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Lucy avoided mirrors whenever she could.
As a child, it was easy. There was one mirror in her childhood home—a small, dirty thing in the upstairs bath—and finding a spot to peer into it in the mornings was nigh impossible with six older sisters. Lucy thought it was funny, how much time Michelle and Beth would spend primping and preening, how often Jody would bemoan her hair, how even her mother would glare into the glass as she washed up for work. Who cared what you looked like? The most interesting parts of people were the things they did and said and thought, not what shade of pink they wore on their lips.
“That’s not how the world works,” Becca had told her one morning, as she carefully applied brown powder to her eyelids. Lucy supposed it looked nice, if you ignored the fact that it looked like her sister had dirt on her face. “People are always going to judge you on your looks first, personality second.”
Becca left home not long after that, found a boy in town who liked her enough to marry her and that was that. He must have found girls with dirt on their face attractive. That was good news, for Lucy, as she was often covered in real dirt.
Her father hated it. “You look like a pig,” he’d snap from the depths of his worn-down armchair. “Fat little thing rolling around mud.”
Jody and Beth did the best they could to keep Lucy from their father when he was in these moods, but they had nightwatch duties in Newcastle and couldn’t always be there to save her. Sarah was too timid and Michelle was never home and Mary was just as small as she was, just as weak.
“Pigs are cute!” Lucy argued once, small hands on her hips.
Her father grunted, mouth twisting into a sneer. “You’re the furthest thing from cute . Take after your mother far too much for that.”
The slamming of the door announced the arrival of her mother at that moment. She said nothing, jaw set, mouth a thin line, and stalked past Lucy and her father without glancing at either of them.
That night, Mum wouldn’t let her have seconds, no matter how hungry she still felt. She was only six years old.
Lucy could never tell where one Talent ended and another began.
For people like Lockwood and George, there was a clear divide between Sight and Listening and Touch. Lockwood could sometimes hear a Visitor scream as he saw its mouth move, but they weren’t connected. George rarely heard or saw anything when he used his touch, only sensing the echoes of emotions. That divide grew, too, as people’s Talents faded. Lockwood was practically deaf to ghosts these days, relying on his Sight alone.
But for Lucy, they all ran together, becoming more and more muddled as her powers grew.
“It’s odd for someone your age to be getting more powerful,” George had told her, tapping his pen against his chin. “Talents generally peak around age 12, which is why there’s such a push to lower the legal working age for agents. Though I suppose there’s nothing normal about your Talents…”
Lucy always had been abnormal; too big, too stubborn, too ugly, too Talented for her own good. But this made her special; this made her useful .
Sometimes she wasn’t sure if she was feeling her own emotions or someone else’s. The fear and sadness that lingered after Listening to a death loop never felt foreign or detached; it was Lucy’s own heart that hammered in her chest, her own mind that wouldn’t settle down despite the warm milk she drank alone as the boys slept.
It wasn’t just Visitors, either. When George was cross with her, Lucy felt like she couldn’t breathe. When Lockwood was morose, it was like color had been drained from the world. Lucy wasn’t one for walking on eggshells, but there were days where she tiptoed around the house, desperate not to encounter one of her housemates in a mood.
In a way, it made her feel right at home. The older she’d gotten, as more of her sisters left, Lucy had learned to walk a little quietly, to avoid her mother when her tone got terse, to keep her mouth shut during a fight to make it end quicker. Lucy wasn’t a coward by anyone’s definition, but she also knew that choosing her battles made life a little less hellish.
Still, it felt like Lucy never left her work behind. She carried the voices of the dead with her longer than she should have, felt their hearts beat against her own in moments of quiet. Their lives blended with hers, seeped between her and George and Lockwood. Lucy never knew when the pain was hers or theirs.
But she didn’t need to. Dissecting everything she felt, that wasn’t her job, her purpose. She was there to sense the ghosts, find the sources, bring safety back to the streets of London. It didn’t matter if she couldn’t sleep or if she was haunted by the ghosts she’d destroyed; as long as she was useful, Lucy was content.
