#shenanigans ands hijinks

[starfinss]

ɪɴᴄɪᴅᴇɴᴛꜱ ᴀᴛ ʙᴀɴᴄʀᴏꜰᴛ ʜᴀʟʟ — ᴄʜ. 2

Chapter One can be found here!

𝘍𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘰𝘮: Lockwood & Co.

𝘗𝘢𝘪𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨: Anthony Lockwood + Lucy Carlyle

𝘙𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨: SFW

𝘞𝘰𝘳𝘥 𝘊𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘵: 5,507

𝘚𝘶𝘮𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘺: The client’s daughter flirts with Lockwood, is a massive nuisance, and Lucy gets jealous, among other things.

It took us far longer than we would’ve liked to find Madeline Quintrell, who had stationed herself in the kitchen, where she was casually eating a sandwich. I was the one who found her; Lockwood had gone to search the living room, and when she saw me, she let out a surprised squeak of fear. My rage reached a tipping point when I saw a rapier from the kit we’d left in the kitchen set across the table, just by her hand. I marched over and snatched it up, carrying it back to its proper bag, zipping it inside.

“What the Devil is wrong with you?” I spat, a bit sharper than I meant to, but I was angry.

I was fed up with this girl prancing about like she was immune to Ghost Touch, and somehow, miraculously, traversing the house without any incident besides my rapier at her throat when she’d startled me in the study.

“I was hungry,” she said simply, setting her sandwich down on the plate in front of her, “could you give that back to me now?”

I stared at her. “Give what back to you?”

“The rapier. I picked it out—”

I laughed, incredulous, and quite tired of this farcical series of events. It was a short, unpleasant sound, but it shut her up. “No. You don’t get a rapier of your own until you pass your Third Grade, and since you haven’t, no rapier for you. I’m not letting you handle a weapon if you’re not qualified. This isn’t a game, Miss Quintrell, it’s a job, and it’s not a safe one. You have no idea what you’re playing at. You try and fight a Visitor with no training, you die. That’s it.”

“But if Lockwood were to protect me—”

“Shut up,” I said, and I knew I probably shouldn’t have, but I was beside myself with rage, “Lockwood doesn’t have timeto protect you. He’s here to investigate your house so you can have a safe place to live. You’re getting in the way of that. Chasing after boys is hardly a reason to try and play act being an agent.”

Her face turned a frankly impressive shade of red, almost rivaling the color of her hair.

“Well,” she scoffed, “he clearly doesn’t have a girlfriend. A shame, he’s a very handsome bloke. The other girl in your agency is pretty, but she doesn’t seem to be interested in him. And you. Why would he be interested in you?”

I didn’t want to be affected by that. I really didn’t think I would be, either. But for some reason, that stung. Not the part about my appearance, I didn’t care about that. I didn’t need to be beautiful to be a good agent. It was the second part that sent a strange jolt of stinging embarrassment through me. Why, though? Why did I even care if Lockwood was interested in me?

“This isn’t about me,” I said finally, but she cut me off.

“But this is about you,” she mused, her expression smug, “at least I’ve got the guts to go after a boy. You’re the one blushing like a schoolgirl every time he smiles at you— don’t think I didn’t see, I’m not blind. You’re jealous.”

Absolute nonsense, I told myself, I was not jealous. Complicated, unpleasant feelings were swimming laps in my veins, and I could feel my face growing hot from them. I had to stay calm. Haunted locations were no place for such feelings. I could sort them out once I was back in my bed at Portland Row, with no hungry Visitors to provoke with my racing thoughts.

I took a deep, cleansing breath. “This is not about me,” I repeated, firmer this time, “this is about you, swanning off when we’re not looking. You don’t seem to care that you could’ve gotten yourself killed.”

The door to the kitchen opened, and Lockwood stepped in. He looked at Madeline with a mix of relief and irritation, sighing heavily. At the sight of him, he stomach did an uncomfortable twist, and I forced myself to look away.

“Right, there you are,” he said, “I’m glad you’re safe, Miss Quintrell. No more wandering off, please, we’ve still got an investigation to complete. If you must stay, stay in here, where the largest amount of iron is. And don’t touch anything in our kit. Come on, Luce, George and Holly are already set up in the master bedroom.”

“No,” Madeline protested, “I want to come, too.”

I rounded on her, my fury outweighing my inner turmoil, but Lockwood put a hand on my shoulder. I could see that muscle in his jaw again, tensing. He was reaching the end of his rope.

“I simply cannot allow that, Miss Quintrell.”

His voice was tense, the usual politeness it possessed when dealing with our clients rapidly draining away.

Madeline stood up, pulling her dress down. It took me a few moments to realize what she was doing; trying to appeal to Lockwood with physical appearance rather than smiling and batting her eyelashes. If Lockwood was affected at all, he hid it well, dark eyes remaining fixed on her face.

I really doubted he was affected, though. All she succeeded in doing was making herself look rather silly.

“Please?” She asked, in a soft, simpering tone that made me nearly erupt with fury.

“That’s quite enough of that,” Lockwood said with a cough, and I could see what I could have sworn was a faint blush on his pale cheeks, “I’ll be calling your father now.”

“Why isn’t it working?!” She erupted, and Lockwood stopped mid-stride as he was crossing the kitchen to where the phone was hanging on the wall.

He stared at her, puzzled. “Why isn’t what working, Miss Quintrell?”

“I’ve been flirting all night. Blokes like it when we want their help, yeah? I—”

“Ah, there it is,” the skull drawled, “letter opener. I’ve had just about enough of this girl. Letter opener, I say!”

“Ah,” Lockwood said, “that’s what you’re doing. I’m sorry, Miss Quintrell, but I don’t tend to go around with my clients.”

“I’m not your client,” she supplied, “my father is.”

Lockwood shrugged his narrow shoulders. “That’s quite close enough for me.“

Ignoring anything else she said, Lockwood finished his journey across the kitchen, where he dialed the number to the guest house. The phone rang twice, and when Sir Quintrell picked up, I could hear him from across the room. He didn’t seem pleased that his daughter had snuck out, however, even with how much he seemed to dote on her.

Lockwood and I remained with Madeline until her father came from the guest house to fetch her, apologizing profusely (and loudly) for her behavior before putting an arm around her shoulders and leading her out the front door and away.

The rest of the investigation passed as smoothly as it could in a haunted location, and by the time Lockwood and I joined George and Holly in the master bedroom, George had already located the source, and was pulling up floorboards while Holly fought off an angry Specter in the form of a man in a high Victorian collar with impressive mutton chops. Off in the corner, a Shade was hovering, a grey smudge of a thing in a Victorian style nightgown.

Lockwood joined Holly, and I knelt beside George, aiding him in tugging up the floor. With much sweating and swearing, we discovered a bundle of letters, unreadable due to age, but once we shoved them into a silver link pouch, the Visitors blinked out of existence and were gone.  For a moment or two, the four of us sat there, panting, as we took in the silence, before moving to gather our kit, then back down to the kitchen.

“You sorted the Shade upstairs, then?” I asked, and Holly nodded.

“It didn’t put up much of a fight,” she said, “just stared at us rather crossly while we looked for the Source.”

I grunted in assent before rising to my feet from where I’d been sitting cross-legged, folding the iron chains up and packing them away.

“I’m going to do a final sweep of the house.”

I stepped out of the kitchen and into the dining room, letting myself breathe. I really was going to do a sweep of the house, but I also needed to clear my head. I was trying to figure out why what Madeline said had gotten to me the way that it did. I was fond of Lockwood, I knew that much. Maybe I didn’t like it when other girls looked at him like that, but what of it?

With racing thoughts, I walked the length of the dining room once, then again, before exiting into the main hall, and finally drifting into the living room.

“You don’t seem well,” the skull said, startling me, “don’t tell me that tart got to you, Lucy.”

“No,” I said, a tad sharply, “I’m fine.”

“You’re a horrid liar.”

