he hurried towards the hall. “I’ll send Kipps in. He can help. He’s certified.”

They weren’t in a position to protest, even though the last thing Lockwood wanted was to let an adult supervisor close to Lucy when she was already hurt. He thought of his lip, of the supervisor digging his thumb into the wound after slapping Lockwood, remarking that he’d deserved more for being so mouthy.

Before George could bring Kipps, Lockwood pulled Lucy to her feet. She leaned into him and turned her face into his coat so no one could see her tear-streaked face. Her breath came in little bursts as she tried to ignore the pain. Lockwood ushered her through the suite and into the bathroom. He helped her lean against the counter and then reached up to tighten the other bulbs so they could see the full scope of the damage.

Her hand looked worse in the light.

Lucy swayed on her feet, lightheaded. “I’m going to be sick.”

“You’re not,” Lockwood told her and cupped her face so she wasn’t looking at her hand.

She blinked, her eyes bleary and out of focus. A fresh wave of tears welled on her lashes and he swept them away with his thumbs.

“You’re okay, Luce, you’re okay,” he whispered. “I’ve got you.”

Lockwood needed to do what he’d said before Kipps joined them. He arranged Lucy’s back against his chest, wrapped one arm across her shoulders, and gripped her firmly just in case she passed out. He started the water cool and slow in the sink, just a trickle really, and carefully grasped her injured hand in his own. She resisted with a stifled sob, unwilling to feel more pain, but he forced her palm under the water. It would look and feel better once all the blood-crusted salt was washed off.

Lucy yelped when the water initially streamed across her palm, but Lockwood kept gentle pressure as the salt began to slough away. Her legs trembled and her weight sagged in his arms from pain and shock, but she didn’t faint. Regardless Lockwood pressed her more firmly between his body and the countertop to keep her upright. The water began to run pink instead of red as the crust of salt and blood cleared.

“You’re okay,” Lockwood said against her ear. “How do you feel?”

Without the endless burn of salt in her fresh wounds, he felt Lucy relax a little and she sucked in a shuddering breath.

“Lightheaded,” Lucy whispered. “Better with the salt off.” She stifled a sob and her entire body jolted in his grip. “Lockwood, it looks bad.”

“Close your eyes,” he murmured. “Don’t look at it. I’ve got you.”

Lucy turned away from her scorched hand and the sink where the water ran pink. She tucked her face into his neck, breathing shakily.

At least her tears had slowed and her breathing came a little easier. Lockwood hooked his chin over her head, curled around her like a security blanket wherever he could reach. If he could just hold her like this forever, secure in the knowledge that nothing could hurt her right now while he had her in his arms…

Kipps barreled into the bathroom with a huge white box clutched to his chest. “George told me that Lucy was hurt. What happened?”

Lockwood opened his mouth to answer, to take the blame for her injury, because he was the one who’d been stupid and unaware.

Lucy beat him to it. “I slapped a salt bomb on the Source,” she admitted shamefully. “I wasn’t thinking and—”

Kipps hushed her. “You’re not the first and you won’t be the last. It’s okay, Lucy. Can I look at it?”

“Yeah,” she whispered.

Kipps set the kit down on the sink and then stared patiently at Lockwood.

It took Lockwood a moment to realize that he wasn’t moving to give Kipps the space to treat Lucy’s hand. Lockwood still had her smaller form crushed to his chest, his shoulders curving in around hers, his arm tight across her upper chest to keep her upright, his head tucked over hers with her face turned into his neck. He had her pinned between himself and the sink, her injured hand cradled in his own so that her blood dripped between his fingers. He sucked in a deep breath and felt Lucy breathe with him, using his lungs and heart to pace herself. He couldn’t let her go. He just couldn’t.

“It’s okay,” Kipps said finally. “Just turn a little, Lockwood. Here, lean against the wall with Lucy in front of you. Hold her hand steady for me.”

Lockwood could do that. He let Kipps adjust him away from the sink to lean against the wall. Lucy shifted with him, easy and trusting, her fingers lightly curled to protect her injury.

Kipps’s expression remained concerned but not alarmed when he saw Lucy’s hand. He began digging in his kit and spoke in a steady voice, “You washed the salt off. That was a good start. I’m going to get my tweezers and pull the plastic out next. Lockwood, you just keep holding Lucy. Lucy, you’re doing very well. Keep breathing with Lockwood.”

Lockwood watched, his heart thumping double-time, as Kipps carefully uncurled Lucy’s fingers and began picking out jagged plastic pieces. He set each one on the sink and Lockwood watched them pile up, each shard like a millstone pressing down on his chest until his heart was squeezed bloodless. Lucy had gotten hurt because of him, because she was saving him, because the Source rolled behind him and he didn’t notice. This was his fault.

“There we go,” Kipps said when he finished. His voice snapped Lockwood out of his spiraling thoughts. He gently probed the wounds on Lucy’s hand and she whimpered lowly, curling tighter into Lockwood. “I should probably take you to the hospital, just to be safe,” he murmured.

Lucy whimpered and shook her head. “No, no hospital.”

“Are you sure?” Kipps asked. “We can go now.”

“No,” Lucy pleaded. “No.”

Lockwood winced in sympathy and hooked his chin over her skull, holding her as close as he could. He stared at Kipps, ready to fight if Kipps insisted against Lucy’s will.

Glancing at Lockwood, Kipps relented. “Okay. I can seal the cuts up with some steri-strips. Is that okay?”

Lucy nodded.

“Let me know if you change your mind about the hospital,” Kipps said and then began using butterfly bandages to pull some of the larger cuts together. “The burns are minor, but they must hurt. I’ll just going to put some ointment on your hand. It will help with the pain and keep out infection. I’ll send you back with a tube, too, okay?”

Lucy didn’t protest. She kept her face buried in Lockwood’s neck, shivering.

Kipps carefully smoothed the ointment on Lucy’s broken flesh with tender fingers and then took out a roll of sterile gauze. Layering pieces between her fingers to keep the raw flesh from sticking, he then wrapped her whole hand and secured the gauze with tape. He swept the shards of the salt bomb into the trash and wiped up the blood.

Lockwood still cradled her injured hand in his, holding it steady while Kipps had worked, and he watched carefully but blood didn’t soak through the fresh bandages. “Luce,” he said and nudged her head gently with his chin. “You can look now. Kipps is finished.”

Lucy blinked, the kiss of her eyelashes fluttering against his neck. She started to flex her fingers, but Lockwood tightened his grip to stop her. Carefully, she shifted her weight from leaning against him to stand alone. Lockwood loosened his grip in stages, making sure she was okay before he finally let go. He still couldn’t bring himself to step away and Lucy didn’t either. They lightly brushed each other.

Lucy stared at her bandaged hand with something like awe. She gazed at the back of Kipps’s head while he put away his supplies. When he snapped the first aid kit shut and turned to face them, her gaze dropped immediately. She stared down at her worn boots. “Thank you,” she murmured and then added, “Sorry.”

Kipps looked sternly at Lockwood when he told Lucy, “You have nothing to be sorry for. Accidents happen. That’s why I bring my kit.” He placed a tube of antibiotic ointment into Lockwood’s palm. “Make sure she uses this. The last thing you want is an infection. The steri-strips will peel off on their own so don’t pick at them.”

“I will,” Lockwood agreed. If there was anything he was good for, it was looking after Lucy.

“One other thing, Lockwood,” Kipps ventured. “You don’t have gloves? Neither of you?”

Lockwood shook his head. “Unnecessary gear,” he answered. He slipped the ointment into the pocket of his big coat and then quickly put his hand back at Lucy’s elbow, stabilizing her as she wobbled out of the bathroom.

George peeked into the suite from the hall, his face pale with concern. “I was just coming to check on you. Is everything okay?”

Lucy didn’t answer and Lockwood didn’t know what to say.

Kipps cheerfully said, “Yes. Everything’s fine, George. I patched Lucy up and it wasn’t as bad as it looked.” He meaningfully cut his eyes to Lucy’s downturned face and Lockwood’s hangdog expression. “Perhaps you could tell them about the time a salt bomb went off on your backside? If I recall, you’d sat on it.”

“That could have happened to anyone!” George protested shrilly.

However, his reaction had the affect Kipps had intended. Lucy and Lockwood cracked smiles.

“Okay,” Kipps said once they were back in the hallway within the protective chains, not that they were necessary now that the Source had been secured but the night was long and it was better safe than sorry. “Great job, agents. I say you’ve all earned a treat. Let’s see what I’ve got in my bag here.” Kipps bent over and began to rummage.

Lockwood watched absently, half his focus still on Lucy. She stared at her hand blearily, but color began to come back into her cheeks.

“You should take a peek in Kipps’s bag,” George stage-whispered. “He’s like Mary Poppins with that thing.”

“I heard that,” Kipps said and straightened up with a small white box in hand. “See if you get any cupcakes out of me for that quip.”

“What are you talking about?” George answered, feigning innocence. “Mary Poppins is amazing.”

Kipps opened the box with a flourish, revealing half a dozen frosted cupcakes. “Grab one,” he said to them. “Let’s celebrate another successful case.”

Lucy’s face broke out in a sunshine smile as she accepted and licked the frosting off with delight. Lockwood was tempted to slide his cupcake to her as well, but Kipps gave him a hard look so he nibbled into the sweet cake instead. George scarfed his in a few bites, licking frosting off his fingers with a groan of delight. Even Kipps worked his way through a cupcake before making a show of being full and shopping the final two around. George passed as well, which Lockwood found suspicious, but Lucy happily took a second cupcake and Lockwood found himself pressganged into the last one.

Once the box was empty, Kipps stowed it back in his duffel and removed a deck of cards. He shuffled with flourish, smiling as he adjusted the brightness of the lamp from light-reading-on-a-case to pulling-an-all-nighter. Though orphan agents were rented for the full night, most agencies would have dropped Lockwood and Lucy off if they finished early regardless of the fact that the orphanage's doors weren’t unlocked until dawn. It seemed Kipps had no intentions of doing that. Perhaps he stayed with his teams all night regularly or perhaps he was doing this specially for Lockwood and Lucy. Either way, Lockwood wouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth. The last thing he wanted was for Lucy to be outside in the cold for an extended period of time in her condition.

“What do you say to a few hands?” Kipps offered.

“Usual stakes?” George asked and began digging around Kipps’s bag until he came up with a sack of assorted candies.

“Of course,” Kipps answered.

Kipps occupied the rest of the night with different card games. Lucy begged off, claiming that her bandaged hand wouldn’t let her hold the cards anyway, even though Lockwood offered to hold them for her. Instead, she slumped against Lockwood’s side and dozed off while he, George, and Kipps played for candy. Lockwood was sure both of them saw him stow the majority of his winnings into his coat pockets, but they didn’t call him out on it.

Once the sun rose with no other ghostly activity, Kipps and George packed everything back into the Fittes duffels. Lockwood hadn’t even had to open Lucy’s stash, but Kipps gave him a handful of salt bombs, flares, iron filings, and clean gauze with a tipped chin. Lockwood tucked them away beside Lucy’s chains silently, grateful beyond words. He slipped the ointment into Lucy’s bag as well, rather than keep it in his coat pocket with all the candy.

Kipps led them downstairs and met with Mr. Santee. They spoke briefly and Mr. Santee gave them free rein on the breakfast buffet as he had promised. Lockwood made up a plate and a cup of tea for Lucy and carried it back to the table with his own. George ate with gusto, shoveling in scrambled eggs, sausages, and beans. Kipps picked at some sliced fruits and toast over a cup of black coffee, apparently feeling the all-nighter he had just worked and all the garbage he’d eaten. Lucy picked at her food, making the best of using her left hand. Lockwood watched her struggle from the corner of his eye and thought about offering to feed her, but he doubted Lucy would allow that—at least, not in front of Kipps and George.

After they’d eaten their fill, they piled back into the Fittes van and Kipps drove them quietly back to the orphanage. Before he turned down the long gravel driveway towards Saint Catherine’s, he pulled over on the street beside a shuttered ghost lamp and put his hazards on. “George, would you do me a favor and go make sure we don’t have a flat?”

George squinted at Kipps a moment and seemed about to protest before he nodded, slid the door open, climbed out, and shut the door again. Lockwood watched through the window as he made a show of walking to the rear of the van where he could be seen through the back window kicking the tires.

However, the illusion of privacy was enough for Kipps because he removed two Fittes business cards from the breast pocket of his uniform and handed them to Lockwood and Lucy. “This has my personal number on it,” he told them. “I know that I can’t offer what you both really need—someone to adopt you and get you out of that place—but if I can do anything else, please don’t hesitate to reach out. I’ll do anything I can to help you, either of you.”

Lockwood stared at the card for a long moment.

Lucy clutched hers to her chest and whispered, “Thank you, Kipps.”

Kipps’s smile was thin and sorrowful. “You age out soon, don’t you, Lockwood?”

