the pink towel draped over the chair back, still damp from this morning’s shower. “Let me move that for you.”
I whipped it away, revealing a snake pit of tangled gray undergarments I’d tossed there a few days before.
Oh,
God.
Lockwood didn’t seem to register my squeal of discomfort. He was looking out the window. “I’m actually quite happy to stand. So…this is Tooting, is it? It’s not an area I know well, but it’s a pretty nice view you’ve got here….”
I threw some clothes under the bed, nudged a crumb-strewn plate under the chair. “Which part? The industrial boiler company or the ironworks?” I gave a light, slightly hysterical laugh. “It’s not exactly Portland Row.”
“No. Well.” He turned back to me. We looked at each other.
“So,” I said, “do you want some tea? I could do with some.”
“That would be nice. Thanks.”
Making tea is a ritual that stops the world from falling in on you. Everything pauses while you do familiar things with taps and kettles; it allows you to catch your breath and become calm. I’ve made tea on camping stoves while Specters paced beyond my protective iron chains; I’ve brewed some while watching a Revenant claw itself free of its grave. I’m not normally a shaky tea-maker, but somehow in Lockwood’s presence it took me twice as long as usual. Even tossing a tea bag into a mug was a task fraught with difficulty; I kept sending it spinning across the counter. My thoughts were racing; my body scarcely seemed my own.
He was here!
Why
was he here? Excitement and incredulity kept smashing together, like waves colliding at a jetty. There was so much noise going on in my mind that the first priority—making small talk—was a bit of a problem.
“How’s business with Lockwood and Co.?” I asked over my shoulder. “I mean, I see you in the papers all the time. Not that I’m
looking
for you, obviously. I just see stuff. But you seem to be doing okay, as far as I can gather. When I think about it. Which is rare. Do you take sugar now?”
He was staring at the clutter on my floor, blank-eyed, as if lost in thought. “It’s only been a few months, Luce. I haven’t suddenly started taking sugar in my tea….” Then he brightened, nudging the ghost-jar with the side of his shoe. “Hey, how’s our friend here doing?”
“The skull? Oh, it helps me out from time to time. Hardly talk to it, really….” To my annoyance, I noticed a stirring in the substance that filled the jar, implying a sudden awakening of the ghost. That was the
last
thing I wanted right now. At least the lever was closed; I wouldn’t have to listen if it chose to speak.
I bent down to get milk out of the little fridge. “Did you get someone else, then, to help you?” I asked. “Another agent?”
“I thought about it. Never got around to it, somehow.” Lockwood scratched his nose. “George wasn’t keen. So it’s just the three of us still, muddling along without you.”
Still the three of them. For some reason the idea both pleased and pained me. “And how
is
George?” I said.
“You know old George. The same.”
“More experiments?”
“Experiments, theories, weird notions. He’s still trying to solve the Problem. His latest hobby is buying every new invention the Rotwell Institute churns out. He tests them to see if they work as well as good old-fashioned salt and iron. They don’t, of course, but that doesn’t stop him from filling the house with all manner of ghost-detectors, divining spindles, hex-wands, and things that look like teacups that are supposed to tinkle when a ghost draws near. All claptrap, basically.”
“Sounds like George hasn’t changed at all.” I poured the milk and put the bottle cap back on. “And how’s Holly?”
“Hmm?”
“Holly.”
“Oh, good. She’s good.”
“Great.” I stirred the tea. “Can you flip the trash can open, please?”
“Of course.” He put a polished shoe on the pedal; I lobbed the tea
I whipped it away, revealing a snake pit of tangled gray undergarments I’d tossed there a few days before.
Oh,
God.
Lockwood didn’t seem to register my squeal of discomfort. He was looking out the window. “I’m actually quite happy to stand. So…this is Tooting, is it? It’s not an area I know well, but it’s a pretty nice view you’ve got here….”
I threw some clothes under the bed, nudged a crumb-strewn plate under the chair. “Which part? The industrial boiler company or the ironworks?” I gave a light, slightly hysterical laugh. “It’s not exactly Portland Row.”
“No. Well.” He turned back to me. We looked at each other.
“So,” I said, “do you want some tea? I could do with some.”
“That would be nice. Thanks.”
Making tea is a ritual that stops the world from falling in on you. Everything pauses while you do familiar things with taps and kettles; it allows you to catch your breath and become calm. I’ve made tea on camping stoves while Specters paced beyond my protective iron chains; I’ve brewed some while watching a Revenant claw itself free of its grave. I’m not normally a shaky tea-maker, but somehow in Lockwood’s presence it took me twice as long as usual. Even tossing a tea bag into a mug was a task fraught with difficulty; I kept sending it spinning across the counter. My thoughts were racing; my body scarcely seemed my own.
He was here!
Why
was he here? Excitement and incredulity kept smashing together, like waves colliding at a jetty. There was so much noise going on in my mind that the first priority—making small talk—was a bit of a problem.
“How’s business with Lockwood and Co.?” I asked over my shoulder. “I mean, I see you in the papers all the time. Not that I’m
looking
for you, obviously. I just see stuff. But you seem to be doing okay, as far as I can gather. When I think about it. Which is rare. Do you take sugar now?”
He was staring at the clutter on my floor, blank-eyed, as if lost in thought. “It’s only been a few months, Luce. I haven’t suddenly started taking sugar in my tea….” Then he brightened, nudging the ghost-jar with the side of his shoe. “Hey, how’s our friend here doing?”
“The skull? Oh, it helps me out from time to time. Hardly talk to it, really….” To my annoyance, I noticed a stirring in the substance that filled the jar, implying a sudden awakening of the ghost. That was the
last
thing I wanted right now. At least the lever was closed; I wouldn’t have to listen if it chose to speak.
I bent down to get milk out of the little fridge. “Did you get someone else, then, to help you?” I asked. “Another agent?”
“I thought about it. Never got around to it, somehow.” Lockwood scratched his nose. “George wasn’t keen. So it’s just the three of us still, muddling along without you.”
Still the three of them. For some reason the idea both pleased and pained me. “And how
is
George?” I said.
“You know old George. The same.”
“More experiments?”
“Experiments, theories, weird notions. He’s still trying to solve the Problem. His latest hobby is buying every new invention the Rotwell Institute churns out. He tests them to see if they work as well as good old-fashioned salt and iron. They don’t, of course, but that doesn’t stop him from filling the house with all manner of ghost-detectors, divining spindles, hex-wands, and things that look like teacups that are supposed to tinkle when a ghost draws near. All claptrap, basically.”
“Sounds like George hasn’t changed at all.” I poured the milk and put the bottle cap back on. “And how’s Holly?”
“Hmm?”
“Holly.”
“Oh, good. She’s good.”
“Great.” I stirred the tea. “Can you flip the trash can open, please?”
“Of course.” He put a polished shoe on the pedal; I lobbed the tea
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