“Shut up. I am not.”

“You absolutely are. It’s the way she was looking at Lockwood, right? You don’t like when other girls get too close to him. I’ve been telling you as much for a while.”

“I am not. And even if that is true, I don’t have time for this.”

A dark chuckle. “If not now, when? You never have time. And you think I’m the weird one.”

“You are,” I said, “you’re a haunted skull in a jar. That’s textbook weird.”

“Are you alright, Luce?”

Lockwood’s voice startled me even further than the skull’s had. I heard him bite back a laugh at the way I jumped, and I glared at him.

“Fine,” I said, “just peachy.”

“Liar,” the skull reiterated, its voice adopting a taunting, musical quality, “liar, liar, pants on fire.”

I had half a mind to turn the tap closed, and I was setting my bag down on the ground to do so when Lockwood spoke, rendering me sidetracked.

“You don’t seem peachy,” he said, regarding me with dark eyes, “Miss Quintrell didn’t do or say anything to bother you, did she? Other than the obvious, of course.”

I snorted half-heartedly, offering what I hoped was a reassuring look. “It’s nothing you need worry about, Lockwood. She got on my nerves, but I’m able to deal with any further feelings on my own.”

He wasn’t convinced. “Luce—”

“I’m fine,” I said. And I was. Probably.

Prettiness wasn’t my profession. I was content with my apprentice, even if it wasn’t much to be proud of. I had nice eyes, and I liked the way my waist was shaped. I had some things about myself I was fond of.  I wasn’t about to let the words of a cosmetically challenged rich girl define my self worth. And I didn’t blush every time he smiled at me, did I? That was ridiculous. George would’ve teased me about it ages ago if I’d been doing that.

“Liar,” said the skull, once more. I glared pointedly in the direction of the jar.

“Oh, all right, then,” I retorted, “tell me what I’m lying about. Enlighten me, Skull.”

“Besides always claiming to abide by the one biscuit at a time rule, you’re lying about what you feel for Lockwood,” the Skull drawled, “It’s sickening, I tell you. You’re going to wind up Ghost Touched, the lot of you, for all the time you spend smiling and blushing and staring at one another. I wish you’d just get it over with, telling him, so you stop with all your blasted sighing.”

“I don’t do that,” I retorted, even though I felt heat beginning to rise to my cheeks, “and what she said about— never mind. I don’t know why I’m entertaining this. I’ve got thicker skin than to let someone who I don’t even know do my head in.”

“Hold on,” Lockwood said, and honestly, for a moment, I’d forgotten he was there, “what’d she say to you? I can surely take it up with our client if she offended you. My patience with her is already rather thin, with her disrupting the investigation, and I prefer not to have my operatives face disrespect if I can help it.”

“Yes, tell him,” the Skull said, “tell him that she said you’re an unsightly troll and that’s why he isn’t interested in you.”

This was all becoming too much. I felt heat settle in the apples of my cheeks, much to my annoyance.

“That isn’t what she said at all,” I said, leaving out the added troll comment, “she didn’t say anything about my appearance. Why do you care about this, anyway?”

“Because I like watching you squirm. But you don’t deny the last bit, do you?”

“First of all, rude,” I said, “and second of all, no, I don’t. She phrased it differently than that, though.”

“Phrased what differently?” Lockwood said, and I ignored him.

“Right, right, she said;” the Skull cleared its nonexistent throat, warping its voice into a hideous falsetto, “and you? Why would he be interested in a troll like you?”

“No,” I said, “why are you so set on her calling me a troll? I think you’re the one who wants to call me a—”

“Lucy!” Lockwood cried, successfully getting my attention this time, and by now, the color in my cheeks had spread down to my neck, and I felt hot with embarrassment.

“Did she upset you in any way?” Lockwood said, “I noticed you were particularly cross in the kitchen, when we found her.”

“I was already cross,” I said, “you would be too if you found someone messing about during an active investigation.”

“Well, cross-er ,” Lockwood relented, “she called you a troll?”

I sighed. “No. That was something the skull added.”

“I was merely reading between the lines.”

“Shut up,” I said, nudging the bag containing the jar with my foot, “what she said isn’t important. I’m fine. I’m just frustrated that she managed to get under my skin.”

“Well,” Lockwood said, a half smile tugging at his lips, “for all intents and purposes, I think you’re lovely.”

I wasn’t exactly sure what face I was making in that instant, but I probably resembled a deer in the headlights. It was like something in my brain just completely stopped working as I stared at him, unsure of how to even begin to formulate a response. My heart was doing that familiar, funny thing it does whenever Lockwood is involved, but on a far greater scale than I was used to. My face was hot enough to fry an egg on, and I was surprised that steam wasn’t rising from my skin.

For someone as perfectly lovely as Lockwood to say that I could be described as the same word wasn’t something I really knew how to comprehend.

Surely, he was simply commenting on my abilities as an operative, or as a friend. He was probably just trying to make me feel better, which was strange, because not even I was sure what I was feeling. Whatever it was, it was extending dangerously beyond the realm of platonic that I tried hard to stay within when it came to Lockwood.

I wanted to say a retort of some kind, sharp and snappy; in an effort to deflect his confusing compliment with the banter I was more used to between the two of us, but instead, all that came out of my mouth was:

“What?”

“She commented on your appearance?” He said, as casually as if he was discussing the weather, “well, now, so am I, if I may.”

“She didn’t,” I said, stupidly.

“Oh,” Lockwood said, “well, I still stand by that statement regardless.”

I wasn’t sure what to do. Before he’d followed up with that bit, I was going to politely thank him for commenting on what had to be my abilities as an agent, but that had completely evaporated. He didn’t mean my skills. He meant me.

And everything imploded. It was like someone smashed the thin glass window between us, as my suppressed feelings, the ones I only ever entertained when I was alone, rushed in like an unblocked river. I denied it relentlessly, but every shared glance with Lockwood made my heart feel like it was twisting into the Windsor knots he wore his ties in. I’d long dismissed it as nerves when I was in the field, and as pure silliness when I was at Portland Row, because that was what it had to be.

There was no way he’d look at me like I was sunshine when I was standing in the kitchen the morning after a case, spreading jam on toast and dressed in my silly pink-and-yellow nightie. There was no way I’d catch him looking at me like I was precious and incredible when he thought I wasn’t paying attention, or that his caution and care for me was in any way different than his concern for George or Holly when we were in the field. I’d dismissed it as imagination, because it had to be. I was silly for all of it.

But he’d demolished all of that in a single blow, and with so few words that it was astonishing. I stared at him some more, at a complete loss for words, and an infuriating, mirthful glitter worked its way into his dark eyes.

“What?” I said, once more, my voice a little strangled, “you— you what?”

“I said I stand by—”

“No,” I interjected, “I heard you. I think. You think I’m pretty? That’s what you’re saying?”

A short chuckle. “Well, that’s usually what people mean when they call someone else ‘lovely,’ Luce.”

I was too stunned to formulate any kind of intelligent response, and it didn’t help that the skull was being suspiciously quiet.

“How long have you thought that?” I asked.

“Great question,” the skull said, “do you have any others just as silly?”

“Always,” Lockwood said, as if it were obvious, “I think I realized just how lovely you were when we went to the Fittes ball together. Blue really is your color, I think. But really, I’ve thought that about you since we met.”

I reached up unconsciously, to where the very same pendant he’d given to me that night rested just below where my collarbones met. I didn’t understand how he could say things like this so casually, like when he’d ever-so-nonchalantly told me he’d die for me beneath the department store during the Chelsea Outbreak. Now, it was this. A casual confession of attraction, said in the same unapologetic way.

He continued to stare at me, glimmering mirth and something dangerously close to affection in his eyes, and I knew.

“Have you… been flirting with me?”

He laughed at that. A merry, lovely sound. He stepped closer, just a few paces, and I had to bend my neck back a bit to look up at him.

“What do you think?”