“Just a few months left,” Lockwood agreed.

“Think of me when you’re out on your own,” Kipps said. “I’ll help you in any way I can.”

“Thanks,” Lockwood breathed.

Finished with his speech, Kipps honked briefly.

George hopped back into the van. “Tires are all inflated, chief!”

Kipps groaned good-naturedly and finished the drive up to the orphanage. The sturdy grey stone front of Saint Catherine’s towered above them, as austere and birdlike as Mara herself. The protective iron bars on the windows made it look more like a prison than a home for children. Lockwood grabbed Lucy’s duffel and her good hand. Together, they climbed out and waved as the Fittes van vanished back down the driveway into the approaching dawn.

“I wish,” Lockwood rasped, “that every supervisor was like that.”

Lucy nodded, staring down at her carefully-bandaged hand. “When you age out, you’ll be like him, won’t you?”

“I’ll be better,” Lockwood promised. He squeezed her hand comfortingly. “Just hang in there until then.”

When they ducked back inside, Headmistress Mara was cross because they were late. “There won’t be any breakfast for either of you,” she snapped before marching away. She didn’t say anything about Lucy’s injury, just like she’d never said anything about Lockwood’s split lip. She didn’t care if Lucy had been hurt on the job or if a supervisor had held her hand in the fire. They were orphans, expendable assets and nothing more.

In his pocket, Lockwood fingered Kipps’s card.

Remember, orphan agents cannot be adopted. They get paid and grow a nest egg instead of getting a family. Not a great trade off…

Questions, comments, concerns?

Chapter Text

It took a long time for Lucy’s hand to heal, but less time than it would have without Kipps’s cream. She put it on as sparingly as she could, already trying to save it for more serious injuries, but Lockwood didn’t allow her to skip days. He insisted that her hands were vital to her work and that she had to take care of herself. Since he wasn’t exactly wrong, Lucy couldn’t find a good argument towards saving the ointment for him. Her hand healed with barely a scar and she had full range of motion in her fingers. Only then did Lockwood let her put the remaining ointment safely into her duffel alongside Kipps’s card.

Then, it was Lockwood’s sixteenth birthday.

Now that he was old enough to leave the orphanage, he had no choice except to do so. He would strike out on his own—something that was safer and yet more dangerous than staying. If everything went as he planned, he would use the money he’d saved from his cases with the orphanage to regain his parents’ house and open his own agency. He would be independent and he would hold a place for Lucy, both in his heart and in his home.

He knew he wouldn’t see her again until she aged out as well. If he opened his own agency quickly enough, he wouldn’t be able to afford to rent her like the ritzier agencies with money to burn. Provided his nest egg was enough to get his parents’ house back, it would be quickly eaten up by the bills that had heaped up since their deaths, regular living expenses, and opening-an-agency costs. Lockwood would be lucky to eat, not that it would be so different from the orphanage.

He could try to write to Lucy, but he doubted Mara would give her his letters or allow Lucy to come to the phone if he called. No, he wouldn’t hear from Lucy again until she came to him and he wouldn’t be able to see her. He’d just have to wait, scouring the agent obituaries to be certain she hadn’t been killed in the line of duty. He assured himself that she’d made it this long, she could last another few months until her birthday.

She had to.

Though it killed him to leave her, there was no other choice. Lockwood told himself that he wasn’t walking away from her, he was just walking ahead—paving the way, leaving a trail to follow, making camp ahead of time, building a soft place to land.

Lockwood packed his meager duffel with his few belongings under Mara’s watchful eye. She wanted to be certain he wasn’t taking anything that didn’t belong to him utterly. The list was dreadfully short. Mara had even insisted that he leave behind his extra ectoplasm-resistant clothes, arguing that they belonged to the agents that would come after him, not Lockwood himself. He didn’t argue with her.

Mara followed him downstairs and outside onto the front steps. She briefly gave him instructions on how to access his savings, along with a single printed paper with strings of account numbers on it. Then, without even saying goodbye, she ducked back inside and slammed the front door behind her. Lockwood was just another number, another agent in an endless line of orphans. He tried not to let her easy dismissal sting.

To soothe the ache of Mara’s cruelty, there was the balm of all the orphans that had come to bid him farewell. A few girls waved from a distance like they were saying farewell to a cruise ship. Lockwood hadn’t thought they were friends, but apparently they would miss him and that was a nice thought. He waved back, watching them giggle and blush before disappearing inside. Scott and Tommy both kept a stiff upper lip while they hugged him goodbye, but left hastily enough that Lockwood had a feeling they would cry in private.

Edward squeezed Lockwood tightly, his big eyes glistening with moisture.

Lockwood swallowed the stone that built in his throat. “Edward, I…”

“It’s okay, Lockwood,” Edward whispered. “Thank you for everything.” Without looking back, Edward disappeared inside and the door swung shut. Lockwood tried not to let himself think it sounded like a judge’s gavel, condemning Edward. If Lockwood didn’t cover for him, what would happen…?

“Lockwood,” Lucy whispered.

With a jolt, he realized they were alone on the steps in the warm spring afternoon. Everyone else had gone.

Soon, he would be gone too.

It didn’t feel like he was leaving home, not exactly, even though he had lived in Saint Catherine’s for the past ten years of his life. Instead, it felt only like he was painstakingly carving out his heart and lungs and stomach. Everything inside him felt scraped raw and hollow.

Lucy cleared her throat. Her eyes were glassy and wet, though she kept blinking and wiping them with her damp sleeve. “You’ll tell me when you open, right? You owe me an interview.” She tried for humor, but it came out desperate.

Lockwood wrapped his arms around her and she burrowed into his chest, tucking her arms in underneath his big warm coat and holding on tight. “Luce,” he whispered into her hair, “your job is secure.”

She sniffled. She trembled with the effort of trying to calm her ragged heartbeat and stuttering lungs. “Yeah?”

“The address is 35 Portland Row,” he murmured. “Even if I can’t open an agency, even if it’s just a big empty house, there will still be a place for you there. There will always be a place for you in my life, Luce, always.”

Lucy tightened her grip on his ribs, almost squeezing the air out of him.

“Just stay alive until then, okay?” Lockwood wheezed. “Don’t die. Stay alive until you can join me.”

“I will,” Lucy whispered.

Lockwood hung on to Lucy for as long as he dared, hyperaware that they were standing on the steps of the orphanage and anyone could see them through a window. He didn’t want this moment to end. He didn’t want to ever forget what it was like to hold her safely in his arms and be held in return. Finally, painfully, she eased herself away from him and dried her eyes on her sleeve.

“Lockwood, I…”

Lockwood leaned down and, for a heart-stopping moment, he thought about how easy it would be to kiss her. He heard her breath hitch, but she didn’t move away. He couldn’t do it—not now when he was leaving, when he might never see her again, when she might… Instead, he pressed his forehead to hers and rested lightly there, sharing her air. He felt her sweet breath on his warm cheeks. “I’ll see you soon, Luce,” he whispered.

“See you soon,” Lucy answered.

Stepping away from her, Lockwood gave her his grandest smile, picked up the half-empty duffel of his belongings, and walked away down the gravel driveway. He didn’t look back. If he had turned around and waved to her, he worried that she would have run after him and never stopped. He wouldn’t have stopped either. Instead, he walked away with his head held high and the sun shining on his tear-streaked face.

…

It was harder without Lockwood. He had been one of the orphanage’s most-rented agents based on his age, Talent, and skill with a rapier. With him aged out, all his cases fell to Lucy. She scraped through each of them relatively unscathed—a few ectoplasm burns here, a spray of hot magnesium there, a tumble down a short staircase to avoid being ghost-touched. Diving into the safety of her chains or using an extra salt bomb had saved her life more than once. Lucy’s birthday approached and she crossed out each day on the calendar like a well-adjusted child waiting for Christmas.

Less than a month left before she could join Lockwood, it happened.

Holly Munro had arrived at Saint Catherine’s a few weeks ago with the same tragic backstory as every other orphan. Where Holly differed was in the fact that it would be her birthday in just a few short weeks and her parents had lovingly raised her for most of her life. She was cheerful despite her loss, pretty despite wearing the same donated clothing, polite despite how everyone treated her, and unfailingly kind despite everything else. Lucy disliked her upon first meeting, but had been slowly won over by Holly’s earnest charms. That and Holly had helped Lucy stitch up an awful hole in her favorite (only) jacket.

Holly bounded into the Talented girls’ dorm with a case file under her arm. “Lucy!” she said with great excitement. “I’ve been rented for my first solo case.”

Just like that, the bottom dropped out of Lucy’s stomach.

The dorm was empty at the moment. The few younger Talented girls were in the cafeteria doing homework. Lucy should have been doing the same but she had decided she didn’t care about academics and would rather practice the skills Lockwood had taught her. It was more important to survive to her birthday than get good grades.

Holly had, of course, completed her homework during class hours and had been enjoying guilt-free leisure time until she’d been called to Mara’s office. Now, she had her first solo case.

Lucy swallowed bile. “Yeah, with who?”

“Bunchurch,” Holly answered and hustled over to her bunk to change into her ectoplasm-resistant gear.

“Can I see the file?” Lucy asked.

Holly handed it over and then began gathering her things to change in the bathroom down the hall. She was always modest and private. At first, Lucy had thought she was acting like a princess but now Lucy knew that Holly was just being respectful of the large dorm that they all shared together. Holly was always considerate like that.

When Lucy flipped the file open, it was everything she’d feared. It was a simple case, a Stone Knocker, and the supervisor was Nolan. It was exactly like when Nolan had asked for Lucy alone but Lockwood had gone instead. She could still see Lockwood’s haunted face, see him limping for days afterwards, see the marks of suffering carved into his body. Her skin crawled and her heart skipped beats.

“Holly, you… you can’t go on this.”

Holly paused. “What do you mean? I’m good enough.”

“It’s not that, Holly,” Lucy protested. “Have you been out with Supervisor Nolan before?”

“No, I haven’t. What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Nolan is…” Lucy fumbled around for a delicate word but nothing fit. She felt nauseous the longer she thought about it. She settled on, “He’s a pedophile, Holly. He takes orphan agents out on easy cases like this alone and then he…”

Holly’s face drained of all color. “What? No… that—that can’t be.”

Lucy wet her lips and the words that tripped out of her came from someone else, from a moment exactly like this when she’d needed help, and it had been granted. “I’ll cover you. I’ll go instead.”

Holly crossed the room in a few strides, grabbed Lucy at the shoulders, and shook her. “What? Lucy, no, that’s not the solution here. We have to tell someone.” She loosened her grip, looking determined. “We’ll tell Headmistress Mara.”

“She knows,” Lucy confirmed hollowly.

Holly’s grip went completely slack. “No,” she pleaded. “There has to be someone who can help. What about DEPRAC? We can report it.”

“The case is tonight,” Lucy murmured. “They’d never get here in time.”

Holly’s legs crumpled underneath her and Lucy knelt on the floor too, holding Holly’s quaking shoulders tightly. She wondered if this was how Lockwood had felt before he went in her place—helpless but knowing that he couldn’t just stand by and watch someone get hurt like this. Lucy stayed on the floor with Holly for a few moments before she climbed to her feet and dragged Holly over to her bunk.

“I’ll go, Holly,” Lucy repeated. “Just stay here.”

Holly didn’t answer, staring with vacant eyes at the wall.

Lucy changed her clothes right there, unwilling to let Holly out of her sight before she knew Holly was safe. She pulled her duffel out from under the bed, fingered the thermos that Cookie had let her keep for tea, and nervously picked through the supplies she had remaining. There wasn’t much left. She rarely got extras after her cases now, just like Lockwood.

Then, her gaze fell on Kipps’s well-worn card. Perhaps there was one other person besides Lockwood that cared about orphans. Clutching the card to her chest, Lucy stole downstairs and ducked into the front room where the orphanage’s phone sat unattended on a desk that Mara sat primly at for adoptions. Lucy dialed Kipps’s number with a shaking hand and listened with her heart in her throat as it rang.

“Fittes Agency, this is Quill Kipps,” he answered smartly.

Lucy’s voice strangled. What if he didn’t care? What if she had no choice but to go with Nolan, alone? Or let Holly go as she was supposed to? No, she could never do that.

“Hello? Anyone there?”

She choked out, “Kipps, it’s Lucy, um, Lucy Carlyle from the case at the Langham Hotel, Room 333.”

“Lucy, I remember,” he answered immediately. His tone changed to something more cheerful. “How is everything?”

Lucy twisted the phone cord around her hand. She remembered how Kipps had tenderly tweezed the plastic out of her palm and wrapped her burned fingers in gauze, how he’d bought pizza and soda and cupcakes, how he’d played cards with them all night rather than abandon them outside. “Not good,” she admitted.

Kipps’s voice changed. “What happened? Where are you?”