When jobs went poorly, Lucy didn’t feel like eating.
George thought she was ill the first time she skipped team breakfast. It had been her fault that Lockwood’s hair had caught fire the night before, her fault that both boys had been put in jeopardy. All Lucy had wanted was to connect with the poor ghost that wailed through the halls of the office building, try to bring it some peace, but she’d gotten too absorbed and Lockwood had thrown himself headfirst into their collection of candles just to keep her from crossing over the iron chains. The floppy bit of his hair had been singed off and George had nearly impaled himself trying to contain the source.
Neither seemed too upset about it during the cab ride home, laughing about some Rotwell agents they’d seen crawling out of the sewers as they drove past. George also kept laughing at Lockwood’s hair, when Lockwood wasn’t looking, trying to catch Lucy’s eye to join in on the joke. But Lucy didn’t find it funny and she was certain Lockwood wouldn’t either, when he finally looked in the mirror.
When they got home everything had gone as usual: Lucy took the first shower, then Lockwood, then George; George prepared tea and biscuits and left them on the kitchen table; Lockwood wrote in the casebook and filed away documents; Lucy put away their kits; and they all retreated to bed as the sun began to rise.
Lucy hadn’t slept well, and anxiety clawed at her chest as she heard the boys awaken later in the day. She could hear them preparing breakfast, heard when the doorbell rang and Aisling delivered donuts from Arif’s, heard the lighthearted chit chat drift up from the ground floor. But Lucy did not join them.
It shouldn’t have been surprising when a knock came at her door, but it was. Lucy jolted upright, heart thundering. “Yeah?” She called out.
“Breakfast’s ready,” George answered, voice muffled behind the door.
“Not hungry, but thanks!” Lucy tried to keep her tone light and casual.
There was a long pause, then the door to her room opened. George entered, still in his apron, hands on his hips.
“Are you feeling alright?” He asked. “Do you need a doctor?”
“No, no,” Lucy said, holding up a hand. “I’m fine, I’m just not hungry.”
George gave her a blank stare. Lucy had to look away. “But it’s breakfast,” he said slowly, as if she misunderstood. “You haven’t eaten since yesterday.”
“Right,” Lucy parroted his condescending tone. “But I’m not hungry . Nor am I sick,” she added quickly, to stop the cycle of George’s questioning.
“Okay.” He frowned at her like she was a book passage he couldn’t translate. “If you say so.” He’d left her alone after that and for the rest of the day, either sensing her bad mood or believing she was actually sick and too stubborn to admit it. Lucy appreciated the space, even if it made her feel a bit lonely.
George didn’t comment on this habit of hers the next few times it happened, but he never seemed happy about it either. He and Lockwood—both still in the throes of puberty, both still growing too tall, damn them —could eat an army’s worth of food between them, and often did. Half the company’s budget went towards groceries and donut deliveries, and it seemed that every meeting, every training session, every minor activity was accompanied by plates of biscuits or packets of crisps. It must have been difficult for someone like George, who had a box of treasured recipes from his mother on the kitchen counter, who loved to experiment with baking in his free time, who’d never cared about his figure or ever felt this sick sense of dread in his gut, to understand that there were days Lucy simply could not stomach a single bite of food.
It wasn’t until after the incident with the bone glass that George seemed to finally snap. He didn’t say anything the next time Lucy told him she wasn’t hungry, simply nodded and left. But when Lucy emerged from her room later, feeling calm enough to be around the boys again, she nearly tripped over a plate of digestives. They were the plain kind, no chocolate or caramel, and had been neatly arranged in a circle. A small note was left next to them, message scrawled in George’s chicken scratch: eat at least one.
No please ” no if you can —it was quintessentially George, blunt and bossy and full of love.
The back of her throat grew tight; Lucy ate three.
There were too many mirrors in Portland Row.
It wasn’t Lockwood’s fault, Lucy knew deep down. He’d left the house exactly as his parents had decorated it, down to a dusty pair of reading glasses that sat on a mantle in the sitting room. It was Celia and Donald Lockwood who were to blame for the number of reflective surfaces Lucy had to pass by every day.