I felt annoyance bubble in my chest. It joined with the other emotions I was feeling in an exhilarating concoction as I stared up at him with wild, incredulous eyes, and I finally allowed impulse to take over, because I couldn’t take itanymore.

“You’re an idiot, Lockwood,” I said.

Faster than even I could comprehend, and before I even knew what I was doing, I was grabbing the front of his greatcoat by the lapels, and in another quick motion, I was on my tiptoes, my lips molding against his.

He made a sound of surprise when our mouths met, and when he did, it seemed to break through the impulsive haze that had overtaken me. Mortification growing, because I’d just kissed my employer, I was about to pull back to apologize until I was blue in the face, but then his hands found my waist, and he was pulling me flush against his body, stopping any thoughts of doubt in their tracks.

My hands moved from the front of his coat to his chest, and then my arms were around his neck, and one of his hands was in my hair, drifting down so his palm could cup my face as he sighed against my lips.

He tasted like the Earl Grey tea he’d been drinking earlier, something that didn’t surprise me, but thrilled me nonetheless.

He pulled back for a mere second before diving back in, repeating the action a few more times before I felt his teeth graze my lower lip, sending sparks dancing down my spine, and I knew for a fact that the dam between us was breaking for him as well. He’d been craving this just as much as I had.

I made an unintentional sound against his mouth, a soft, breathy gasp, and I could feel him moving, crowding me against the wall not far behind me. The kiss grew fierce and unrestrained and passionate, turning into the kind of kiss that came from an endless amount of pining; the kind where you couldn’t help yourself anymore. My mind was full of something similar to Ghost Fog, only far more pleasant.

It felt good to kiss Lockwood, I realized. It was fulfilling a need I didn’t even know was there, or maybe one that I’d been ignoring. I didn’t particularly care which it was at this point, and from the way Lockwood’s hands slid down my body to slip under my coat, resting comfortably in the bend of my waist, he didn’t care, either.

My hands rose to tangle in his hair, and I felt electricity buzzing in my blood at the soft sound he made against my mouth as my fingers combed through thick dark locks, nails gently scraping his scalp. His hands slid further down my body to rest on my hips, long fingers bunching in the fabric of my skirt before drifting upwards once more and slipping under the bottom hem of my sweater. The feel of his palms against my bare skin drew a sudden gasp, sending my head spinning off into outer space. One of my hands slipped from his hair to the back of his neck, then sliding down to wrap around his tie, fingers catching in the knot, using it to tug him gently closer.

Slowly, reluctantly, Lockwood pulled back, enough to put a small gaps between our mouths, and I wanted to close the distance once more, but he spoke before I could do so.

“Were you jealous? Of Miss Quintrell?”

In response, I pulled him back into a kiss, which he allowed for a frenzied moment before gently pulling away.

“It doesn’t matter,” I said, brain still wreathed in fog.

“So that’s a yes, then?”

The laugher in his voice made my blood boil, but a smile tugged at the corners of my mouth. I looked down, my eyes fixing on a fleck of salt that was stuck to Lockwood’s collar, debris from a salt bomb we’d set off during our tangle with the Visitors in the master bedroom. I moved my hand from where it remained on his tie, flicking the granule away with my thumb.

Lockwood’s hand found my face, cradling my jaw, an action that seemed almost forbidden when coupled with the unfamiliarity of it, and I unconsciously leaned into his touch.

“Luce, please. Tell me, did she upset you?”

“It’s stupid, really,” I said, “she just said I didn’t have the guts to go after a boy I fancied, and that she did.“

Smug satisfaction settled on Lockwood’s face. “So you fancy me?”

I stared at him. “Obviously. Why do you think I spent the last few minutes snogging you? That’s a usual activity between people who fancy one another. She also implied I wasn’t very pretty, but I don’t particularly care about that. Prettiness has never been my profession.”

He ignored the former part of my statement, brow furrowing. “Who ever told you that you’re not beautiful, Lucy? And who taught you that rubbish?”

I shrugged, indifferent. “My mother.”

Lockwood made a displeased face. “I reckon I’m going to have to have a serious talk with your mother.”

That one sentence alone sent butterflies swarming my stomach, but the mental image of Lockwood facing off against my mother was enough to make me smile, my heart glowing with warmth.

“Before you do that,” I said, “do me a favor?”

Lockwood smiled lopsidedly. “Yeah? And what would that be?”

“Kiss me again.”

And he did. It was softer this time, with less of the frantic energy from before, now that the mutual affection we had for each other was firmly established. There was no Madeline Quintrell now, just Lockwood and me, in each other’s arms. We were so wrapped up in each other that we didn’t hear the door opening.

“I finished the sweep of the upper floor— Oh!”

It was Holly. Lockwood and I broke apart quickly, and I realized how compromising our position was. I was still backed against the wall, lips kiss swollen, and Lockwood’s usually neat hair was in disarray, even though he still somehow made it seem intentional and elegant. It was clear what we’d been doing.

Lockwood and I looked at each other, identical deer-in-the-headlights expressions adorning our faces, and I turned my head to look at Holly.

As she took in the scene, I watched as a slow smile spread across her lips, broadening to a grin, before she turned halfway to the door behind her.

“George! You and Kipps owe me twenty quid! Each!”

“What?!” Came George’s muffled voice, “why?!”

Holly looked at us and then back to the door, giving us a knowing smile before turning and walking away.

“You know why!” I heard her say as she closed the door behind her.

“Did they bet on us?” I asked, astonished, and Lockwood chuckled.

“Seems so. I wasn’t exactly subtle with the flirting, I’m surprised it took you as long as it has to realize what I was doing. I suppose they caught on before you did.”

That was embarrassing. I felt my cheeks warm again.

“Yeah, well, excuse me for that,” I said dryly, “I’m not exactly used to being flirted with, especially when someone like you is doing the flirting.”

Lockwood looked at me quizzically. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

I laughed, astonished. “You mean— Lockwood, you’d have to be completely thick not to realize how attractive you are. You’ve surely seen the effect you have on girls— Madeline Quintrell is a testament to that.”

I was surprised I was able to be as blasé about that as I was, but snogging the life out of someone kind of gets rid of the need to beat around the bush, I think.

“I’m aware I’m charismatic,” Lockwood said, stepping away from me, but remaining close, “I know how to talk to people and tell them what they want to hear. I’m also aware that I’m what’s considered to be conventionally attractive, if that’s what you mean. But I don’t see what that has to do with me finding you to be lovely.”

I combed my hand through my hair, patting it down, and straightening my clothing.

“You’re sort of out of my league,” I said, “that’s what I mean.”

Lockwood smoothed his hair back into place, straightening his tie.

“Nonsense,” he said, “if anything, you’re out of my league. I don’t deserve you, Lucy. London doesn’t deserve a girl as wonderful as you.”

And that was where he ended the conversation, leaning down to press a kiss to the tip of my nose, and sending my emotions into a tailspin once more.  Thoroughly flustered, I reached down and pulled my backpack onto my shoulders. Lockwood and I finished sweeping the lower floor with minimal chatter, bathed in a comfortable silence as his hand rested on the small of my back.

After we’d finished, we met the others in the kitchen, where Holly was smiling like the cat that got the cream, and George looked like someone who had just lost twenty quid. He quickly busied himself with calling a night cab, ignoring us.

We’d booked a hotel in the nearby village in advance since the trains back to London wouldn’t be running again until morning. I was to be rooming with Holly, which wasn’t a problem, I was used to doing so when cases took us away from London for a few days. What was a problem, however, was the way she was looking at me like she wanted to wring me out for information every time I caught her eye. It also wasn’t helpful that the skull kept bemoaning about baring witness to Lockwood and me in the living room back at Bancroft Hall.

“If I weren’t already dead, I’d carve out my own eyeballs and die again. Disgusting.”

I decided that was enough of that, and turned the tap closed for the night.

I took a shower and tucked into bed after that, and was asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow.