“At the orphanage, but Holly’s been rented for a case, alone.”

To his credit, Kipps didn’t jump in with questions. He let her struggle out a full sentence, even though it took what felt like years for her to get the words out.

“Bunchurch’s supervisor, Nolan, he wants to get agents alone. He,” she swallowed, “he does things to agents when they’re alone with him. Lockwood went last time instead of me and he—” a hot tear slid down her face. “He couldn’t walk after. He stayed in bed the next day and I snuck him painkillers.” A sob escaped Lucy’s mouth and she desperately clapped her hand over her lips. “Kipps, I don’t want to let her go, but I don’t want to go either. I don’t know what to do. I don’t want this to happen!”

“Lucy,” he said. “Take a deep breath. I need you calm for what I’m about to say next.” He walked her through a short breathing exercise, counting lowly in her ear.

Lucy sucked in a ragged breath, held it, and let it out a few times. When she no longer felt about to shake apart, she swallowed and ventured, “I’m ready.”

“Tell me where the case is,” Kipps said.

Lucy fumbled for the address of the haunting and told him. It was along the river, backed up to a public park.

“Okay,” Kipps continued. “I need you to go there, just like you would for any other case.”

Lucy’s thought she was going to be sick. He didn’t—Kipps didn’t care after all!

“Lucy, listen to me,” Kipps interrupted. “If I just accuse him, it will be my word against Nolan’s. I’m a Fittes agent, so mine will probably have more weight, but I can’t take that chance. We cannot take that chance. Go on the case like you would, but I’ll be there. I’ll be watching and when Nolan tries anything on you, I’ll catch him in the act. He won’t be able to avoid that.”

That made sense, but… Lucy croaked, “What if he…?” She couldn’t say it. The words burned like acid and tasted like poison.

“He won’t,” Kipps insisted. “I’ll be there. I won’t let anything happen to you. I promise.”

Lucy sniffled hard, clutching the phone for a long time with Kipps listening quietly on the other end.

“Where’s Lockwood?” Kipps asked softly. “Did something happen to him?”

“He aged out,” Lucy admitted. “He’s trying to get his house back and start an agency. When I turn sixteen, I’m going with him.”

“Good, good,” Kipps murmured into the receiver. “That makes me feel a little better. Can you do this, Lucy?”

“You swear Nolan won’t…”

“He won’t touch you, I promise.”

Resolve straightened Lucy’s spine. “I can do it,” she told Kipps firmly. “I can.”

“Okay,” Kipps said. “I’ll get there before you. I’ll be watching. I’ll stop Nolan before he can do anything else.”

“See you there,” Lucy murmured.

“Be careful, Lucy,” Kipps said and hung up with a click.

Lucy wiped her face with her sleeve, took a deep breath, and ran upstairs to grab her duffel.

Instead, she found Holly had put on her gear and was looking for the case file. “Lucy, there you are. Give me the file. I can’t let you do this. You can’t go in my place.”

“I’m going, Holly,” Lucy insisted. “I have a plan. You were right. There was someone I could call.”

“Who?” Holly demanded. “Lucy, if you’re lying to make me feel better—”

“I’m not,” Lucy interrupted. “It’s a supervisor from Fittes. I told him about Nolan and we’re going to catch him in the act. This will get rid of Nolan for sure.” As she said the words aloud, Lucy realized that she utterly believed them. Kipps cared about agents and orphans and he was going to make sure this never happened again. This would work. It would.

“Lucy,” Holly repeated desperately.

“It’s going to be fine,” Lucy told her. “I trust Kipps.”

“Okay,” Holly relented and then briefly hugged Lucy tight. “Thank you. Please, be safe. I won’t be able to forgive myself if you’re…”

“Nolan isn’t going to touch me, Kipps promised,” Lucy said and those words sounded like the truth too.

She shouldered her duffel, hurried downstairs, grabbed her rapier, and stepped outside into the fading sunlight. The cab pulled up a few moments later and Nolan stepped out to greet her. Lucy could tell he recognized her, even though they had only worked one case together. She tensed as though for a fight, squaring her shoulders and clenching her fists.

Nolan’s mouth split into an oily grin. “Oh, Lucy, was it? Where’s that kid who wanted to protect you? Your whore boyfriend?”

“Don’t call him that.” Lucy snapped. Then, because she wanted Nolan to know that Lockwood was fine, that he was safe, that he had lived despite everything, that he was untouchable now, she said, “He’s aged out.”

“Well,” Nolan said with a shrug. “I told him that I always gets what I want eventually.”

Lucy shuddered and tightened every muscle in her body in the hopes of hiding her stomach-churning fear.

Nolan only grinned at her, making a little ‘come on’ gesture with his hand.

Habitually, Lucy stowed her duffel in the boot and climbed into the back of the cab beside Nolan. With the cabbie sitting right there, he didn’t do anything more than sit too close. She could smell his cologne and a new wave of nausea swept through her. Swallowing, she reminded herself that Kipps was going to be at the site of the haunting. He was going to protect her and he would make sure this would never happen again. Lucy clenched her fists and stared placidly out the window as the ghost lights came up one by one.

…

The Stone Knocker was easily located and secured, especially by an agent like Lucy whose primary Talent was Listening. It took perhaps an hour from start to finish and she was dragging her feet to avoid confronting Nolan. However, she finally secured the little plastic doll in a silver net and had no choice except to walk back to where Nolan had staked his claim on a bench. She hadn’t seen or heard from Kipps, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t there. He had promised he’d be there.

“All done?” Nolan asked when he saw her.

Lucy held up the silver net and momentarily considered throwing it at his face. She remembered how he hadn’t wanted to handle the Source after the Hearthstone Tavern. It would be nice to watch him squirm. “Easy,” she answered. “You can drive me back to the orphanage now.”

“Oh, Lucy,” Nolan chided as he rose from the bench to tower over her. “Bunchurch rented you for the entire night.”

“Unless you have more cases for me to work, I don’t see the point in staying out,” Lucy said levelly. She stepped back slightly, trying to keep both his nasty face and grasping hands in view at the same time without craning her neck.

“I’m sure we can find something for you to do.” Nolan licked his lips and grinned. “Your whore boyfriend told you all about our escapades together, didn’t he?”

Lockwood hadn’t. He had been as quiet about what Nolan had done to him as he was about his every ache and pain, every slap and punch, every skipped meal or cracked rapier, every time any adult treated him poorly. Lucy had an idea what he’d been through, but Lockwood had been careful never to let her know for certain.

“Don’t talk about him like that,” Lucy said firmly. “Take me back to the orphanage. We’re done here.”

Nolan stepped into her space and Lucy starkly realized she couldn’t back away any further. There was a waist-high iron fence behind her, sharp and jagged at the top like a prison cell. Her heart sputtered and cold sweat broke out along her neck.

“We’re done when I say we’re done,” Nolan snarled. With an open palm, he slapped her in the face, leaving her ears ringing and her cheek throbbing where she’d bitten the inside of it.

Startled, Lucy cried out and clutched her stinging face. Every complicated fencing move she had ever learned, every time she’d ever thrown a salt bomb into the face of a rampaging specter, every flare she’d ever ignited under pressure fled her mind. Blank with horror, her vision blurred with tears as she stared up at Nolan.

“Get on your knees where you belong, you little bitch,” Nolan hissed, “and open wide.”

“No, please!” Lucy begged. She jammed her hands against his big chest, trying to stop his advance when he pressed her into the iron fence. “Don’t touch me!”

Nolan grabbed her shirt in his fist, almost lifting her off her feet. “You’re a slut, just like him. Now do as you’re told.”

Lucy screamed, thrashing like a fish on a line.

“That’s more than enough,” came a familiar voice. An industrial Fittes torch flicked on and blinded Nolan from the other side of the fence.

Nolan was surprised enough to let go of her shirt so he could shield his eyes.

Relief weakened every clenched muscle in Lucy’s body. She almost collapsed if not for the fence at her back. “Kipps,” she breathed.

The flashlight lowered slightly.

Nolan straightened up and took in the familiar Fittes uniform. “Come to join the fun, eh?”

Kipps stepped out of the bushes and through the nearby gate to stand at Lucy’s side. He was loaded for bear, even though he could no longer combat ghosts. In addition to his usual kit, he also carried a simple video camera which whirred and blinked with signs of recording. With his torch and the nearby ghost lamp, there would be no question of who was on video. “Care to tell me what exactly I just witnessed?” Kipps demanded coolly.

Nolan stared at the camera and Kipps’s hard face for a long moment before he realized what had happened. His eyes narrowed and he disgustedly hissed at Lucy, “You little whore, you set me up!”

Kipps between them and, though he was significantly shorter than Nolan, his presence filled up the space like a growling tiger. “Step back before I make you,” Kipps snapped. His hand rested meaningfully on his rapier. “How long has this been going on?”

Nolan’s upper lip curled. “Open your eyes, pal. This is the currency of the world. Everyone knows about the orphans and no one cares.”

“I care,” Kipps hissed. He reached behind him and grasped blindly for Lucy without taking his eyes off Nolan. She grabbed his hand gratefully and stumbled into his side. “I’ll be reporting this to every superior in every agency in London as soon as their offices open in the morning.”

Nolan cackled—a horrible head-thrown-back belly laugh. “You think they don’t know already? You think no one realizes you don’t need all night to secure a Stone Knocker?”

Lucy clung to Kipps’s hand, her knuckles white with strain and her entire body trembling.

Kipps drew himself up to retort, but Nolan moved on. He sneered at Lucy. “Your friends won’t be here to protect you forever, bitch,” Nolan told her. “Next time, I’ll rent you alone for days in a row. We’ll see if you fight then.” Snatching up his jacket and bag, Nolan turned on his heel and marched off into the darkness with the Source in hand.

Kipps stood like a guardian until he was sure Nolan wasn’t coming back. Then, he clicked off his torch and turned to face Lucy. He still held her hand and felt that she was trembling like a leaf in a storm. “Hey, hey,” he said soothingly. “He was bluffing. He’s screwed and he knows it.”

Lucy gulped in air, her eyes streaming and her face throbbing where he’d struck her. “A-are you sure?” she choked out.

Kipps touched her carefully, uncertain if she’d appreciate a hug right now but desperately wanting to give her one. “Yes,” he said. “That’s why I recorded everything and used my torch right away. It’s indisputable.”

Lucy slowly loosened her grip on Kipps. “Thanks,” she whispered.

“I know someone at DEPRAC, an inspector that I trust,” Kipps told her. “In addition to going to all the agencies, I’ll be talking to him too. Nolan will never work with agents again. I’ll make sure of it.”

Lucy nodded and took her first deep breath since she’d gotten into the cab with a predator that night.

“Come on,” Kipps said softly. “I’ll get you a cab back to the orphanage.”

“It won’t be open,” Lucy mumbled.

“What?”

“It’s locked until daybreak. Even if you take me back, I won’t be able to get in and I’m scared that… Nolan will come back. He knows I’ll be stuck outside.”

“Are you serious?” Kipps asked with horror. “The headmistress doesn’t stay up to make sure you make it back?”

Lucy shook her head. “Either we’re there in the morning or she arranges our funerals. Regardless, it happens when she gets out of bed.” She swallowed and studied the logo on his jacket so she didn’t have to look at his shocked face. “I thought you knew. That night at the Langham, you kept Lockwood and I all night, playing cards, remember?”

“I always do that!” Kipps made a noise of disgust. “Every time I think I can’t possibly hear anything worse, something surprises me.” He dragged a hand over his face and growled, “I wanted to get a jump on this tape before Nolan tries to flee the area. I don’t really want you to have to do that with me. I wanted to keep you out of this while I could.” Kipps paced a little, barely leaving arm’s reach of her. “Do you have anywhere you can go for tonight?”

Lucy shook her head and then thought better of it. “Um, I could go to 35 Portland Row, I think.”

“What’s there?”

“It’s Lockwood’s house,” Lucy answered, “assuming that he was able to get it back.”

Kipps heaved a sigh. “And if he couldn’t?”

If he hadn’t been able to get his parents’ house back, Lucy had no idea where he might have gone. He hadn’t come back to the orphanage or written to her or called (that she knew of. Mara could have blockaded him). He had to be there—he just had to be. If he wasn’t, Lucy didn’t know what she’d do.

“He’s there,” Lucy told Kipps. “I just know it.”

Kipps didn’t argue. He walked with Lucy out to the main road and hailed a night cab from the safety of a ghost lamp. He leafed off a few bills, put her duffel on the seat, and gave the cabbie the address. “Be safe, Lucy,” he said. “There’s enough fare to sit at an all-night diner and get back to the orphanage in the morning, if you need it.”

“Thank you, Kipps,” she said.