Still, she sometimes liked to blame Lockwood when she was feeling particularly dour. He loved to look at himself almost as much as he loved to hear himself speak. Would it kill him to take a few down? Surely he could make room for more framed articles with his name in the headline.
It was unfair, Lucy knew, but it was also unfair that the mere sight of her own face felt like a punch to the gut. At certain angles, she looked like her mother; at others, her father. But most of the time she just looked like Lucy—scruffy, stupid, utterly useless Lucy. The same Lucy who’d let her friends die, who’d let Norrie stay ghostlocked until it was too late, who’d snuck out at dawn and left her entire family behind without a word.
When Fairfax’s assistant broke into the house and shattered a mirror while aiming for Lucy, it had honestly felt like a godsend. Lockwood removed it after they returned from Combe Carey and did not bother to replace it, leaving the space blank and empty.
Lucy stared at that spot every day after that as she descended the stairs, finding comfort in the nothing.
It was Norrie who gave her a love for accessories.
When Lucy joined Jacobs, she was as plain as they came: long, boring hair, braces on her teeth, wearing only simple jumpers and jeans and trainers. But Norrie was different—she was cool . She painted her nails dark colors and wore lots of eyeliner and pierced her own ears in the dressing room of the agency. Norrie might have only been a year older, a mature fourteen, but Lucy was intimidated by everything she wished she could be.
Despite all this, Norrie took to Lucy like a duck to water, showing her the ropes and protecting her from Jacobs’ nastier temper tantrums. Lucy couldn’t believe someone as pretty and confident and rebellious as Norrie would want to be her friend, but she wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth. So she let Norrie paint her nails black, let her pierce her ears and gift her rings and take a pair of kitchen scissors to her hair when it finally got in the way.
Norrie loved to decorate Lucy, leave bits of herself behind for Lucy to see when she had to glance in the mirror. Smudges of eyeshadow on her lids, borrowed necklaces, shiny stickers stolen from her younger siblings stuck to Lucy’s clothes—Norrie made her mark. Lucy wanted to do the same.
It seemed silly, Lucy realized, when she gave the little charm to Norrie. It was just the two of them in the dressing room, getting ready for the evening ahead, and she’d presented it without preamble, too nervous to speak.
Norrie took it silently and Lucy’s heart dropped. It was such kid stuff, putting charms on backpacks and bicycles. Norrie was going to think she was so lame .
“Is it for my rapier?” Norrie asked quietly, holding up the charm to look at it better. Lucy nodded, face hot with embarrassment. “It’s little flowers! And an N and a-”
“L,” Lucy said, not meeting Norrie’s eyes. “For Norrie and Lucy.”
“Where’s my rapier?” Norrie jumped to her feet and dashed to her locker. “I need to put this on right now .”
That took Lucy by surprise. “Oh, don’t worry about it,” she said. “You don’t have to…”
“Are you kidding?” Norrie pulled her rapier out and began fiddling with the strap of the charm. “This is so cool! I love it!”
And- oh , that was relief that Lucy felt as every muscle in her body loosened. Norrie didn’t hate it or think she was childish. Warmth bloomed in her chest.
“What’s that?” Joy asked, ducking into the dressing room with a backpack slung over her shoulder. Unlike Lucy and Norrie, her parents had her enrolled in private tutoring, and she often did her classwork in between training and jobs. It wasn’t the same as school, but it was better than nothing.
“Lucy made me a charm for my rapier!” Norrie brandished her sword about, showing off how the little string of beads swung and danced with her movements.
“That’s so cute!” Joy shuffled closer to inspect it, dumping her bag on the ground. “I want one!.”
“Oh.” Lucy fiddled with the hem of her sleeve. “I could make you one. I have some extra beads and thread.”
“Really?” Joy’s face lit up. Though she was a bit older than Lucy, she was smaller, round-faced and dark-eyed. She was usually serious and reserved, but right now she looked her age, young and hopeful.