All of us were so tired that we didn’t particularly care for conversation as we packed our things and boarded the train back to London. I fell asleep in our train compartment, and only woke when George shook me awake. Lockwood kept stealing looks at me, giving me smiles that made my stomach do backflips, and I could think of nothing but what had happened the night before in the living room of Bancroft Hall. I hoped it wasn’t a one-off thing, and that Lockwood’s attraction was more than just attraction, as mine was for him.

I’d dismissed it as a silly crush at first, and tried to push it down until it faded out, like crushes tend to do. I thought my stint away from the company after the Chelsea Outbreak would remedy that somewhat, but if anything, it just made it stronger. It reached a boiling point when I actually rejoined, and by then, I realized that my feelings for Lockwood were very much not platonic, like I’d been insisting to myself. I’d just been the last to realize it.

I’d have to get the outsider’s perspective from Holly, since the last thing I wanted to do was talk about boys with George, but I was still a little too mortified to look her in the eye after she’d walked in on us. Good thing she’d split from us upon our return to Portland Row, undoubtedly on her way to her apartment to see Dalia.

George started on a late breakfast after dropping his things in his room, and I retreated to my own as well. I figured I’d have a nap a bit later, after I’d eaten.

I didn’t even hear Lockwood come upstairs, and I didn’t even notice he was there until he cleared his throat. I jumped so hard I almost tripped over my discarded boots.

“Blimey,” I said, “knock next time.”

He smiled. “Sorry. I wanted to talk to you.”

I looked at him warily, crossing my arms. “Alright. I’m listening.”

“What happened last night,” he started, and I tensed, waiting for what he said next. I was waiting for him to say that it couldn’t happen again, or that it was a mistake, but instead, he said, “I meant every word of what I said to you.”

I blinked, a little owlishly. “You did?”

He stepped closer, and I did as well, tentatively. “I fancy you, Lucy Carlyle,” he said, and I felt my heart stutter in my chest, “would you…”

Would you believe it? He was blushing. I’d never seen him blush before, and it was even more obvious because of how pale he was. It was one of the most endearing things I’d ever seen.

“Would I what?” I asked, voice quiet; expectant.

“Would you like to have dinner with me? Just the two of us, obviously. I know the head chef at a restaurant in Kensington, he owes me a favor. If you’d accompany me, I’d be honored.”

I was smiling so hard my cheeks hurt. “Yeah,” I said, “I mean, yes. I’d love to have dinner with you, Lockwood.”

He swallowed, sighing, then broke into a smile. “I’d like to take you to so many more places, Lucy. It would make me very happy to be yours.”

I stepped closer, taking his hands in mine, squeezing. My stomach was aflutter with butterflies and ladybirds and every other thing that flies. I wasn’t used to this, but that didn’t mean I didn’t like it. It thrilled me and terrified me all at once. It was incredible.

“And I would be happy to have you,” I replied, raising my head to look at him. His hand slipped from mine to cradle my jaw.

“You really are so lovely,” he whispered, nothing but affection in his dark eyes.

And he leaned down to kiss me, a smile still on his lips. It was perfect.

And, for the record, so was that dinner.

[starfinss]

ɪɴᴄɪᴅᴇɴᴛꜱ ᴀᴛ ʙᴀɴᴄʀᴏꜰᴛ ʜᴀʟʟ — ᴄʜ. 1

Chapter Two can be found here!

𝘍𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘰𝘮: Lockwood & Co.

𝘗𝘢𝘪𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨: Anthony Lockwood + Lucy Carlyle

𝘙𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨: SFW

𝘞𝘰𝘳𝘥 𝘊𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘵: 7,227

𝘚𝘶𝘮𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘺: 

“Skull,” I hissed, “is there something here with us?”

“Nothing dead, if that’s what you’re asking.”

I didn’t respond, thoroughly miffed, but still on guard. I positioned my rapier in front of my body to act as a shield, and when I heard another sound, I found myself whirling around, zeroing in on the source of the disturbance with mechanical efficiency, only to come face to face with…

A person. A girl. Wide, made-up eyes stared back at me, set in a cute, freckled face, and attached to a throat I was currently pointing my rapier at.

Or, alternatively, the client’s daughter flirts with Lockwood, is a massive nuisance, and Lucy gets jealous, among other things.

It was a bright, cool autumn morning, just after the rather perilous conclusion of the Case of the Flying Top Hat, and Lockwood, George and I were just tucking into breakfast, when someone came ringing the bell out in front of 35 Portland Row.

Holly welcomed whoever had come round dutifully inside without any of us prompting her to do so, and I heard the various sounds of her getting them settled in the living room before her footsteps came towards the kitchen; she poked her head through the open door.

“There’s a client here to see you,” she said, “a Sir Ignatius Quintrell.”

“Fine,” Lockwood said, placing his napkin on The Thinking Cloth, “we’ll be right out.”

The man sitting in our loving room was somewhat an odd fellow. He was a barrel chested man with long arms and legs. He had a great square head with small, watery blue eyes set under heavy, dark eyebrows, and a carefully combed head of jet-black hair, greying at the temples. The handlebar mustache that dominated his upper lip made him resemble a cartoon villain. A spotless bowler hat sat atop his head. He reeked of money and class, as evident from his Italian suit that undoubtedly cost more than myself and Lockwood combined, and his garish scarlet tie, fastened by an ornate gold tie clip. That bit cost more than George. From the top of his hat to the toes of his gleaming shoes, he was a strange amalgamation of something out of a Victorian novel and a character from a comic book.

“Ah,” he said in a booming voice, and though plaster didn’t fall from the ceiling, it came close, “Mr Lockwood. A pleasure to meet the young man who vanquished the spirits in Combe Carey Hall, and his associates. I am Sir Ignatius Qunitrell, and I implore you help me.”

He spoke with one of the poshest accents I’d ever heard, and that, alongside his manner of of dress, made everything about him mildly comical. From the bemused look on my colleagues faces, I could tell that my observation was one we all made.

Lockwood broke the silence with a cough, crossing to sit on the sofa. I joined him after a second, and George busied himself with gathering the things to make a fresh pot of tea.

“How may we do that, sir?” Lockwood asked, folding his hands neatly in his lap.

A broad smile appeared, revealing a gold tooth on the right side of his mouth. “Marvelous of you to ask, Mr Lockwood. My wife and I have recently purchased a third house, over in Buckinghamshire. Lovely property, with a smashing guest house and pool. But my darling girl, my Madeline, has been seeing something in her new bedroom, I’m afraid. She’s scared out of her mind, and refuses to sleep in there, but won’t sleep anywhere else. You can see my problem, yes?”

Lockwood nodded empathetically. “Yes, sir, quite clearly.”

“My sweet Madeline is beside herself with fear. She read about your agency in True Hauntings, and asked for you specifically, so I came to fetch you. We’re willing to pay whatever figure you name— plus extra.”

I could already tell Lockwood was in by the way he was smiling. I knew as well as he did that this man was high society; completing a job with him would be excellent publicity. Besides, I knew him well enough to know that he would never refuse being asked for directly by a client.

George reappeared after a moment with a trey of teacups, which he passed out before taking a seat in his usual armchair.

“Tell us more about your ghost, Sir Quintrell,” Lockwood said after taking his cup, interest glittering in his dark eyes.

Relief seemed to show on Sir Quintrell’s face for a few seconds before the expression grew pleased. And so, he settled into his armchair, took a deep drink of tea, and began to speak.

“The property, called Bancroft Hall, was built in the late middle of the nineteenth century, and originally belonged to a duchess by the name of Cornelia Bancroft. She had the home built when her husband died, and lived there with her three young daughters. Some years later, the Duchess met a local businessman by the name of Daniel Frayne, and fell in love with him. They married after a rather short courtship, and the marriage was frowned upon because of his lower social status. All fairly normal happenstance, if you ask me.”

“But?” George asked, popping a biscuit into his mouth.