He patted the roof of the cab and Lucy watched him disappear in the rear window. She dragged her duffel into her lap and worried at the frayed handle. The comforting weight of her chains pressed her into the seat. The cabbie wasn’t talkative, but he had the radio playing lowly and Lucy felt her heartrate begin to decrease as they drove. They crossed much of London, leaving the orphanage and the site of the Stone Knocker far behind. London turned over from businesses to homes and then Lucy saw the sign for Portland Row, lit by a flickering ghost lamp. The cabbie pulled up in front of the rowhouse and idled.

Lucy paid him the fare from what Kipps had given her, pocketed the rest, and slung her duffel over her shoulder. The cabbie didn’t wait to make sure she got inside, leaving her standing on the curb in the waning moonlight. She could vaguely hear a spirit far down the block, muttering to itself, but it wasn’t a threat to her. It was probably just a Type One.

The more immediate threat was the single faintly-glowing window on the ground floor of 35 Portland Row.

Lockwood had never spoken of his parents’ home as more than a fleeting dream. He’d never described it, so Lucy was surprised to set eyes on the big two-story house. It badly needed fresh paint and some fierce gardening to tame the scraggly weeds choking the small front yard. A cracked walk led up to the front door and the old iron line had lost a few pieces. The knocker had rusted and the letterbox hung crooked. There was a small bell aside the door and Lucy crossed quickly, pressing it before she lost her nerve. It echoed inside, ringing cheerily.

The light in the window continued to burn steadily.

Lockwood was here. She could feel it.

Lucy’s heart began to pound again, thumping the air right out of her lungs until she was barely breathing. She waited what felt like such a long time that she debated ringing the bell again. Then, she heard someone shuffling on the other side of the door. Another light came on and a slender silhouette was momentarily visible against the curtained window. Lucy’s heart skipped and her mouth went dry. A moment later, the lock tumbled and the door swung widely open.

Lockwood stood there, clearly roused from his bed, dressed in pajamas and a fuzzy dressing gown. His face split into a blinding smile when he saw her and he breathed, “Luce.”

Lucy dropped her duffel and flung herself into his arms. Though it had only been a few months, it felt like a lifetime had passed since she’d last seen him. He stumbled backwards, arms full of her and laughing wetly. He crushed her against his chest, sending the breath wheezing from her lungs. Lucy buried her face in the space between his neck and shoulder, inhaling the scent of him greedily, almost moved to tears.

“You’re here,” Lockwood choked out. “Come in, come in.” He lowered her feet to the floor, barely let go long enough to drag her duffel inside, locked the door, and then pulled her into his embrace again. He tucked his face into her hair, cradling the back of her head with his long-fingered palm. “Luce,” he breathed.

Lucy clung to him, her arms tucking in under his open robe the same way she burrowed underneath his great coat when he wore that. He was so warm from sleep and she dug her fingers desperately into his nightshirt, pulling him as close as she possibly could. Lockwood didn’t protest, even though she was sniveling into his shoulder and probably crushing him. She hadn’t even realized she’d started crying until he hushed her and began rubbing her back. Lucy sniffled, exhaustion suddenly dragging her down like a stone. She rested all her weight against him, content when he simply adjusted his stance to support her.

“What happened, Luce?” Lockwood murmured into her hair. “It’s not your birthday yet. There’s a few weeks left.”

Lucy loosened her grip and straightened up. “Can I tell you in the morning? I’m really tired.”

Lockwood’s hands dragged lightly down her arms, catching her hands in lieu of letting go. “Sure. Are you hurt?”

Lucy’s face throbbed where Nolan had struck her, but the shadowy front hall must have hidden the developing bruise or Lockwood wouldn’t have asked. Rather than try to hide, she nudged him back enough that the glow from the crystal skull lamp fell on her cheek.

Lockwood hissed and his fingers came up to lightly trace the swelling. It was the shape of his hand, but larger—an adult’s. “Someone did this to you,” he murmured. “That’s not an accident.”

“In the morning,” Lucy whispered. “Please.”

Lockwood ground his teeth but didn’t argue. “Come into the kitchen. I’ll get some ice.”

Lucy didn’t let go of his hand, following closely as he navigated the darkened house without turning on any lights. The kitchen was filled with moonlight and Lockwood opened the freezer in a blaze of brightness to fetch out an icepack that had seen better days. It had dinosaurs on it, Lucy realized with a smile. Lockwood wrapped it in a ratty tea towel and brought it gently to Lucy’s face. She leaned into it like it was his hand, shutting her eyes with a wince.

“I haven’t had a chance to clean up many rooms. I’ll take the couch,” Lockwood said softly. “You can sleep in my bed.”

Lucy shook her head.

“Luce,” he began.

“Can I sleep with you?” she asked quietly, hesitantly, but without doubt in her voice.

Lockwood stiffened and then relaxed. “Just to sleep?”

“Yeah,” she murmured and took the icepack from him, adjusting the position lightly.

“Of course.”

Still holding her hand, Lockwood led her out of the kitchen and to the stairs. At the bend of the landing, he opened his bedroom door and brought Lucy inside. She didn’t have the energy to look around, to examine the pictures on the wall in the dim light or take in the things scattered on his dresser, and perhaps Lockwood wasn’t ready to share because he guided her briskly to his unmade bed. It was big, queen-sized at least, heaped with pillows and blankets, and soft when Lucy sat on it.

“Let me get you something to wear,” Lockwood offered and rummaged through his dresser. He returned with an oversized t-shirt and some cotton pajama bottoms not unlike the ones he was wearing.

His clothes, Lucy realized absently as she hugged them to her chest and breathed deep.

“I’ll step out so you can change. Let me know when you’re finished.”

Almost before he had closed the door, Lucy kicked off her boots, shucked her leggings and skirt, tore off her ectoplasm-stained shirt, and threw everything in a pile together. If she’d had clothes to spare, she would have burned those to rid herself of Nolan’s touch, but she didn’t so she’d settle for washing them instead. She pulled on Lockwood’s shirt over her sports bra, feeling the soft material against her bare back and stomach with a shiver. She tugged up the bottoms, tied them to keep them over her hips, and dragged off her sweaty socks. Then, she called, “I’m decent.”

Lockwood turned the knob immediately. He had been waiting just outside, after all, and crossed to the bed on bare feet. He sat down on the other side of the mattress, regarding her in the moonlight with an unreadable expression.

Lucy reached for him without thinking and then caught herself. “Can we, um, cuddle?”

His face softened further and he nodded. He took of his robe and slid under the covers. Lying on his back, he opened his arms to her. Lucy carefully stretched out beside him, uncertain of where to put her hands, where she was allowed to touch, until he tucked his arm around her back and pulled her against his side. She rested the unbruised part of her face against his chest and balanced the icepack on her upright cheek. Lockwood tightened his arm behind her back, flattening every inch of her against him, and clasping the hand she had left resting on his chest. He interlaced their fingers, his thumb sweeping the skin of her knuckles.

Lucy hadn’t realized how on edge and alone she had been without him until he was at her side again. Despite the throbbing in her face and the nausea roiling in her stomach, the tension drained entirely out of her body. Through the night, she knew Lockwood wouldn’t leave her or let her go and that was enough to let her sleep. She was out cold in minutes.

Questions, comments, concerns?

Chapter Text

After the death of his parents and sister, Anthony Lockwood had been transferred to Saint Catherine’s Home for Orphans at six-years-old. Despite his initial difficulty settling in and the life-threatening shock of starting to take cases when he’d turned eight, he’d always thought himself resourceful and independent. He didn’t have trouble sleeping, despite the crying and sleep-talk and snores of all the Talented boys that came and went through his dorm. Lockwood thought proudly that he could sleep through anything.

Upon returning to his childhood home and finding it just the way his parents had left it, hollow and haunted in a way he wasn’t accustomed to, he realized that was not the case. Lockwood hadn’t learned to sleep despite the noise. In reality, he needed the noise to sleep. Since he’d left the orphanage, he hadn’t gotten more than two or three hours of sleep in a row and usually only after days of insomnia and fencing until his muscles felt like ice water.

Lockwood had cleaned out what had once been his parents’ bedroom, boxing up everything he couldn’t bear to deal with and stacking it in his sister’s equally lifeless room. He never thought he’d be more sleepless in his warm bed, heaped with all the blankets and pillows he could stand so he didn’t feel so alone, then he ever felt in the bustling orphanage. Without the sound of someone else nearby, he couldn’t sleep.

Instead, night after night, he lay awake, staring at the ceiling, thinking, worrying…

He worried about Edward, about Lucy, about Nolan, about any other adult supervisors that would take advantage when they saw that they could.

He worried about his fledgling agency, stalled at the application stage.

He worried about his dwindling funds.

What would he do if—when—they ran out and he still didn’t have approval? Where could he work—with those other agencies, Bunchurch and Tendys and Grimble where those supervisors knew what he looked like underneath his ectoplasm-proof gear? No, there were a thousand things he’d sooner try before he’d endure that again.

Perhaps he could call Fittes. He wasn’t below begging to work with Kipps again. He had Kipps’s card propped up on his dresser, beside a photograph of his smiling parents and sister that he hadn’t seen in ten years. It hurt to look at it, but it hurt more to put it away. He couldn’t believe he’d almost forgotten their faces.

Lockwood rolled over and clutched a pillow against his chest. He debated going down to the basement to practice fencing in lieu of wasting more of his sanity trying to sleep tonight.

Then, the bell rang.

The chimes tinkled sweetly throughout Portland Row, unmistakable. Lockwood threw on his robe and padded downstairs barefoot with his heart bottled up in his throat. He hadn’t told many people his address so there were few that could have found him. An old fear licked under his ribs, a hissing voice that said it would find him even after he aged out, but Lockwood crushed it down. He opened the door, mindful of the rapier he’d stored in the umbrella stand, but he didn’t need a weapon.

It was Lucy.

His heart flatlined and his brain helpfully reminded him that it wasn’t yet her birthday. He had it written on his calendar, marking down the days. Something must have happened, but he could worry about the specifics later. Now, all he could do was drag her into his arms and hold her tight. The heat of her body confirmed that this was real—she was alive, not a ghost, and he wasn’t dreaming alone in his bed. He could smell her hair and skin, familiar and precious. He tightened his grip and her fingers dug into his sides in response. The light pain on his ribs was reassuring.

He shut his eyes, cheek resting on her head, and must have spoken.

He heard Lucy answer distantly, her voice muffled in his chest.

When he offered to take the couch, it was half-not to bother her with his insomnia and half-because he truly wanted her to be warm and comfortable. When she’d asked to sleep with him, after the initial jolt of the words worked through his brain, he worried that he’d keep her up with his restlessness, but how could he deny her? Despite his insomnia, he desperately wanted to stay at her side and keep his arms around her like a fortress.

So, he allowed himself that, because Lucy wanted it too.

Now, with Lucy cuddled up at his side, her slow even breaths puffing against his chest, Lockwood’s eyes finally grew heavy and he realized what his problem had been. For the past ten years of his life, he’d never slept alone, not really. He could sleep like this—finally, after what felt like centuries of relentless tossing and turning in his big lonely tomb of a house.

He dozed lightly, kept awake this time by whirling thoughts and concerns. He thought about Lucy’s bruised face, her sudden appearance in the middle of the night, the cab fare she must have used to get here with her heavy duffel from a case. How had she gotten the money? How and why had she come to be here at Portland Row? What had happened? Who had hurt her?

Lucy shifted a little, murmuring in her sleep, and slung her leg over his. Her weight pressed him comfortingly into the mattress and he tightened his arm around her back to encourage her to get comfortable. Lucy moved around a little more, squeezing her arm around his ribs like he was the best teddy bear. Then, she sighed contentedly.

With the pressure of her embrace, Lockwood felt something that was cracked inside him slot back into place. He dropped his mouth to her forehead, not quite kissing her, but he couldn’t deny his intent.

The icepack slipped off Lucy’s cheek, landing cold on his chest, and Lockwood used his free hand to shift it to his nightstand. He gingerly traced the swelling on her upturned face with his fingertips, so lightly that she didn’t even stir. Whatever had happened, he wished he’d been there instead of her. She didn’t deserve to suffer.

Lucy rubbed her cheek against his chest, over his heart, mumbling and wincing while her fingers knotted in his shirt. Perhaps a nightmare was trying to disturb her rest. Lockwood stroked her back until she calmed and her breath deepened further. Relieved that he could protect her now, even while she slept, Lockwood pulled the covers up a little higher and tucked them around her shoulders.

Shutting his eyes, he matched his every inhale to hers and forced his mind quiet. She’d tell him in the morning, whatever it was, and he’d help her deal with it then. Finally, he drifted off and slept better than he had in years.

…

When Lockwood woke in the morning, sunlight streamed through his thin curtains. He was surprised how bright it was outside. He must have slept late. Through his haze, he almost thought last night had been a dream, but when he tried to move and found Lucy tangled around him, he realized it had all been real. As happy as he was to see her, as grateful as he was to have her at his side, he knew that meant the bruise on her face was real too.