“Of course,” Lucy said. “I’ll bring it tomorrow.”
“You’ve got to make yourself one, too,” Norrie said, returning her rapier to her locker. “Then we can match.”
“Yes,” Joy urged. “Us girls got to stick together.”
Lucy thought of her sisters, once united against their father, but now scattered and distant in the wake of his death. Mary was the only one left at home, and Lucy knew she had one foot out the door already.
“Yeah,” she said, hoping the others wouldn’t notice the roughness in her voice. “We’ve gotta stick together.”
As per protocol, when they buried Joy, they burned everything she’d had on her at the time of her death. That included her sword and the little strand of flower-shaped beads that hung from its strap.
Sometimes, her Talents got to be too much.
She was sensing more and more these days—Lucy could have sworn she had started smelling and tasting the visions she saw. The thick scent of brine haunted a house far from the sea that had been home to a sailor. The sour taste of stale wine lingered on her tongue in the abbey where a group of nuns had been poisoned by the communion cup.
Every job they took was somewhere dark and secluded, yet Lucy felt she was at a carnival most nights, bombarded by colors and screams and a thousand different emotions. It was exhilarating, the limits she could surpass with her gift, but it also spun out of control so easily. One second too long and Lucy was lost to the cacophony.
It drained her, made her skin feel too tight across her bones. Lucy wanted to scratch at her arms, her chest, her face, break open the surface and release the tension in her body. Sometimes she’d awake from a trance to find she’d clawed herself bloody, or bruised her knuckles black and blue against the floor, or torn clumps of hair from her head. Those nights were the hardest, and were often the ones followed by periods of solitude and hunger.
Tonight was one of those nights. They were fighting a cold maiden in an abandoned warehouse, the source buried under their feet. George was shoveling like a madman and Lockwood was warding off the Visitor with complicated twirls of his rapier and Lucy was on her knees, useless, in pain. Every ghostly whisper felt like a scream, every pang of sadness a knife in her chest. Lucy just wanted it to stop .
She didn’t realize she was hitting her head against the brick wall until Lockwood pulled her back, voice too loud in her ear, hands too warm on her arms. Lucy flinched violently at his touch and curled in on herself, hands over her ears, shoulders hunched to the point of pain.
“Lucy,” Lockwood said, softer. “Luce, are you okay?”
“Yeah,” she rasped out. “Just give me a second.”
The hands on her disappeared. Lucy forced herself to take long, deep breaths, but she could still feel the overwhelming pressure of everything she’d sensed tonight. She dug her fingers into the skin at her temples, focusing on the sharp pain as it drowned out everything else.
“Please stop that,” Lockwood murmured, cautiously reaching out to pull one of her hands away from her head. “It’s over, Luce, she’s gone. George got her packed away. It’s over.”
Lucy nodded mutely, but still her heart raced, still her lungs ached. Every shuffle of George’s trainers, every breath Lockwood exhaled, they were all too loud, all too much. She dug her free hand into the flesh of her wrist, feeling bruises bloom beneath her fingers.
“Lucy, don’t,” Lockwood said. There was an edge of desperation in his tone. “You’re hurting yourself.”
“Just give me a second,” she snapped. “And I’ll be able to pack everything up just- just leave me alone.”
There was silence, then Lockwood stood and backed away, moving quiet as the grave. He and George were conspicuous in their lack of conversation, and Lucy could feel both sets of their eyes on her as she forced herself to breathe. As soon as she could stand, she did, and moved mechanically around the room to collect their chains, their candles, their unused flares and thermoses of tea. No one spoke a word as they worked, and while that was a balm on Lucy’s frayed nerves, it worsened the anxiety roiling in her stomach.
Was Lockwood angry? Lucy snapped at him and George all the time, but it was usually over something petty—taking a biscuit out of turn—or something gravely serious—Lockwood jumping from a client’s window again . Lucy didn’t have a right to be so rude to him, not after she’d been too stupidly overcome to help George dig or Lockwood keep them alive. She was useless, a liability; if Lockwood had any sense, he’d cut her wages or kick her out entirely.