Sir Quintrell gave another wide smile. “Ah, yes. How astute of you, my good fellow. There always is a ‘but,’ isn’t there?” He folded his hands in his lap. “Their marriage was happy for some time, but soured, according to a servant’s recount of the events, a scullery maid, if I recall. The pair would argue often, and then there were mentions of a mistress, though I never found much information about that while looking into the estate’s history. All that matters is that Frayne ended up murdering his wife one night, and then proceeded to hang himself from the bedroom’s chandelier.”

“And the daughters?” I asked.

“Yes, the daughters,” Sir Quintrell said, “two of them left the estate and never returned. But one, the eldest, stayed behind to care for her mother’s home. She ended up dying on the property as well, unfortunately, by drowning herself in a bathtub. The house was eventually sold to the county, and was turned into a boarding house. It then went to one of the Duchess’ distant relatives after a time, and it remained in the family until the last member died, and my wife and I purchased it. It wasn’t until we moved in that we noticed the Visitor activity.”

“An esteemed history, indeed,” Lockwood said, “Holly, did you get that? Good. George will need it.”

“Does that mean you’re accepting my offer?” Sir Quintrell asked. Lockwood’s smile grew.

“When do you want us to be there?”

A light sparked behind our new client’s eyes, and he clasped his hands together.

“As soon as you can, Mr Lockwood. The sooner you can come, the more I will pay you, in fact.”

“Then we’ll be there tonight,” Lockwood said, and I looked sidelong at George, fully expecting the outraged expression he was wearing. He rose from the sofa with a sigh, shuffling off into the house, undoubtedly to prepare for a trip to the archives. Holly handed him her notebook on his way out.

The conversation after that was short, mostly just Lockwood and our guest exchanging pleasantries that I was surprised didn’t put me to sleep before Sir Quintrell excused himself, picking up a long, slim walking stick I hadn’t noticed before from beside his chair, and then he was gone just as quickly as he’d come.

“You ought to think more about George before you agree so quickly,” I said, and Lockwood simply smiled.

“He’ll be alright. You worry too much, Luce.” He gave me one of those smiles of his that made my stomach feel all funny. “Now, would you like another cup of tea?”

As the day grew late, we worked in the basement office as Holly cleaned and organized our kit until it gleamed, and then once more until it was blinding. George came back a handful of hours later, still grumpy about the time crunch, and told us that Sir Quintrell had told us most of what we needed to know. He had found a floor plan of Bancroft Hall, however, that he’d photocopied for all four of us. He’d also found guest registry from when the hall served as a boarding house, but beyond that, much of the information was what we already knew.

Holly rechecked our kits, and I helped her sort through them before repacking and making sure the iron filings had been filled and stocked sufficiently. I knew I didn’t need to, Holly was perfectly efficient as always, but it gave me something to do besides stabbing a dummy with my rapier.

Shortly before dusk, we were on the train to Buckinghamshire.

“I reckon we could get to Chequers from here,” George remarked as we got off the train, heavy duffle bags slung over our shoulders, “just pop round. I wonder if the P.M. is in.”

“Maybe he’ll need our services one day,” Lockwood said with a grin, “we’d be set for life with that sort of money, wouldn’t we?”

As we left the station, a stout, flaxen haired youth was waiting for us with a car, and he said very little as he took the bags from us with surprising ease and shoved them into the boot.

The resulting car trip was short, and gave me some time to watch the rolling green hills go by. It looked like a painting, one you’d see hanging at an art museum. Fluffy sheep grazed in the fields, seemingly unaffected by the chill of autumn. The sky was blue, fading into pastels as the sun sank, leaving hues of lavender behind and speckles of stars.

George tried to question our driver about the reputation of Bancroft Hall, but got little out of him besides that he didn’t know the Quintrell family very well, they were paying him twenty quid to pick us up, and that he was late for church. That was all he would say, and when Lockwood tried to start small talk, he was met with a vicious glare.

We sat in uncomfortable silence until we reached the hall, all afraid to anger the driver into crashing the car, or something similar, and when we were safely out of the vehicle, our kits in our hands, we weren’t at all surprised to see the car speed off, leaving a plume of dust in its wake.

That was when we caught our first glimpse of Bancroft Hall.

It was a massive, sprawling structure of two wings, built in Victorian style, out of bright stone blocks. Pillars with scalloped edges held up the great carved awning, which yawned over us like a massive jaw. The windows were wide and tall, with lush red curtains hanging beyond the glass like eyelids, obscuring the recesses. Molting bushes hugged the walls, colorful leaves dotting the space around them. Conical bushes lined the front walkway, groomed immaculately. The entire house seemed to be leaning towards us, casting chilly shadows as it sat before us, backlit by the setting sun, making it seem like it was a living thing. It was a beautiful house, regardless. It reminded me of what a mausoleum would look like if it were for the living.  

“Well,” Lockwood said, flashing a smile, “shall we?”

Before he even rose his hand to use one of the great brass knockers, the door swung open to reveal Sir Quintrell, grinning at us broadly. He ushered us in with the grandiosity we expected of him, even after our rather brief interaction with him at Portland Row.

The entrance hall was a vast room, decorated with soft blues and pastel yellows. The carpet, an intricate Persian thing, was spread across the hardwood floor, just before the sweeping steps, which were made of deep mahogany. There was a sideboard made of heavy, polished wood over by the staircase, which had been stuffed so full of family photos that no room was left on the surface for anything else.

“We’ve been waiting for you, Mr Lockwood,” Sir Quintrell said, voice as booming as ever, “my wife has cooked a sumptuous meal, so I hope you all have an appetite. Surely, we have time before you need to work, yes?”

“It will cut it a little close,” George said, “We need to get ourselves set up, sir—”

“Nonsense,” Lockwood said, waving George off, “we have time for a short meal. George, stop worrying so much. Surely, it would be rude of us to refuse.”

We followed Sir Quintrell into the dining room, where a wonderful scent hit me, and suddenly, the sandwich I’d had on the train was hardly enough to fill my stomach. A woman was waiting in the room at the head of the table, grinning broadly at the four of us.

She was rather short, and shaped very much like a pear. She had a face that reminded me of some sort of holiday elf, with round, merry cheeks and happy, upturned green eyes. Her hair was bright red, done up with clips and piled high on her head. She wore a pair of black slacks paired with a pale pink blouse under a cream colored cardigan that almost completely swallowed her body. A pair of diamond earrings that surely cost more than our house dangled from her earlobes.

The woman, Lady Quintrell, was a warm, motherly sort, who behaved as if she’d known us our entire lives, making sure all of us ate our fills, serving us a delectable plum pudding upon finishing our meals. I could barely finish mine, I was so full, so I discreetly passed my dish to George when Lady Quintrell wasn’t looking.

As we polished off our meals, Sir Quintrell excused himself, saying no more than that he’d return shortly, and when he did, he had a young girl with him.

She looked like a combination of Sir and Lady Quintrell, so I could only imagine she was their daughter. She looked to be a little younger than me, possibly fifteen at best, maybe fourteen. Her hair was the same flaming red as her mother’s, worn hay straight, and her eyes were pale blue, like her father’s. She had a round-ish face, with a small chin and rosy cheeks scattered with countless freckles. Her eyes were large, and I’m no makeup expert, but I’m fairly certain she was wearing a touch too much mascara. The resulting look made her appear to be in a constant state of shock. She was wearing a fitted white sweater dress with dark leggings, as well as high heeled ankle boots that couldn’t possibly be comfortable.

For some reason, I instantly hated her. I’ve gotten better at having positive opinions about other girls upon meeting them, becoming closer friends with Holly had certainly helped with that, but I felt that familiar feeling of disdain well up inside me as I studied her. I tried to shove it down, telling myself to give her a chance before making a judgement, but something about her boiled my blood.