Sure enough, the morning sunlight hit the darkened handprint plainly. It had swelled more overnight, but the icepack on the nightstand had thoroughly melted by now. Someone had laid hands on Lucy, slapped her at least, probably yelled at her too. Lockwood desperately hoped that the abuse she suffered hadn’t extended to where he couldn’t see, reaching deeper and more insidiously than the surface of her skin. A bubble of nausea popped inside him that he was even thinking like that—wishing a slap in the face and some cruel words were all she’d had to go through. He pressed his head back into his pillow and stared at the ceiling until the treacherous burn of tears ebbed away.

Despite his restless movements, Lucy showed no signs of waking up and Lockwood wasn’t about to rouse her. With the way she was coiled around him, clutching his shirt and ribcage in her arms, that meant he wouldn’t be getting out of bed until she released him. It wasn’t much of a hardship to lie there, warm and safe in his bed, holding her.

She deserved to sleep peacefully for as long as she could. God only knew what horrible events the morning sunlight would make real for her. He ran his hand lightly down her back and over the bare arm she had stretched over his chest, up and down, up and down, a mindless comforting pattern. He thought she felt a little thinner and had to close his eyes again.

Lucy slept for a few more hours while Lockwood tracked a little square of sunlight up the wall. He didn’t tire of having her in his arms, of touching her, of holding her, but his bladder was beginning to protest her comforting weight on top of him. He kind of hoped she’d wake up soon.

Thankfully, before he had to worry about waking her, her breathing suddenly changed.

She came to full wakefulness almost immediately, like most agents and orphans. In the span of a second, she had opened her eyes and realized where she was. Lockwood had half-expected her to be surprised or horrified to find herself wrapped around him so intimately in a strange bed, but her pinched expression softened and she settled back down with her head pillowed in the curve of his shoulder.

“Good morning,” she rasped, voice thick from sleep. “Thank you for letting me stay.”

Lockwood squeezed her a little tighter. “I told you, Luce, you’d always have a place with me.”

She buried her face in the side of his neck and sniffled quietly.

Lockwood didn’t comment when he felt the warmth of shed tears against his skin. He wondered if she was crying because of what he said or because of whatever she’d been through last night. Gently, he rubbed her back until she breathed deeply and tilted her face away so she could look at him again.

“What time is it?”

“Late, probably lunchtime,” he answered, though he didn’t have a clock in his room.

“We should get up,” Lucy murmured. Her cheek shifted when she spoke and she winced, lifting her fingers to the bruise.

“I have another icepack downstairs.”

Lucy nodded and carefully eased away from him. She swung her legs out from under the covers and shivered when her bare feet touched the cold hardwood floor.

Lockwood hopped out of bed and crossed to his closet. Digging around revealed a pair of slippers and a fuzzy robe that had once belonged to his mother which he brought over to Lucy with a smile. Since she knew him from the orphanage, she didn’t ask any questions, simply thanked him and pulled on the clothes over her borrowed pajamas. They took turns in the bathroom and Lockwood found an extra toothbrush that didn’t immediately lose all its bristles from ten years of sitting under the sink. Then, they padded downstairs to the kitchen together and Lockwood put on the old kettle.

“I don’t have much,” he said shamefully. “I hope beans on toast is okay.”

Lucy sat down at the cluttered kitchen table, picking up a small book with a crescent moon on the cover and looking idly at it. “That sounds amazing, Lockwood.”

He busied himself making two cups of tea and two plates of meager breakfast. “You can stack some of that stuff out of the way if you don’t mind.” He had been eating while standing at the counter, if he ate at all, and hadn’t bothered with the cluttered table that was far too big for one person.

Lucy began neatening up the table, making space for them to sit at one end and revealing a plain white tablecloth beneath the clutter. It had yellowed with age, but there were little handwritten notes on it. Lucy smiled as she traced one that read, ‘Good morning, my love,’ and another that said, ‘Don’t forget milk,’ with a little cow drawn underneath it.

Lockwood stopped dead when he saw the tablecloth, plates and mugs frozen in his hands.

“Is something wrong?” Lucy asked.

“I’d forgotten all about that,” Lockwood murmured. He set breakfast aside and began pulling all the flotsam off the table.

Lucy joined him, stacking everything on chairs and the floor until the whole table was revealed.

Lockwood ran his hand over the tablecloth reverently. “My parents called it the Thinking Cloth,” he admitted. “I’d forgotten…”

“We should fold it up and put it away,” Lucy said kindly, “so you have it.”

Lockwood jolted. “Don’t be daft. It’s just a tablecloth—”

“It’s a reminder of your parents,” Lucy interrupted softly. “You should keep it. I would.”

Lockwood swallowed a lump in his throat and nodded. Lucy helped him fold it neatly and found a safe spot to keep it until Lockwood could store it properly. Breakfast had hardly cooled, the whole exchange taking only a few minutes, so Lockwood laid it out between them on the bare table. He sat across from Lucy and stretched out his long legs, surprised that Lucy didn’t pull away when their slippered feet brushed. Instead, she settled against him and smiled as she sipped her tea. It would have been a perfect moment—glossy and warm in Lockwood’s treasure chest of memories—if not for the large swollen handprint on her face.

He didn’t ask her about it, not yet. She would tell him in her own time.

Instead, she eagerly asked about how it was going recovering his childhood home and starting his agency. He told her, sparing no detail save the few struggles he’d had feeding himself and his worries that he wouldn’t succeed.

After breakfast was finished, the dishes all dried and put away, and the kettle emptied, Lucy seemed to realize that she couldn’t put off discussing what had happened any longer. She let out a heavy sigh and avoided his eyes when she said, “Nolan from Bunchurch tried to rent one of the new girls, Holly, alone last night. I went instead.”

Lockwood’s breakfast turned to lead in his stomach.

Lucy hastened to reassure him. “Nothing happened!” she insisted even though her bruised face told a different story. “I called Kipps and told him everything. He said we needed proof or it would be our word against his. He asked me to go like usual, but said he’d be watching. When Nolan tried to force me, Kipps was there. He’d brought a camera and recorded the whole thing. Nolan got angry, he slapped me for framing him, and then he left. Kipps said he would make sure it didn’t happen again and put me in a cab to you.” She smiled weakly, fingers grasping blindly for comfort.

Lockwood grabbed her hand and pulled her closer. “You’re very lucky,” he whispered.

“I know.” Lucy’s fingers curled in his, gripping tight. He could feel her shaking as she sniffled and then swiped at her red-rimmed eyes with her free hand. “I wish Kipps could have helped you. I wish you didn’t—”

Lockwood tugged her hand for silence. He didn’t want to talk about that. “Did Kipps say what he was going to do?”

“Something about reporting it to every agency,” Lucy said. “I wasn’t really listening if he told me more. I was…”

Lockwood rasped his thumb against her knuckles. “If he recorded it and then reported it,” he said pensively, “maybe…” Then, he towed Lucy out of the kitchen and into the living room where he cleared off an ancient television set and began rummaging for the remote. When he finally found it, the batteries were dead anyway so he dropped to his knees to turn it on. Squinting at the too-close screen, Lockwood began thumbing through the available channels until he settled on the local news. He backed away and pulled Lucy to sit beside him on the couch.

A well-pressed woman with a blonde bob spoke urgently into the camera. “Quill Kipps, a Fittes supervisor, has reported ongoing physical and sexual abuse of the agents in London’s orphanages. The following video has been brought forth showing Bunchurch’s supervisor, Nolan Roth, demanding sexual favors from the young female agent who has not yet been identified.” A quick clip played of Nolan towering over Lucy, a flashlight illuminating his awful face and bald dome clearly. “When the audio is played, you can clearly hear the agent asking to go back to the orphanage. More on this at One.”

The camera switched jarringly to sports, a man with a bad hairpiece yammering and sweating under the lights.

Lockwood turned towards Lucy and saw her staring in shock at the screen, even though the well-lit video of Nolan advancing on her had vanished. He stood to turn off the TV, but Lucy grabbed his arm with dagger-like fingers.

“The video,” Lucy rasped, “everyone saw that. They’ll see me!” For the first time, the implications of recording Nolan’s attempted assault struck her. Nolan had called Lockwood a whore, called Lucy a bitch and a slut, and now everyone would hear that. Would they agree with him? She felt like throwing up. “They’ll be able to hear everything! Lockwood, what if—?”

Lockwood hushed her. “It’s okay, Luce. Whatever Nolan said, they’ll hear what you said too. You never asked for any of that. You wanted to leave the whole time,” he insisted. “That video is going to do so much good for the orphaned agents across more than just London. Everyone will see that they can’t take advantage of kids like us anymore.”

She sucked in a shuddering breath, blinked, and focused on his face. A fresh wave of tears welled on her lashes.

Lockwood had thought telling her the truth would have taken the sting out of seeing herself like that. He had been wrong. “Luce,” he began, desperately fumbling for something to make her feel better.

“You’re right,” she sniffled. “Of course, you’re right. What does it matter what he said if it makes everyone else safe?” She squeezed his fingers and swiped at her face with the sleeve of her borrowed robe. “You’d have done the same.”

He would have. He would have done more, gone further, been hurt worse. He already had been and achieved less than Lucy. He thought of her sneaking him painkillers after his first night with Nolan and shuddered to his bones.

Lucy pressed against him, leaning her head on his shoulder. “Sorry,” she whispered. “That must have sounded selfish.”

Lockwood shook his head. “You’ve suffered too, Luce,” he murmured. “It’s not a competition.”

She nodded slowly, her good cheek brushing his shirt.

“We should put ice on your face, try to get the swelling down,” Lockwood offered as a distraction.

When he got up to turn off the television, Lucy let him. The silence of the house felt almost eerie after such a shocking announcement. Lucy fidgeted, looking around as though she expected Nolan to jump out from behind the armchair or pile of books. Lockwood freed the nearby record player from a cascade of knickknacks, blew the dust off it, wound it up, and set the needle on the record. Smooth jazz began to drift from the horn and he bit back a sudden welling of tears. This must have been the last thing his parents listened to.

As though reading his mind, Lucy stood from the couch and crossed to him. She held out her hand, a clear offer for touch and comfort that Lockwood was eager to accept. Being alone in his childhood home was both a dream and a nightmare. Lockwood gripped her fingers and let her pull him in for a hug. Lucy had this way of hugging where she always tucked her arms under his coat and she did the same with his open robe now, squeezing warm and tight until some of his pieces snapped back together. Even though he was taller than her, he felt small and safe as she rubbed his back.

He opened his mouth to thank her when there was a knock at the door.

They froze, but it wasn’t as though they could pretend not to be home. Music was clearly playing and lights were on.

The knock came again and a voice called, “It’s Kipps!”

“We should talk to him,” Lucy said.

“I know. I just wish we weren’t still in pajamas.”

Lucy’s eyes widened as though she hadn’t considered that.

Before she could change her mind, Lockwood strode to the door and opened it. Kipps had two big brown bags of groceries, one in each arm, and his duffel slung across his body. His face was lined with exhaustion and he had big bruised circles under his eyes like he hadn’t slept a wink the night before. He managed a sort of smile. “Lockwood, good to see you. I was worried when I sent Lucy here last night, but I see it’s all worked out.”

Lucy peeked behind Lockwood, her fingers curling in the back of his robe like a ship seeking anchor. “Hi Kipps,” she said tentatively.

“Lucy,” Kipps breathed. “Oh god, your face. I’m so sorry. I should have stepped in sooner.”

“It’s okay.” She smiled with over-bright cheerfulness. “It’s just a bruise.”

Kipps shook himself, looking away from Lucy’s battered face and changing the subject. “I brought food,” he said. “Can I come in? I need to talk to you both.”

Lockwood stepped aside to let him enter and Kipps politely took off his shoes. They traipsed back to the kitchen and Lockwood was glad he had discovered the old Thinking Cloth with only Lucy privy to his moment of sentimentality. Kipps deposited his two bags on the empty table and Lucy began helping him unpack everything. Kipps slung his duffel onto the chair with a groan and popped his neck.

“Have you seen the news?” Kipps asked.

Lockwood thought about playing dumb to see what Kipps said, but Lucy beat him to it. “Just now,” she admitted. “We saw the video but muted. What’s going to happen next?”

Kipps pulled out a bag of apples and laid it carefully on the tabletop, staring at the red and green mixture of fruit. “I’ve kept your name out of it for now, Lucy, but I’m not sure how much longer I can do that. Inspector Barnes wants to speak with you about what happened and take your statement. The video is damning for Nolan, but he’s just one out of how many supervisors? Stricter regulations are needed and to do that, we need more people involved.” Kipps heavily dragged a hand over his tired face. “I know about you, Lucy, and I’m sure you know others who have been through what you have. We need them to come forward, meet with Barnes, and give statements.”