They rode home in silence as well, cut only by the hum of the cab’s engine and the gentle static of the poorly tuned radio. Lucy wallowed in her stress, ignoring the concerned look in George’s eye, the hard line of Lockwood’s mouth.
It wasn’t until they were inside Portland Row that Lockwood spoke. He waited for George to ascend the stairs, taking the first shower for once to cleanse himself of the dirt he’d accumulated during his frantic dig, then turned to Lucy, expression unreadable.
“What happened tonight?” He asked, voice low and steady.
Lucy clenched her fists. “It won’t happen again,” she said.
Something in Lockwood’s eyes darkened. “That’s not what I asked.”
“It just…” Lucy paused, struggling to find the words. “My Touch, my Listening…they’re getting stronger. And sometimes what I hear, what I feel…it’s a lot. Too much. But I was just being weak tonight, I won’t let it happen again, I swear, Lockwood-”
He stopped her with a raised hand, eyes gone wide. “Luce- Lucy, do you think I’m angry at you?”
That threw her. “Yeah,” she said slowly. “I totally flaked out tonight. I should have been there to secure the source or ward off the maiden but-”
“No.” Lockwood furrowed his brows. “No, I’m not angry, Lucy, I’m terrified . You were hurting yourself! Something so awful was happening to you that you were hurting yourself and I couldn’t do anything to help .” He slowly reached for her hand, and she let him take it. Now that she had calmed down, the warmth of his hands was soothing; she hadn’t realized how chilled she felt. “I’ve never been so scared in my life.”
That certainly couldn’t be true, but Lockwood was prone to hyperbole, so Lucy said nothing. She hadn’t expected him to be frightened, but she supposed seeing your colleague repeatedly slam her head into a wall was a bit unnerving.
“I’m sorry,” Lucy whispered, squeezing his hand.
He looked at her like she’d grown an extra head. “Don’t be sorry,” he said softly. “Just…talk to me. Let me know when it’s too much. Tell me how to help.”
“Okay,” she said, but it was a lie. “I will.”
Lockwood beamed at her, and tugged her by the hand toward the kitchen, where they would make tea in George’s stead. And if she held onto her too-hot cup a little longer than her fingers would have liked, just to feel the burn of it, well, no one had to know.
Lucy surrounded her bedroom mirror with pictures of Norrie.
They were the same pictures she’d taped over the mirror back home, in the little room she’d once shared with Mary. Whenever she had to look at herself, Norrie was there to look back at her, smiling or goofing off or trying to look cool. Joy was in a few of the photos, too, and Paul. Even Abe and Alfie managed to squeeze into one, but that photo was one she kept tucked away. It hurt too bad to see them all together, happy and alive.
In her haste to leave, Lucy hadn’t thought to grab any photos of her sisters. She didn’t have many, and the only ones from the past five years were of Mary, before she’d left. Lucy supposed it didn’t really matter—she could see her sisters looking back at her, when she bothered to look herself in the eyes. They all shared the same eyes, the same color and shape and world-weary steeliness that came from growing up in the Carlyle house.
Lucy was steadfastly ignoring her own reflection tonight as she prepared for the Fittes Ball. The dress fit her waist and her shoulders, her hair was passable, her makeup looked suitable enough; there was no reason to give herself much more of a glance. If she did, she’d notice how splotchy her cheeks were, how distended her middle seemed, how overly large and awkward and too much she was.
So she looked at Norrie, instead. Norrie would have hated going to this posh party with all its posh people, but she would have loved getting ready for it. She would have done Lucy’s makeup herself, would have curled Lucy’s hair and debated what color stockings would go best with what shoes. Norrie would have worn something far more fashionable, showing off her freckled skin. She might have even worn heels, despite the mission ahead of them. Or she would have worn her favorite Chuck Taylors, dress code be damned.