“Mr Lockwood, I’d like you and your associates to meet my daughter, Madeline. She’s a big fan of your work, I hope you know.“

The girl’s round eyes scanned our faces with interest, pausing on Lockwood’s for the longest, a sweet smile spreading across her pretty lips. I felt my stomach do a funny twist, but I ignored it. I didn’t have time to think about what that could mean just before a case. I left those sorts of emotions at the door of a haunted location, no exceptions.

“Charming,” Lockwood said, the megawatt smile he reserved for clients appearing on his face, “it’s quite an honor to be the agency you think of highly enough to request for your problem, Miss Quintrell.”

Madeline let out a soft, tinkling giggle that made my blood squirm in my veins. I forced a polite smile, as if she wasn’t making odd, angry thoughts fill my mind. It was not a gesture that was returned.

“You’re really a genius, Mr Lockwood,” she said, batting her overdone lashes, “I love seeing you in True Hauntings and The Times.”

Lockwood puffed up, glowing from the praise. His smile grew. “Yes, well. It’s even more charming to meet a fan, isn’t it?“ His dark eyes fixed on us, glittering with merriment.

The three of made varying noises of assent, with Holly’s sounding the most genuine, but from the guarded, polite smile on her face, I could tell she wasn’t entirely sure what to make of this girl either.

George cleared his throat suddenly, rising from the table. “We really should get started,” he said, “before it gets darker.”

“Yes, indeed,” Sir Quintrell bellowed, and I swore the windowpanes shook, “wouldn’t want us keeping you. My darlings, let us get to the guest house and let the agents work. If there is any problems, Mr Lockwood, ring us down there. There is a phone in the kitchen. No reason is a silly reason, even if you’re simply calling to chat.”

Lockwood smiled politely. “Your hospitality is splendid, Sir Quintrell. We will keep that in mind.”

The Quintrell family left shortly after that, only interrupted by Madeline claiming she’d forgotten something in her bedroom, and then they were gone, closing the door behind them, and leaving the house to us.

“RIght,” Lockwood said, pressing his gloved palms together, “fine. I suppose there’s no need for biscuits, but who’d like some tea?”

Holly put the kettle on, and as we drank tea, George went over the floor plan with us. The house was a maze of a thing, full of winding corridors and dead ends. It was nowhere near the level of Combe Carrey Hall, but it was a monster of a structure, and I imagined that it would be quite easy to lose one’s way. George had marked spots of activity on the maps he’d passed out to us, as well as routes to and from said active points, leading both to the entryway and to the kitchen, where we’d decided to set up our base due to the large amount of iron located there.

The points of activity marked were the master bedroom and the bathroom attached to Madeline’s bedroom. This made sense, due to the deaths that occurred in such locations, but, like always, I imagined things wouldn’t be as open and shut as they seemed. That was just how it went when you’re with Lockwood & Co.

This was proven by the point of activity in the third floor sitting room, which George hadn’t found much on besides rumors, but according to him, it was worth checking out regardless. The rumors entailed the sound of weeping and a horrible feeling of dread when one sat alone in the room, and Holly remarked that it sounded like a Shade or a Lurker, something we all agreed with her on.

With that all squared away, Holly decided she’d investigate the third floor sitting room with George, and Lockwood and I would investigate the second floor’s visitations. After the bathroom and the sitting room were taken care of, we’d regroup and investigate the master bedroom as a team due to the fact that this was where the initial deaths had occurred, making it the most likely epicenter of the haunting.

As Lockwood and I ascended the stairs to the second floor, I reached back to turn the tap attached to the jar in my backpack. As I did, a psychic pressure materialized, settling neatly into a familiar spot inside my inner ear, and the sardonic voice of the skull in the jar filled my head.

“Ah, good,” the voice whispered, “You’re listening. Now, Lucy, find a nice heavy pan and hit that red headed blighter—”

“No,” I said, before it could finish, “I’m not doing that, skull.”

“You never take my advice,” it said, “but really, you’d be better off in the long run. What’s that girl ever going to provide for society besides dimness and far too much cosmetic application?”

I ignored its last comment. “I take your advice plenty. When it’s useful, though, not when you’re suggesting the casual murder of our client’s daughter for no other reason but your personal amusement.

Lockwood hid his laugh with a cough. “What’s it saying?”

I rolled my eyes. “The usual drivel.”

A soft, spectral scoff. “I’ll have you know that this is no drivel, but a serious suggestion that will benefit all of us. I have only your best interests at heart, Lucy.”

“And Ghost Touch isn’t lethal,” I shot back, “do you sense anything yet?”

“No, nothing yet,” the ghost said, “and I still say my plan is the only sensible option. I’ll bet the office has a nice letter opener you could use. Sneak down to their posh guest house and drive the blade into her posh throat. Get her posh parents while you’re at it. I won’t tell.”

I hummed. “You won’t, no. Because I’m the only one who can hear you, skull.”

A quiet excitement filled the voice when it spoke next. “So you’ll do it? Lucy, I knew you’d come around. Now, first—”

“No, Skull,” I interjected, “I’m not murdering anyone with a letter opener.”

“Drat.”

“Yeah,” Lockwood said, mirth spilling into his voice, “normal things, I see.”

The skull stayed quiet as we rounded the corner, following Lockwood’s map to Madeline’s bedroom, our boots ringing faintly on the hardwood floors. The sun had fully set, and the hallway was dark, casting us in semi-darkness as moonlight spilled through the tall, floor to ceiling windows.

“Should be here,” Lockwood said, stopping before a door, then stepping back with a dramatic flourish, “ladies first.”

For once, he was right. He’d been the one to open the first door during our last investigation, and I supposed I did owe it to him, because upon pushing open that door, he’d immediately been accosted by a mountain of falling cushions. Oh, and a Limbless, too. That was far from pleasant. Don’t ask me what a Limbless was doing in a linen cupboard, because I wouldn’t be able to tell you.

I stepped past Lockwood, resting my hand on the knob and focusing, tapping into my inner ear, but got nothing. Slowly, I turned the handle, pushing the door open.

The room reminded me of something out of a magazine or a teen film. The bed was large, set in a four poster frame, cheerfully painted white. The duvet was patterned with daisies on a soft, sky blue backdrop, with matching pillowcases. A handful of stuffed animals sat against the throw cushions. Posters for bands and television shows hung on the walls, and below the window on the left wall was a desk, painted the same white as the bed frame. Textbooks and school supplies sat neatly arranged on the desktop. A vanity was nearby, the mirror wreathed in photographs, makeup organized on the surface. A walk-in closet was attached to the wall to the right of the bed, and on the right side of the room was a door, leading to what was undoubtedly the bathroom.

“Blimey,” Lockwood said, “looks like an advert for a furniture shop in here.”

As we stepped into the room, I heard a sudden crash. I started, and I was about to ask Lockwood if he’d heard the same thing, as he often doesn’t hear all the same things I do, but from the look on his face, I could tell there was no need for me to ask.

“The devil was that?” Lockwood asked, and I simply shrugged.

“Stay here,” I said, “It sounded like it came from the study next door.”

“Oh, goodie,” the skull jeered, “yes, go get the letter opener.”

I ignored it, drawing my sword as I stepped out of the bedroom and into the hall. Slowly, with practiced, catlike grace, I approached the closed study door, pressing my ear against the wood. I could hear something inside, moving about, but I wasn’t sure if it was something living or not. George hadn’t said anything about a visitation in the second floor study, but it was possible he’d somehow missed something.

Rapier at the ready, I pushed open the door, eyes scanning the dim room for any sign of movement. The room was a high-ceilinged, airy space, with tall, floor to ceiling windows on the far wall, overlooking the rolling hills behind the property and flooding the space with moonlight. The desk was punished against the wall with the windows, scattered with books and writing utensils. Heavy mahogany bookshelves lined the walls, stuffed full of thick volumes. A bright red area rug dominated much of the floor space.