Lucy glanced at Lockwood and then quickly back to Kipps. “Of course,” she agreed. “I want to do anything I can to make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

“Good, that’s one weight off my chest.” Kipps continued unveiling his groceries—fresh bread, sliced deli meat, cheese, crisps, jam donuts. “What about… others?”

Lockwood felt Kipps’s glance like a touch and tensed.

Lucy glanced at him again, nervously now. He realized she must have told Kipps something about what he’d done, how he’d covered for her, for them both to be staring at him like this.

“Lockwood?” Kipps asked, confirming his thoughts.

“I need some air.” Lockwood turned away from the table and very-carefully-did-not-bolt out the backdoor. The little backyard was just as overgrown as the front. A twisted apple tree shaded everything, making it feel sheltered, and a small carpet of rotted fruits gave life to scurrying chipmunks and squirrels. Lockwood knew he could be seen though the half-glass door or the big kitchen windows so he plastered his back to the expanse of brick just beside the door.

He wasn’t hiding.

He wasn’t.

Through the door, he heard Kipps and Lucy talking quietly. They had dropped the horrible conversation from before and were instead discussing dinner. Lockwood’s stomach growled, even though he was too nauseous to think about eating. He hadn’t thought he would ever miss the orphanage’s cafeteria food, but since regaining his parents’ home, his limited funds had gone towards paying off the bills and trying to start his own agency. He had little left for luxuries and the groceries Kipps brought were the kinds of things he wished he could eat on a regular basis.

Lucy could be heard filling the kettle and then walking away. The door into the kitchen shut and silence reigned. Then, the music started again. Lockwood entertained the idea of slipping back into the house and making a break for the basement when the kitchen door opened and Kipps stepped out. He looked around the yard casually, even though Lockwood was standing right outside the door and clearly visible.

“This is a nice place,” Kipps remarked. “Wish I could live somewhere like this. The flat I’ve got, phew, it’s right above a fish monger near the wharf.”

Lockwood couldn’t help grin at the thought.

Kipps leaned companionably against the closed door, not remotely close enough to touch. “Lucy went to clean up a little. She’ll put the kettle on when she comes back and we’ll have an early dinner. I hope you like sandwiches. I’m not much of a cook.”

“Sounds great,” Lockwood agreed. “Thanks for bringing, you know, food.”

“I know what it’s like to be stretched thin when you’re just starting out,” Kipps said. “I ate nothing but beans on toast before I got hired on at Fittes. When my Talent started to fade, I worried I’d go right back to that, but supervisors get paid more than agents, if you can believe that.”

Lockwood snorted.

“Doesn’t seem fair,” Kipps remarked. “You agents are risking your lives while we watch.” He looked at Lockwood sidelong, expression unreadable through the dappling sunlight that slanted through the branches of the apple tree.

Lockwood wished he’d pulled on his big coat before he ducked out. In his pajamas and robe, he felt entirely too exposed.

“It’s even worse for orphans,” Kipps continued. “I thought it was different until I worked with you and Lucy at the Langham Hotel. Once I saw how you were treated, how you barely even had the right gear, I couldn’t put it out of my mind. I almost came to the orphanage a thousand times to check on you, but I never did. I wasn’t sure I’d be welcome. Then, when Lucy called—God, when I heard her last night, I thought my heart was getting ripped out and stomped on. She sounded so scared, but also totally hopeless. I could tell she didn’t expect me to help.”

“I’m glad you did,” Lockwood murmured. His throat tightened around the words so much that he almost couldn’t get them out. He was overwhelmingly grateful that Kipps had helped Lucy when he wasn’t able to cover for her. If Kipps hadn’t answered the phone, hadn't come up with a plan, hadn't helped or cared, would Lucy be lying in her bed at the orphanage right now, unable to move for the pain? Lockwood wouldn’t even know she was hurting.

Kipps shifted his weight, keeping his posture relaxed and open. He looked away from Lockwood when he said, “Lucy told me the last time Nolan asked for an agent alone that you went instead. She said you couldn’t get out of bed the next day.”

Lockwood tensed, his shoulders pulling up defensively around his ears.

Softly, Kipps asked, “Will you come with us to speak with Inspector Barnes?”

Lockwood meant to say, ‘No!’ He meant to explain that Lucy misunderstood what had happened. He meant to say that he had attacked Nolan, that he couldn’t get out of bed the next day because he’d fought to the bitter end—throwing and taking punches like a man. He meant to keep quiet entirely when none of those excuses came out. Instead, he heard himself say, “There’s no point.”

Kipps exhaled. “Lockwood, I know you’ve aged out of the orphanage, but what happened is still—”

“No,” Lockwood interrupted because he couldn’t stand to hear Kipps keep talking. Better to get this over with and out in the open so Kipps could dedicate himself to helping Lucy, to helping the orphans, to helping people that deserved his protection. “There’s no point in going to the station because I asked for what happened to me. I chose it,” Lockwood forced out. “I went on those cases alone knowing what would happen. I told Nolan to have at me.”

Kipps sucked in air and his tired eyes fixed with horror on Lockwood’s face.

Lockwood kept talking, blurting it all out. The sooner Kipps gave up on him, realized what Lockwood really was, the sooner he could focus on who was really important. “Nothing happened to me that I didn’t ask for,” he continued. “I told the supervisors how good I was, how much better it could be, how I’d make it all perfect for them—” His voice strangled in his chest.

“No, Lockwood,” Kipps said lowly.

Lockwood pushed away from the house, standing to his full height even though his legs were shaking. “Nobody forced me,” he hissed. “I asked for it.”

Certain that his stinging declaration would scare Kipps away, Lockwood made a break for the house only to find Kipps standing between him and the door.

“Move,” Lockwood tried to demand, but it came out a whisper. His voice was raw and cracked. His throat tightened around a stone and his eyes burned with unshed tears. Through the glass, he could see the kitchen was empty. There was light on in the living room and music still playing. “Please,” Lockwood rasped.

Kipps stretched out a hand slowly, giving Lockwood time to pull away. In his pajamas, his dark hair flopping over his forehead, his eyes red-rimmed and exhausted, Anthony Lockwood looked every inch a skinny sixteen-year-old boy totally alone in a world that wanted to use him up. Kipps let his hand settle tentatively on Lockwood’s shoulder, the touch light and easily pulled-away-from. Even though all he wanted was to give the boy a hug, he doubted Lockwood would let that happen. Even now, Lockwood wouldn’t meet Kipps’s eyes. He stared at his slippered feet, teeth gritted and jaw clenched, fully prepared for rejection or something worse.

“I know you believe that,” Kipps said as softly as he dared, like the words would break Lockwood, “but I want you to hear me when I tell you that you’re wrong.”

Lockwood’s shoulders bobbed, something caught between a mirthless laugh and a sob. He seemed to want to protest further, spew some more self-deprecating vitriol, but nothing came out when he opened his mouth.

“When Lucy was in your position, like last night when she went to Nolan instead of Holly, do you think she wasn’t forced to go?” Kipps asked gently. “If I hadn’t been there to stop him, if Lucy had to do what Nolan wanted to protect her friend, do you think that means she would have ever wanted it? If she’d been with someone and been unable to get out of bed afterwards, do you think that’s what she’d asked for?”

Lockwood’s eyes remained on the ground, but he trembled violently under Kipps’s hand.

Kipps knew he was getting through to Lockwood, but perhaps that barrier had been protecting something of Lockwood’s mind. If he’d asked for it, if he’d been in control the whole time, if he’d been the one to choose what happened to him, then it meant he hadn’t been raped. Part of Kipps hoped he would never truly know the full scope of what Lockwood had endured.

Kipps swallowed thickly and gave Lockwood’s shoulder the tightest squeeze that he dared. “You don’t have to decide now,” he murmured, “but you’re welcome to come to meet Barnes with Lucy and me.”

Lockwood still didn’t say anything, simply trembled like he was going to break apart.

Softly, Kipps continued, “You deserve my help as much as Lucy does and I’m more than happy to give it. I only wish I could have helped sooner. I wish I could have helped you when you needed it.” He felt the bones of Lockwood’s narrow shoulder under his fingers and thought briefly, with revulsion, of Nolan putting his meaty bruising hands on Lockwood’s slender body. “But I’m here now,” Kipps said finally. “Nothing you say can scare me away.”

Lockwood dragged his eyes up from his feet and met Kipps’s gaze. He searched Kipps’s face for some sign of treachery, some lie, some half-truth meant to make him drop his guard and expose his vulnerable core, some evidence that Kipps was like every other adult in his life.

However, Kipps stared back earnestly, his smile stretched thin on his exhausted freckled face.

“Okay,” Lockwood relented.

Kipps squeezed his shoulder again, gently, tenderly. The last thing he wanted was to hurt Lockwood. “Okay,” he agreed. “I’m going to head inside. Lucy and I will start making lunch. Join us whenever you’re ready.”

Lockwood nodded and watched Kipps head back in, closing the kitchen door behind him. Lockwood leaned against the bricks again, his entire body feeling wrung-out and useless. He shut his eyes and focused on the warmth of the sunlight dappling through the apple tree. He inhaled and exhaled slowly, counting each second until he could fit his heartbeat between them. He heard Lucy’s voice in the kitchen, laughing brightly at something Kipps had said. Finally, he scraped himself off the bricks and headed inside for the best lunch he’d had in years.

Questions, comments, concerns?

Chapter Text

Lucy’s nerves jangled as she walked up to DEPRAC’s big glass-fronted offices beside Scotland Yard. Despite knowing Kipps was on her side and taking her to an inspector that he trusted, some small part of her clung to the fear that she wouldn’t be believed, that the inspector wouldn’t care, that they’d be tossed out like rubbish. Sweat beaded on the back of her neck, making her shiver despite the afternoon sun on her back.

It felt like walking to Mara’s office at Saint Catherine’s all over again. She remembered telling Mara about Nolan wanting to have her alone, begging not to go on the case, and being dismissed like an insect bothering a picnic. She remembered running to Lockwood, watching him go in her place, and seeing him hurt when he crept in that night. The memories hung heavy and sour in her chest.

She dug her nails into her palms.

That wasn’t going to happen this time.

Lucy sucked in a deep breath to steel her nerves and held her head high.

“Are you okay?” Lockwood asked softly. He strode beside her in his big flapping coat, armored like a knight for battle. He walked close enough that he brushed warmly against her. She could have grabbed ahold of him if she’d wanted and, while she would have liked nothing more than to cling to his arm, she felt that she had to walk into the building under her own power or she wouldn’t be able to face what followed.

“Yeah,” Lucy answered.

More than ever, she was thankful not to be in his borrowed pajamas or her gear that was tainted with Nolan’s touch. Lockwood had secured some clothes befitting a young woman from somewhere in his house and Lucy was well-dressed if smelling a little stale in some comfortable pants, a neat blouse, and warm wool peacoat. Lucy stuffed her shaky hands deep in the pockets.

“You can do this,” Lockwood told her.

Lucy glanced at him and the knot in her chest loosened at his confident smile. “I know.”

Lockwood meaningfully brushed against her, giving her a playful jostle with his shoulder. Lucy bumped into him in retaliation, smiling at him when he laughed softly.

While Lockwood stayed close at her side, Kipps strode ahead of them protectively. He could probably hear them talking, but didn’t join in the conversation. He had his eyes peeled for signs of the media or paparazzi and ushered them both quickly through the shiny glass doors. Once safely inside, Kipps sighed in relief.

For her part, Lucy only felt more nervous. Her heart began to pound, knocking against her ribs like it wouldn’t be happy until it broke something. Lockwood’s hand brushed hers, either accidentally or on purpose, and she finally allowed herself to latch on. Interlacing their fingers, she felt him squeeze back and managed to take a deep breath. She gritted her teeth, putting on a brave face for the few people that looked quizzically over at them.

“This way,” Kipps said and beckoned them down a hallway.

Lockwood towed her along until they stopped outside a closed office door. The nameplate beside it read ‘Inspector Montagu Barnes.’

Kipps cleared his throat. “I’ve known Barnes a long time and I’ve worked with him a lot. He’s a good man and I trust him to do the right thing,” he explained. “I’ll stay with either of you as much or as little as you want. If you want me in the room, I won’t let wild horses drag me out. If you want me to wait outside, I will. By the same token, if you’ve had enough and you want to leave or you just need a break, tell me and I’ll make it happen.” He held Lucy’s gaze first and then Lockwood’s. “I won’t let anyone make you uncomfortable. If you can’t get the words out, just grab my arm and I’ll take care of everything else.”

Lucy nodded, grateful beyond words to have Kipps with them.

Lockwood gave her hand another squeeze.

“Ready?” Kipps asked.

Lucy nodded.