Tears pricked at the corner of Lucy’s eyes as she pulled one of the pictures down. She couldn’t bear to face herself in the mirror any longer, not when Norrie should have been there , could have been there if Lucy had been faster-
Lockwood at her door saved Lucy from spiraling. He gave her a necklace—a beautiful, delicate thing—like it was the easiest thing in the world, like Lucy deserved to wear something so important. Like Norrie, he left his mark, left behind something beautiful on such a monstrous canvas.
Even after the ball, after the auction, after she’d leapt into the Thames and channeled the Skull to see through the bone glass and nearly died a thousand times in one night, Lucy continued to wear the necklace. Her father might have said it was nothing more than putting lipstick on a pig, but as with the charm on her rapier, as with the polish on her nails, as with every other sign on her of someone she loved, Lucy wore it with pride.
It all came to a head as autumn crept closer to winter.
They’d been busy—all the agencies had been, as the days grew shorter and hauntings began cropping up in unprecedented numbers. Lucy had considered pestering Lockwood to hire an assistant or secretary, somebody who could take over the management role that had fallen to the wayside as they took on multiple jobs a night.
Despite every rule in the Fittes Manual warning against taking on cases alone, Lucy found herself battling the weak but very angry spirit of an elderly gentleman whose prize rose bushes she’d fallen into. The team had been forced to split up tonight, taking on three separate jobs. It wasn’t unusual these days, not with the demand for agents. Lucy had heard from Quill Kipps that even Fittes agents were going solo some nights, just to try and quell the rising fear from the public.
So Lucy was here, alone, stuck in a bush, grappling for her silver net to toss over the discarded trowel that was the old man’s source. Despite his relative powerlessness, the Type 1 showered her with the feeling of his last moments, the pain in his chest, the grief of leaving, the anger of unfinished business. Even as she contained the source, Lucy could feel his death rattle around inside her, shaking her to her bones.
She arrived home after the boys, but did not stop into the kitchen to say hello. All Lucy wanted was to fall into bed and hope for a dreamless sleep. This was her tenth job in seven days and every nerve in her body felt raw and exposed. She didn’t know how George and Lockwood could even sit upright or drink tea right now.
Lucy had only just changed into pajamas when her door opened. She didn’t have the energy to tell off whoever it was for not knocking and nearly catching her in the nude, so she just turned to silently look at George and Lockwood, neither of whom seemed wholly prepared for what they were there to say.
“Luce, you alright?” Lockwood tried, giving her a soft smile. “Your job go well?”
“Yeah,” she said.
“Great!” Lockwood was too loud, his voice a little grating in that moment. Lucy flinched.
“We’ve got sausage rolls downstairs,” George offered. “You must be famished.”
“M’not hungry.”
His eyes narrowed. “You say that a lot, but I don’t believe you.”
Lucy just shrugged. “Can I sleep now or…?”
“We’re worried about you,” Lockwood said, crossing his arms. “You’ve barely eaten this week, you’re covered in scratches and bruises that didn’t come from ghosts, you’re quiet and withdrawn…”
“It’s been a long week,” was Lucy’s response. She struggled to keep her voice even, clenching her jaw to fight back tears. “I’m tired.”
“It’s more than that,” George said.
Lockwood nodded. “Please, Luce. Just talk to us. Let us help you.”
Maybe it was the lack of sleep that made her crack. Maybe it was the shakiness in her limbs or the pain in her chest. Maybe it was the way Lockwood looked at her like his heart was breaking, the way George stared at her like he was determined to solve any problem she presented to him. Maybe it was because, for the first time in a while, Lucy realized she was loved.
She couldn’t stop the tears once they started. They ran down her face, hot and wet, and dripped from her chin to the floor. Lockwood had her in his arms in a matter of seconds, and Lucy let him keep her there, squeezing her close to his chest.
The pressure of his arms around her was pleasant, a soft burn of warmth and heaviness. Lucy sobbed into his wrinkled, white shirt, staining it with tears and snot and garden soil.