Because of the windows, there was little space to hide in the shadows, so I assumed, as any agent would, that what I’d heard had been a Visitor. I was about to pull my map out to check the floor plan when I heard another bit of shuffling, just over my shoulder. I tuned myself to the room, listening, but I picked up nothing besides the usual empty silence that comes with un-haunted rooms. I furrowed my brows, puzzled.

“Skull,” I hissed, “is there something here with us?”

“Nothing dead, if that’s what you’re asking.”

I didn’t respond, thoroughly miffed, but still on guard. I positioned my rapier in front of my body to act as a shield, and when I heard another sound, I found myself whirling around, zeroing in on the source of the disturbance with mechanical efficiency, only to come face to face with…

A person. A girl. Wide, made-up eyes stared back at me, set in a cute, freckled face, and attached to a throat I was currently pointing my rapier at.

“Ooh,” the skull said, “now, there’s your reason to kill her. Or, you could just let the ghosts do that. Letter opener to the neck, lob her head off with your rapier, or let her get Ghost Touched. Your choice, Lucy.”

I stared at Madeline, forcing myself to take in what I was looking at as I lowered my sword, but I didn’t put it away. I stared at her some more, struggling with the feelings of sheer, utter confusion and absolutely boiling rage.

“What,” I hissed, “in the hell are you doing here? I could have run you through.”

She stared back at me, her jaw opening and closing like a rather shocked fish. “But I’m not a ghost, I���d’ve died if you’d done that.”

“Yes,” I said, stunned, and questioning whether or not she had a working brain, “you would’ve. I don’t carry a sword for fun, you nonce. Now, you will answer my question. What the hell are you doing here?”

Madeline shifted, a sweet smile spreading across her face, one that I suspected was known to work quite well in aiding this girl with getting her way. At present, it wasn’t doing its intended job.

“I just thought I could help.”

I wondered very seriously if she was completely brain dead, because only someone incredibly stupid would try to go into a known haunted location without any training or kit.

“Is she mental?” The skull said, a note of amusement in its voice, “well, who cares if she is? One less problem for you.”

I ignored the skull, continuing to stare at Madeline, unable to come up with a response to her statement that wasn’t a shriek of indignant rage.

“You thought you could help?” I parroted, my eyes narrowing in askance, “are you mad?”

She had the nerve to look offended. “Well, no. I—”

“You just assumed,” I said, incredulous, “that you could come in here, pick up a rapier, and do our job with us? Have you passed your Forth Grade? Undergone training? Do you have a copy of The Fittes Manual for Ghost Hunters? Done any form of rapier training?”

She laughed; a soft, simpering sound that made my blood boil.

“I’m sure it can’t all be too hard, can it? Where’s Mr Lockwood?”

I let out a derisive laugh, my bemusement showing plainly on my face. “Oh, you want to see Lockwood? Alright, I’ll take you to him.”

I shoved my rapier back into its spot on my belt, and, without worrying about being gentle, I grabbed Madeline around the upper arm and began to walk, marching her around the corner and into the bedroom where I’d left Lockwood. When I arrived, I didn’t let go of her, despite her weak struggling.

“Found anything, Luce?” Lockwood’s voice called, coming from the en-suite bathroom.

“Oh, yeah,” I said, my voice dripping with sardonic rage, “you’ll want to see it for yourself, this.”

Lockwood, undoubtedly put off by the tone of voice I’d adopted, appeared in the bathroom doorway with a thermometer in his hand. He looked at me for a few seconds, then at my squirming captive. He was clearly at a loss for words, and when Madeline smiled at him, as prettily as she could, his mouth pressed itself into a firm line.

“Hello, Miss Quintrell,” he said, forced professionalism saturating his words, “what are you doing here?”

“Oh,” she said, casually, like they’d met at a shop or something, “hi, Mr Lockwood. Please, just Madeline is fine. I just wanted to see if I could help. Do you have any spare rapiers? Maybe you could teach me, I’ve heard you’re very good with a sword. I’ve got good eyes, too.”

A muscle in Lockwood’s jaw twitched, something that only happens when he’s trying to keep his temper in check, which is rather a rare occurrence. I’ve only seen it happen when Kipps is involved, so this had certainly gotten on his nerves. Lockwood cleared his throat, the smile that appeared on his face a touch wolfish.

“You can let her go now, Lucy. Thanks. I’d prefer to stay professional, Miss Quintrell,” Lockwood said, voice eerily calm, “and furthermore, you do not have the level of training required to work alongside operatives such as Lucy or myself. It is far too dangerous. You need to leave.“

Madeline let out a soft, affronted scoff. She clearly wasn’t used to people telling her no. She crossed her arms, batting her lashes at Lockwood, who stared back at her, unmoved. His lack of a reaction seemed to trouble her.

“Come off it,” she said, the saccharine smile reappearing, “can’t you just protect me, Mr Lockwood? Can I call you Anthony?”

Lockwood’s expression didn’t falter, but I could tell she was testing his patience. “Just ‘Lockwood’ is fine,” he said, “everyone calls me that, even my friends. Nobody really uses my first name. And, I can’t keep my full attention on you during an investigation, I’m afraid. We can’t have you getting hurt, now, can we? Ghost touch is nasty business.”

“I won’t get hurt,” Madeline said, giggling, “really, I’m a fast learner. I’m very good in my lessons, all my instructors love me. They say I’m a star pupil.”

“Ooh, I’m betting you wish you’d followed my advice just about now,” the skull jeered, “stabbed her just there, in the jugular. She’d have been dead before she hit the ground.”

I ignored the skull again, but as it finished speaking, I felt something snap, and I was slightly more accepting of the letter opener idea.

“Miss Quintrell,” I said, voice cold, “it is too dangerous for you to be here. You’re only going to get in the way. It is safest if you leave.”

Lockwood chuckled, a little awkwardly. “She said it less delicately than I would have liked, but yes, Lucy is correct. It is for your own safety that you leave and join your family in the guest house, Miss Quintrell.”

Madeline turned towards me, and she did something that I’d seen girls do countless times before. With eyes like a predator, like I was something she’d stepped on, she scoffed. She was looking down on me, like I was some silly girl who didn’t know what she was talking about.

“Well, Lucy,” she said, “how do you know that you don’t get in the way?”

Rage boiled inside of me, and I was about to answer her, when Lockwood did it for me.

“That’s enough,” he said, voice frosty, “Lucy is one of the best agents in London, if not the best. She’s well trained, her Talent is strong, and she knows what she’s doing. You’d do well not to talk like that about my operatives, Miss Quintrell.”

I felt that funny, pleasant rush I get when Lockwood compliments me, and I smiled despite myself.

“Careful now,” the skull said, “something’s stirring. Or don’t be careful, this is only just starting to get good.”

That was something I wouldn’t ignore. Madeline was mid-sentence when I held up a hand, signaling for quiet.

“What is it, Luce?” Lockwood asked, “you hear something?”

“Maybe,” I said.

I tuned myself in, closing my eyes, and I listened. Ah, there. Just buzzing at the edges of my senses, I could hear something. The thrum of running water. It was clear enough that it could actually be there, outside my psychic senses; it sounded like someone running a bath behind a closed door. But I had a feeling that wasn’t what it was. I’d been stupid, letting my anger grow. The visitation had started.

“Did you turn on the tap, Lockwood?” I asked.

“No,” he replied, “do you hear water?”

“Yeah,” I said, “it’s quiet, but it sounds like a bath running. What was the temperature in the bathroom?”

“Fifteen,” he said, and he turned, walking into the bathroom again.

“It’s at ten now,” he remarked upon reemerging, “good bit colder.”

“What should I do?”

Both Lockwood and I started at the sound of Madeline’s voice. I’d forgotten she was there for a moment as I was faced with the responsibilities that come with my line of work.

“Miss Quintrell,” Lockwood said, with forced cheeriness, “you’re still here. You really should leave now. It’s not safe.”

“Stirring? I said stirring, didn’t I?” The skull mused, “it’s more like a whirlpool now, really. Use the girl as a shield, there’s an idea. Let her get Ghost Touched.”