With that, he knocked once and then opened Barnes’s door. Lucy wasn’t sure what she had expected of Inspector Montagu Barnes, but the man behind the desk didn’t quite fit her mental image. He was tall and lean like a panther, dark-skinned with close-cropped hair and astute dark eyes. Though his expression was no-nonsense, Lucy felt comforted by his presence. She had the impression that he would look good with a thick mustache.

Barnes stood to greet them, offering his hand first Lucy and Lockwood before turning to Kipps. “Anthony Lockwood, Lucy Carlyle, I’m glad to meet you both. I just wish it was under better circumstances,” he said in a surprisingly smooth voice. “I appreciate you coming in to meet with me about what’s been happening. I’m sure Kipps has already assured you that I’m going to do everything in my power to make sure this doesn’t happen to anyone else, but I’d like to tell you myself.” He met Lucy’s gaze steadily and then Lockwood’s. “I want—no, I will—see the people responsible for harming you put where they belong.”

Lucy shivered and clenched Lockwood’s hand tighter. He squeezed back, his throat clicking when he swallowed.

“I need your help to do that though,” Barnes continued. “I’m going to do everything I can to make it as easy on you as possible, but make no mistake, this is still going to be hard. We’re very fortunate that Kipps thought to record video evidence to support you, Lucy. Having that is making it difficult for Bunchurch to spin things in their favor or twist the truth.” He adjusted some papers on his desk. “I’ll need to know all the details of the different times Bunchurch tried to take advantage of you. Let me know if you need a break. Do you have questions so far?”

Lucy shook her head.

“Take a seat,” Barnes said. “We can get started. Would you like anything? Tea perhaps?”

“No,” Lucy managed. “I’m okay.”

Barnes set out three bottles of water regardless and then sat attentively behind his desk. “I’m going to use a tape recorder, if you don’t mind. That way you only have to go through this once.”

Lucy nodded her assent and sank into the stiff-backed chair before him.

“Would you like me to stay?” Kipps asked Lucy.

“Please,” Lucy croaked.

Kipps cut his eyes to Lockwood meaningfully but didn’t ask aloud.

Lucy gripped Lockwood’s sleeve. “Can you stay?”

He nodded, face pale and eyes dark in his thin face.

“Lockwood, why don’t you sit here?” Kipps suggested and indicated the second chair across from Barnes.

Lockwood shook his head. Then, like he had so long ago in Headmistress Mara’s office, he took up position behind Lucy. Resting his hands on the back of her chair, his knuckles comfortingly brushed her shoulders and the back of her neck.

Rather than stand around awkwardly, Kipps decided to take the remaining chair. He did his best to affect a casual sprawl in it, like his heart wasn’t jammed in his throat as he prepared to hear what might be the worst testimony of his young life. He took a bottle of water, twisted off the cap, and took a shaky sip.

“Whenever you’re ready,” Barnes said kindly.

Lucy took a deep breath to steady herself and then began to tell Barnes everything from the beginning, sparing no details. If she struggled, Lockwood was quick to shift his hands from the chair to her shoulders in earnest, squeezing gently to center her. A few times, Kipps passed over her water bottle and she sipped from it. Her face was ashen and her eyes welled with tears several times, but she held firm and didn’t cry. When Lucy finished, the air inside the office was stifling and silent. Kipps’s heartbeat thumped in his ears. The tape recorder whirred quietly.

Lucy twisted her water bottle around and around in her hands.

Lockwood rested his hands on her shoulders, giving her a comforting squeeze.

She let out a shaky breath and slumped in her chair, the tension and fight going out of her.

“Thank you,” Barnes said. “You did very well, Lucy. Unless there’s anything else you’d like to share with me?”

Lucy shook her head, hair feathering against her cheeks.

Barnes clicked the tape recorder off.

Kipps glanced briefly at Lockwood and he nodded once. Kipps stood from his chair and bent down to speak quietly into Barnes’s ear, bringing him briefly up to speed on Lockwood’s involvement.

Barnes’s expression shifted from calm to frighteningly enraged. His fist tightened around his pen until it cracked. Then, he visibly collected himself and settled back into his seat. “Are you ready to talk to me now, Lockwood? Or would you like to take a break?”

“I want to get it over with,” Lockwood answered.

Lucy started to stand so he could sit in her place, but he clamped down on her shoulders with shaking hands so that she couldn’t move.

“And,” he forced out, “I’d like to talk to you alone.”

Lucy’s dropped her water bottle and tried to twist around to get a look at Lockwood’s face, but his hold on her shoulders and his position directly behind her made it impossible. She had to sit there, facing Barnes and Kipps, unable to see Lockwood, while he said he wanted to do it alone. She couldn’t decide if she thought he was brave or stupid, if she wished she could support him or if she was grateful that she wouldn’t have to hear the details of what he’d been through. Some of what he’d suffered had been to spare her directly. Could she handle knowing what had kept him in bed after he’d gone to Nolan the first time in her place? Helplessly, her mouth opened and shut a few times.

Lockwood kept a firm grip on her shoulders, like he wasn’t certain if she’d bolt or not.

Thankfully, Kipps stayed true to his word. He crossed the office smoothly and handed Lucy her water bottle to keep her hands busy. Then, he towed her out of her seat and patted her on the back. “Lucy and I are going to take a walk around, stretch our legs a little. If you need anything,” here, he fixed Lockwood with a steady gaze, “you can have Barnes intercom for us. We’ll come back right away.”

Lockwood nodded jerkily, his jaw clenched like stone.

Lucy noticed that he wouldn’t meet her gaze. Though she couldn’t think of anything helpful to say, she didn’t want to just leave him like this. Her hand was cold from the water bottle when she grasped his wrist briefly and squeezed. She hoped he knew what she meant when she touched him, because she still couldn’t get any words out. He finally looked at her and she managed to smile. His eyes softened as though he understood all the complicated feelings swarming inside her. Perhaps he’d felt the same when she asked him to stay. Letting her hand fall away, she followed Kipps outside and he shut the door behind them.

Together, they stood in the busy hallway for a moment, watching DEPRAC officers and office staff stroll hither and tither on their daily tasks. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. The sound reminded Lucy of the tape recorder.

“I think I’m going to be sick.”

Kipps put his arm around Lucy’s shoulders and ushered her down the hallway to the bathrooms where he briefly and cautiously peeked inside before allowing her in alone. Lucy shut herself in a stall, but the moment of nausea had passed. After a long time staring into the porcelain bowl, she flushed the toilet for no reason, washed her hands and face, and returned to find Kipps leaning patiently against the wall outside. He didn’t look worried—well, no more worried than he had been since he’d started this process. It was clear that he trusted Barnes so Lucy trusted Barnes too. He’d been nothing but kind while she’d poured her heart out to him.

But she wished Lockwood would have let Kipps stay, just so he wasn’t alone while he went through everything again, even if he’d still needed Lucy to leave. She wouldn’t mind being alone right now, waiting for them, if Lockwood wasn’t.

“Are you okay?” Kipps asked.

She nodded.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I’m just… I’m worried about Lockwood.”

“Barnes won’t push him. He’ll page us the second Lockwood asks and he’ll listen if Lockwood needs a break. Lockwood is in good hands, I promise.”

Lucy nodded shakily. She believed Kipps, just like she had when he told her Nolan wouldn’t touch her.

Kipps smiled gently. “Do you want to walk? I’ll show you around.”

Since the last thing Lucy wanted was to sit quietly with her churning thoughts, she nodded again. Kipps didn’t put his arm around her this time, though he walked as close as Lockwood so that he occasionally brushed her shoulder. He gave her what was honestly probably a great tour of DEPRAC, but Lucy was too befuddled to really listen. She heard his voice and looked at all the things he pointed out, but nothing stuck in her brain. Her feet and calves began to ache and she wondered how long they’d been walking for when the intercom chirped.

“Quill Kipps to Inspector Barnes’s Office,” a polite female voice declared. “Kipps to Barnes. Thank you.”

“We should go back,” Kipps said. “Are you ready?”

Lucy nodded.

They hustled back towards Barnes’s office. Kipps held her by the elbow so they didn’t get split up in the crowded halls. They had no way of knowing if Lockwood had paged for Kipps because he was finished speaking or because he desperately needed support so it was better to be safe than sorry. However, when they rounded the hall and stopped in front of Barnes’s door, things seemed peaceful rather than fraught. Kipps knocked and opened the door when Barnes called out.

Lockwood sat in Lucy’s chair, his face pale and his eyes raw, but he smiled lightly when he saw her. Best of all, he reached out one hand.

Lucy dropped her lukewarm water bottle and grasped his fingers, letting him pull her in however he wanted. He hugged her close but didn’t stand up, burying his face against the curve of her collarbone and putting his arms around her waist. Lucy wrapped her arms around his shoulders and dug her fingers through his mussed hair comfortingly, stroking his scalp as he had once done for her. She could feel his entire body shaking and held him just a little tighter.

“You were both very helpful,” Barnes said gently. “Thankfully, Lockwood has aged out of the orphanage, but Lucy, I don’t want you going back there. I’ve pulled some strings to allow your housing to relocate, at least temporarily, to Lockwood’s home at Portland Row, if you are amenable.”

Lucy gripped Lockwood’s soft hair between her fingers so that she wouldn’t shake apart and blow away. “That’s okay with you, Lockwood?” she whispered.

He nodded, face still pressed against her. “I suggested it.”

“Yes,” she breathed. “Yes, please. I want to stay with you. Please.”

“I’ll process it on my end,” Barnes said. “Kipps will act as an intermediary in the meantime. For all intents and purposes, it will appear as though Fittes has rented your Talent.” He gritted his teeth. “I’ve always hated those words. Perhaps, now I know why.”

Lucy swallowed thickly.

“Nolan is already in DEPRAC custody. The video is damning and I have every intention of throwing the book at him,” Barnes continued, his voice a mix of comfort and simmering rage. “Mara has been suspended from her post at the orphanage pending an investigation that she will not be recovering from. I’ll appoint a new headmaster to Saint Catherine’s myself when the time comes. For now, I have a trusted officer there to keep an eye on everyone.”

Lockwood let out a soft breath of relief.

“I don’t have the manpower to station an officer outside your home, not that I expect any of the agencies in question to try anything. Our evidence is concrete, thanks to Kipps’s video. However, your testimony will be damaging to the adult supervisors and desperate people can do desperate things so I advise caution. Be safe, you two. Thank you for all your help and,” he handed over a card to Lucy, having already given one to Lockwood, “contact me if you need anything.”

Lucy held the card tightly, reminded of when Kipps had first handed over his and it became a lifeline in her darkest moment. “Thank you.”

Lockwood pulled himself together and, using Lucy’s shoulder like a crutch, got to his feet. She clung to him, half to keep herself upright and half to support him.

Barnes stood from his desk, leafed some bills out of his wallet, and pressed them into Lockwood’s protesting hand. “Take this for dinner and I’ll push your application through myself.”

Lockwood froze. “My application?”

“For your psychic agency, Lockwood and Company,” Barnes answered with a smile. “I wasn’t able to help you before, but this is something I can do.”

Lockwood’s expression shifted from shock to gratitude. “Thank you, Inspector.”

“Once you’re an official agency, I’ll help you employ Lucy fulltime.”

“But the orphanage?” Lockwood asked. There were still some weeks before her birthday.

“I have strings that I can pull, favors I can call in. Lucy’s status as a key witness will help too. She’ll need more protection than Saint Catherine’s can provide. Leave cutting the red tape to me.”

Lucy’s knees almost buckled. “Thank you,” she croaked.

Barnes nodded and then tipped his chin at Kipps. “Get them back safely and then go home yourself. You need sleep. If you drop dead, you’re no help to anyone.”

Kipps sighed heavily. Apparently, he’d heard those instructions before. “Yes sir.”

The three of them headed back out of DEPRAC headquarters and Lucy was surprised to see just how little time had passed. It felt as though she had spent years in that building, but the sun hadn’t even begun to set. There were still a few hours left of good sunlight and plenty of people were out on the streets. The sun shone brightly in a cloudless sky.

Kipps hailed a cab, tucked them into it, and paid the cabbie to take them back to Portland Row. Leaning in through the window, he said, “Don’t hesitate to call if you need anything. I’m going home to get some sleep, but I’ll check on you both tomorrow. Maybe stay off the TV and don’t read any news headlines. Let Barnes and I handle everything.”

Lucy was more than happy to do so. “We will, thanks.”

“Order takeaway or eat the food I brought you earlier,” he instructed and then patted the roof of the cab as farewell.

The cab rumbled away, leaving Kipps behind. Lucy and Lockwood rode in silence, unwilling or unable to talk about what had just happened in front of the cabbie. Before long, they were back at Portland Row and Lockwood let them in with his key and then locked the door behind them. The crystal skull lamp burned warmly in the small foyer. Lucy removed her borrowed coat and hung it beside Lockwood’s big one. Then, they stumbled into the living room and collapsed on the sofa. It was warm and close in Portland Row, exactly the kind of place Lucy had always wanted.