Lockwood led her to the bed and sat them both down, side by side. He rubbed circles into her shoulder, a little too hard, but Lucy leant into his touch. She wanted to bury herself inside him, let his body shield her from all the light and noise and emotion of the world around her.
The bed on the other side of her shifted, and then George was there, pressing a plate into her hand. Buttered toast, just one piece, but prepared just the way she liked it. He also held a mug of tea, but kept his eyes on the food until she raised it to her mouth and took a bite.
It wasn’t easy, eating the entire thing, but Lucy was determined not to let George and Lockwood down. Lockwood kept his arms around her, anchoring her to him, and Lucy took her time chewing each mouthful, savoring the crunch of the bread and creaminess of the butter. She finished and had to admit to herself that she felt a bit better with something in her stomach.
George beamed and took the plate, passing her the tea. “Good?” He asked.
Lucy nodded. “Yeah. Thanks.”
Lockwood still would not relinquish her. Instead, he tightened his hold, and softly asked, “Was it…too much, tonight?”
She nodded again. “The Visitor wasn’t bad but I just…it’s been a long week.”
“Does this help?” He asked, jerking his chin at his arms around her. “George thought it might help.”
George scoffed. “ You thought it might help. I simply agreed.”
“Yeah,” Lucy murmured. She gave them both a small smile. “It’s helping.”
“Good.” George stood. “Can I bring you more toast?”
Despite the ache that still lingered in her gut, Lucy nodded. “Thanks,” she whispered.
George smiled and hurried out of the room, leaving Lucy there in Lockwood’s embrace. She turned into it and let her head fall to his shoulder, sighing softly.
“I’m sorry for all this,” she said. “I promised I would get it under control-”
“Luce.” Lockwood cut her off. “You promised you’d tell me when it got bad again.”
She didn’t respond; she had no defense.
“You’re allowed to take a break, you know,” he continued. “You’re allowed to be weak sometimes. I- We care about you and it hurts to see you like this. Please …”
Tears threatened to fall again. Lucy nodded against his chest. “I just want to be useful.”
“You are ,” Lockwood said, sounding almost offended. “We wouldn’t be the agency we are if it weren’t for you. But you’re not an asset, Lucy, you’re our friend . And despite how fucking powerful you are,” he added in a teasing tone. “You’re still human.”
“It’s all I have, though.” Lucy couldn’t help the shakiness in her voice. “My Talent is the only good thing about me.”
It was jarring how quickly Lockwood pulled them apart, holding Lucy out in front of him with a devastated expression. Lucy desperately wished George would return, to distract Lockwood and his piercing gaze.
“Are you kidding?” He asked, voice dangerously low. “That’s not true at all.”
Lucy shrugged. “It kind of is, though.”
“It’s not .” Lockwood sounded close to hysterics. “You- you’re tough and you’re smart and you’re ridiculously stubborn and passionate and you care about the well-being of Visitors far more than any normal person would and- and you’re funny and pretty and artistic and- oh, look! George, perfect timing.”
Lucy could barely hear over the blood rushing in her ears. Had Lockwood called her pretty ?
George sat down on the bed again and handed her the plate that now held two new slices of toast. He’d even added a dollop of jam, her favorite cherry kind. “Are compliments your newest strategy?” He asked Lockwood. Then, he said to Lucy, “You are very good at washing dishes. Lockwood always misses bits of food.”
Lucy laughed, chest feeling lighter than it had in days. “Thanks, George.”
Lockwood sighed and wrapped his arms around her again and she took a bite of toast. “You’re much more than your Talents. I need you to know that.”
“I…I do,” Lucy said. “Or, I’m trying. To know that.”
“Good.” He beamed at her, as did George. “Now, let me tell you about the awful client I had to deal with tonight. You thought Saunders was bad? I’m fairly certain this man eats children.”
Lucy spent the remaining hours of that night—early morning, rather—laughing and eating, tucked between her two best friends. And though she could still feel the ghost’s sorrow, still felt pain in her heart and tightness in her stomach, Lucy realized that as long as she had these boys at her side, she could begin to heal.