“Skull, shut up. Lockwood, it says something’s here. Miss Quintrell, I’m going to set up a small circle of iron chains, which I want you to stand inside of and not move from. After this visitation ends, you are leaving this building.”

“Skull? What skull?”

I ignored Madeline. Psychic pressure was building in my ears as I walked over to the kit, pulling one of our smaller lengths of chains from the bag and making a circle wide enough for a single person to stand inside of. Then, with little ceremony, I grabbed Madeline by the arm and shoved her into the circle.

“Do I get a rapier?” She asked, and I nudged the kit bags away from her with my boot, even though our spare blades were down in the kitchen. I just didn’t want her getting any ideas with a Magnesium Flare and setting her own bedroom ablaze in a further act of blinding idiocy.

“No,” I said, “you stand there and you wait. Stay inside that circle and you’ll be safe. Step outside, and your chances of dying go up quite a bit. I think that’s simple enough for someone as utterly thick as you to understand, yeah?”

I admit that I was being mean. But I had very little patience for someone who thought entering a haunted location with no protection or training just because she wanted to flirt was a smart decision. If there’s anything an agent hates, its when civilians try and interfere during an investigation, especially flirty schoolgirls with underdeveloped cosmetic skills. Maybe that last bit is a personal preference, but I’m sure at least a few other agents would share that sentiment.

I drew my rapier, following Lockwood into the bathroom and into the circle of chains he’d set up inside, where I could definitely feel the beginnings of creeping fear, sending chills up my spine. The first tendrils of Ghost Fog had begun to roll across the floor, swirling around our ankles.

“Temperature?” I asked, and Lockwood glanced down at his thermometer, its luminescent dial casting shadows across his thin, pale face.

“Dropping,” he said, “a bit nippy now.”

I could hear the sound of running water more clearly now, liquid splashing against porcelain. It was a musical sound, usually, but right now, with no physical source, it was just rather eerie.

“Do you see anything?” I asked, “I can hear the water now.”

“Death glow, not too bright,” Lockwood said, “just there, in the bathtub.”

I closed my eyes, focusing on the sound. I removed one of my gloves as I paced over to the bathtub, letting my fingertips run along the edge. I could hear a quiet weeping, followed by water running, overlapping with what I already heard in a strange echo. The surface grew cold under my fingers, and I focused harder.

Suddenly, I was being yanked back, Lockwood’s arm around my waist. My attention snapped to the tub, where a softly glowing hand had been reaching out, its thin fingertips searching the spot my hand had just been. I watched as the hand wrapped around the edge of the bathtub, followed by another hand, and then the top of a head, moving up to reveal a face, staring out at us with blank eyes.

The hair was the color of spilled ink, falling around the pale face in water logged strings. The skin was blue and bruised, eyes sunken and blank. The eyebrows were pitched upwards, giving the apparition a horribly sad appearance. I could hear the soft weeping again, mixing with the sound of the running water.

Slowly, the head rose, followed by thin, pale shoulders, and the mouth came into view.  Her lips were pale and blue, on par with the rest of her whole drowning victim thing. The cheeks were hollow and sunken, stained with dark tears running down from the empty eyes. I felt like I was standing in a vat of molasses, and I tried my best to shake off the Malaise, hitting my temple with my palm to snap myself out of it and avoid the inevitable Ghost Lock.

“Got any gum?” I asked Lockwood, “tastes awful sour right now. I forgot to go to Arif’s before we left Portland Row.”

He wordlessly passed me a stick, which I stuck into my mouth after unwrapping it. The burst of mint on my tongue helped clear the supernatural influences away, forcing me to focus on something else.

“She’s not moving,” Lockwood remarked, “maybe just a Shade? She’ll probably vanish in a moment, and repeat that whole rising from the bath bit. We’ll look round for the Source once she’s gone.”

Just as he said that, the Visitor rose from the water fully, revealing the thin white nightgown on the body, dripping with plasm as she stepped out and onto the floor. Or rather, through the floor. The ankles sank through the floor tiles, like she was wading through shallow water, or walking through some unruly grass. Regarding us blankly, the Ghost glided towards us, stopping before the barrier provided by the iron chains.

“Or she could do that,” Lockwood said.

The air had turned bitter cold since she’d approached, and Lockwood’s and my breath could be seen in the air in front of us, highlighted by the Other Light that wreathed the staring Visitor before us. Her head tilted, as if quizzical, and I heard the weeping increase in volume as she moved.

“Right,” Lockwood said, “is she saying anything?”

“No,” I replied, “she’s just sort of standing there and crying.”

“Not very cheerful, is she?”

With that, Lockwood waved his rapier, passing the blade through the Ghost’s form, and she shrieked, jolting backwards. As if offended, her shoulders slumped as she drifted towards the bathtub, where she vanished.

“Ah, she’s gone,” the skull said in my ear, “one less problem for you.”

“I can see that she’s gone, Skull. Easy enough Vanishing Point,” I said, “but you’d think someone would notice an entire bloody tub being a Source. Should we look underneath?”

Lockwood smiled at me, and I felt my stomach go all funny. “Excellent thought.”

The two of us got on our hands and knees, peering down into the space beneath the claw foot tub. It had been bolted down, as tubs often are, so there was no trying to haul it aside. We shone our torches into the wedge of darkness, and just at the very back, I could see something glinting.

The psychic pressure was back. With a grunt, I shoved my arm beneath the tub. I had to hurry, before the Visitor returned, but with a space as snug as this, that was easier said than done. I strained myself, ignoring the twinge of pain in my shoulder as I overextended, and finally, I felt my fingers brush against something small and round. I hooked my pinkie finger through it, and withdrew my arm.

It was a ring. Small and dainty and silver, and burning with supernatural chill. A diamond was set in the front, hemmed in by tiny little emeralds. I deposited it into a small Silver Glass container attached to my belt, and the psychic pressure waned and then was gone.

“Nice job, Luce,” Lockwood said, “straight on, as always.”

He rose to his full height, offering me a hand, which I took, and he hoisted me up as well.

“Now,” he said, dusting off his gloved hands, “how about we see to our living Visitor?”

The pair of us stepped back into the bedroom, only to find that Madeline had gone. The circle I’d made for her sat empty, as if there had never been anyone there to begin with. I stared at it, reignited rage simmering in my chest.

“I said she’d gone, hadn’t I?” The skull said, unhelpfully.

I blinked. “You weren’t exactly specific about exactly who had gone, Skull. Did you see where she went?”

“No,” it said, “I just saw her leave. She left through the door, as many people tend to do when leaving a room, if that helps.”

“It doesn’t, thanks. We have to find her, Lockwood.”

Lockwood sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Right. Fine. Pack the kit over by the door, Luce, I’ll grab what’s in the bathroom. Hopefully we find her before she gets herself Ghost Touched.”

We packed up with trained efficiency, hoisting our kit bags over our shoulders as we left the bedroom and stepped back into the hall. Lockwood pulled his copy of the floor plan from a pocket inside his greatcoat, examining it. I took a half step closer to him to look at it as well.

“There are loads of places she could have gone,” Lockwood said, his voice laced with thinly veiled annoyance, “where else, if not her own bedroom? You think she went looking for George and Holly?”

I shrugged. “Maybe. Where’s the stupidest, most dangerous place in the house? I reckon we’ll find her there.”

“Just give up,” the skull suggested, “let her learn the error of her ways by letting her get Ghost Touched. Once she’s blue and swollen, much like a particularly unpleasant boil or a diseased blueberry, she’ll be very sorry indeed.”

It alarmed me that I wasn’t entirely opposed to that idea. I shook my head, though.

“No, Skull, that isn’t happening. She’s our client, so no matter how daft she is, we have to find her and keep her from getting hurt.”

“Right,” Lockwood agreed, “we’d best start looking, then.”

It was going to be a long night.