Lockwood suddenly slumped against her side, resting his cheek on her shoulder. “I can’t believe it,” he breathed.

Lucy rested her unbruised cheek on the top of his head. “I know,” she answered.

He reached for her hand and interlaced their fingers, holding on securely. He didn’t start crying and neither did Lucy, but it felt like a close thing.

Lucy lost track of how long they slumped together on the couch. She felt emotionally-wrung-out, so tired that it reached underneath her skin, but also relieved enough to be boneless. Speaking with Barnes had gone better than she ever could have hoped. She was getting to stay with Lockwood, safe in his family home with his head on her shoulder and his hand in hers.

Finally, he shifted enough to sit up, lifting his head from her shoulder with a groan though he didn’t let go of her hand. “Are you hungry?”

“I could eat,” Lucy answered.

Lockwood scraped himself out of the couch cushions and tugged Lucy to her feet. “Should we order takeaway?”

Lucy thought of the money and shook her head. “Save it. We can eat what Kipps brought.”

Lockwood didn’t argue.

They stumbled together into the kitchen and went through the groceries Kipps had brought. Since neither of them had much cooking skill beyond warming things, they made sandwiches, sliced an apple, and shared from the big bag of crisps. Afterwards, Lockwood made tea as the sun set beyond the kitchen windows. The fading sunlight splashed warmly over his face, painting his skin warm and golden. There was no sign of the horrible gash that had once split through his lip. Lucy’s heart warmed as though with the sunlight. No one would be able to lay cruel hands on them ever again.

“Here,” he said and handed over a mug of tea with milk and honey.

Lucy cradled her mug in her hands, breathing in the sweet steam.

Sitting across from her at the table, Lockwood gazed thoughtfully at her.

“What is it?” she asked.

Lockwood shook his head. “Nothing, I just… I’m happy.”

Lucy set down her cup. “Me too.”

“But… I don’t think I’m going to be able to sleep for a while.”

“Kipps said we should stay away from the TV,” Lucy murmured.

“I know, but I think there should be movies somewhere around here. Will you watch some with me?”

“Of course.”

It took a little while to find the movies. They’d been stacked up inside an armoire on the bottom shelf, pushed behind a box that was filled with colored rocks. Lucy weighed a few in her hands, wondering what Lockwood’s parents had done for a living, what they’d been like, what bits of them lived on in their son, but she didn’t ask. There would be other times for that, to share stories, to learn about each other.

Instead, she hoisted the stack of movies above her head dramatically. “Here they are!”

Lockwood closed the hope chest he’d been digging through with a snap, his eyes red-rimmed and bright. “Great.”

The movies were eclectic—a few westerns, some romantic comedies, a couple of action flicks, mostly children’s animated films aimed at a significantly younger audience. Lucy and Lockwood looked through them and settled on something animated, despite the age gap. They couldn’t recall the last time they had actually been able to just watch a movie. It wasn’t something that happened at the orphanage, not for agents at least. Lockwood set up the ancient VCR and popped in the movie before he scooped up an armload of knitted blankets and joined Lucy on the couch.

Lucy gratefully cuddled underneath the quilt that he handed her, snuggling it up to her chin and breathing in the scent of Lockwood’s home. He lifted his arm as an invitation and Lucy eagerly slid underneath it. She curled into his side, draping her blanket over his legs. He squeezed her tightly and then slowly relaxed into the cushions. She rested her ear against his chest, right over his heart, and shut her eyes. Lucy wasn’t sure when she dozed off, but she woke to Lockwood carefully shifting to get more comfortable and found the credits rolling.

“Another?” Lockwood whispered.

Lucy nodded and peeled herself off him so he could get up.

He chose another movie at random, thrust it in, and set it playing before he worked his way back into her arms. He stretched out on the couch this time, adjusting Lucy so she was almost on top of him. Her weight pressed him into the couch, but he didn’t complain. She let herself be shifted around, cuddled along every inch of his body, her head tucked under his chin, his hands wandering lightly down her back in rhythmic strokes underneath the blankets.

Before long, she was dozing again.

“Luce.” Lockwood’s voice had a dreamlike quality. “Do you want to go to bed?”

“Yeah,” she mumbled and tightened her grip on him. “Here’s good.”

“No, it’s not.” He chuckled gently. “Come on. Your back will hurt in the morning. Let me up.”

Lucy pushed herself up and stared down at Lockwood’s face, splashed in hues of blue from the silent television set where he lay underneath her on the couch. “Am I dreaming?”

His eyes softened and he tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. His touch lingered, warm and tender against the bruise on her cheek. “No, Luce.”

Grunting, she sat up fully and watched him climb out of the couch drowsily.

“Are you coming with me?”

“Anywhere,” she murmured.

“To bed?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

Lucy stood up on legs that felt disconnected from the rest of her. She was sated and boneless, warm to her very core, as she stumbled to Lockwood’s side and leaned up against him. Lockwood wrapped his arm around her back, helped her up the stairs, and tumbled her into his bed.

“Don’t sleep in those clothes. Get comfy,” he told her.

Grumbling, Lucy wrenched out of her borrowed trousers and blouse with her eyes half-closed. Changing himself, Lockwood passed her a tee shirt. She pulled it over her head carelessly and batted away the cotton pants he offered. Chuckling lowly, he slid into bed and she curled into the warmth of his side again. She was surprised to feel that he had forgone his own shirt and let her hand smooth absently across the warm skin over his ribs. He shivered under her gentle touch but soaked it up like a plant being turned into the sunshine. Lucy threw her leg over his and squeezed him tight.

“G’n’t,” she mumbled into his chest.

Before she dropped off completely, she imagined she felt the press of his lips against her temple and heard a whispered, ‘Goodnight, Luce.’

…

In the weeks that followed, Lockwood and Lucy didn’t leave Portland Row unless they had to. Kipps brought groceries and Barnes set up the occasional security detail to keep the media circus from peeking in their windows. Their statements had gone public, along with the full scope of Kipps’s video. Barnes had picked up Edward and, with Lockwood at his side, the young boy confessed what he had been through at the hands of the adults who should have protected him. Other agents from additional orphanages across all of England revealed their own horrible tales. There was a public outcry, demanding recompense and stricter standards to protect orphans.

The first change to be implemented was outlawing the ability to rent one orphan alone. All cases had to be investigated in teams of two or more, no exceptions. Lockwood breathed a sigh of relief when he read that. Despite Barnes and Kipps telling them to steer clear, he couldn’t help checking in on the news before Lucy woke up in the morning. Sometimes, through the fear-mongering and drivel, there was even good news.

It was a fantastically sunny morning when Lucy staggered into the kitchen, her hair a bird’s nest on the top of her head. Sleep-soft and warm, she took a moment to lean into Lockwood and he wrapped his arms idly around her, giving her a squeeze that made him feel like nothing bad had ever happened. When Lucy broke away to slump at the table, he headed to the toaster and dropped in two slices. Then, he started up the kettle and mechanically went through the process of preparing two cups of tea and toast with jam for them. Then, Lockwood sat across from her at the table and watched as Lucy came alive at her first sip.

“I never realized how poorly I was sleeping at the orphanage,” Lucy said, “until I got here.”

Lockwood grinned around his mug. “Before you were hogging my bed and all the covers, you mean.”

Lucy blushed adorably, opened her mouth like she was going to protest, and then sipped her tea prettily instead.

Lockwood slid his hand across the fresh white tablecloth and gripped Lucy’s hand. “Hey, I’m kidding,” he murmured. “You know I love you being here. It’s what we’d planned.”

Lucy squeezed his fingers and put her teacup aside to give him her full attention. “I’m staying, Lockwood,” she assured him and then grinned. “I’ve gotten used to having a big bathroom to ourselves and this kitchen and hot tea!” She giggled delightedly, tugging at his hand. “And good food and clean clothes and your huge bed!”

He smiled broadly, letting her laughter fill up the dark places in his heart and mind. The media could call him a charlatan and a prostitute all they wanted. He couldn’t regret protecting Edward or Lucy at cost to himself. He had never done anything wrong—not if it got them here, together in his parents’ house where no one could hurt them.

A knock sounded at the door, two quick raps followed by two more. It was Kipps’s signal. Still giggling, Lucy let go of his hand and darted to answer the door. Kipps surged inside, slamming the door in the face of some paparazzi that were craning around the bushes. Lockwood had never been so happy about his overgrown landscaping.

“Morning,” Kipps said. “You two are in a good mood.”

“I slept in,” Lucy told him brightly. “I’ve never really gotten to do that before.”

Kipps patted her shoulder companionably. “Can we talk?”

Lucy sobered. “Of course. Kitchen?”

Kipps nodded. He had been to Portland Row so many times by now that he knew where almost everything was in the house.

“Tea?” Lockwood asked, even though he’d already started filling the kettle.

“Please,” Kipps answered.

Once Lockwood had brought Kipps tea and toast with jam, he settled into his usual chair across from Lucy.

“You’ve been doodling on the tablecloth?” Kipps asked, curiously pushing around his plate so he could see the scribbles.

“It’s something my parents used to do,” Lockwood explained and the memory didn’t sting as much as it had previously. “You said you needed to talk?”

“Straight to business,” Kipps remarked and steadied himself with a sip of tea. “I’ve been sacked.”

“What?” Lucy demanded, jumping to her feet with both hands on the table. “Why? How?”

“Officially, it’s because I haven’t had the availability Fittes requires of their adult supervisors. Used too many vacation days, rescheduled too many cases, swapped too many shifts, that sort of thing.”

“Unofficially?” Lockwood asked, already dreading the answer.

“For spearheading all the changes to how orphans and agents can behave on cases,” Kipps muttered. “I’ve cost them money and big agencies hate that. Barnes protected me while he could but now that things are starting to move forward, he can’t do that anymore. Fittes canned me this morning.”

“I’m so sorry,” Lucy breathed.

Kipps shrugged. “It’s fine. It won’t change anything. I’ll still support you in any way I can. If I can’t, Barnes will. So don’t worry.”

“We’ll be okay,” Lockwood told Kipps. “Barnes put our application through, just like he said, and once we’re cleared, we already have cases lined up. Minor stuff mostly, but we have to start somewhere.” He shrugged and grinned. “Sympathetic ears want to give us their money so they can feel better about themselves. I’m not going to complain.”

“Good, I’m happy for you,” Kipps said earnestly.

Lockwood hesitated, gnawing his lower lip and glancing at Lucy briefly. “Kipps, you know, if you wanted, you could work here. With us.”

Kipps looked shocked by Lockwood’s offer, his eyes wide and his mouth half-open.

“It’s just an offer,” Lockwood said hastily. The tips of his ears pinked with embarrassment. “I wouldn’t mind having a supervisor like you on our side.”

Kipps swallowed and smiled broadly. “Thank you, Lockwood,” he answered. “I appreciate the offer. You’d be alright having me, even though I have questionable availability?”

Lockwood’s face softened. “Yeah, I would.”

Before they could continue, there was another sharp pounding on the door. Since it wasn’t in Barnes’s code and Kipps was already here, neither Lockwood nor Lucy moved to answer it. They’d been on the receiving end of a few too many impromptu interviews, curtesy of the headline-hungry media. However, the pounding continued on and on and then someone started shouting. “Hey! Let me in! Come on! Lucy, Lockwood, Kipps!”

Lockwood’s brow furrowed and he hurried down the hallway to glance through the peephole. “It’s George?”

When he opened the door, George tumbled in with a big misshapen bag clutched in his arms. “About time!”

“George?” Kipps asked. “What are you doing here? You should be at Fittes, researching for tonight’s case.”

George puffed. “Yeah, right. I heard what Fittes did to you and I quit.”

“You what?” Kipps demanded. He grabbed George’s shoulder and gave him a shake. “You quit working at Fittes? Because of me!”

The bag George carried jostled open and a big jar tumbled out. It hit the floor, bounced, and rolled to rest at Lucy’s feet.

“What is that?” Lucy asked and bent to scoop it up. A withered brown skull stared up through some kind of formative goo. Once she had lifted it by its handle, a ghostly face suddenly coalesced right in front of her and bulged its eyes. She stifled a shriek and barely avoided dropping it back on the floor. “What is that?!”

“George, you stole an active Source from Fittes! What were you thinking?” Kipps demanded.

“I was thinking, fuck them, that’s what,” George answered.

Kipps dragged a hand down his face in defeat and then burst out laughing. Lucy adjusted her grip on the jarred skull, tucking it companionably under her arm, giggling again. Even the ghostly face of the skull opened its mouth in something like a chuckle. Lockwood couldn’t help joining in followed by George until they were all cackling in the front hall of 35 Portland Row.

For anyone wondering, yes, Holly joined Lockwood and Co right after she aged out and they all lived happily ever after.

Questions, comments, concerns?