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Chapter Text

Quick steps for everyone abroad this cold and damp October evening; elegantly bejewelled ladies stepping out of cabs and up the stone steps into the rarefied air of the clubs and concert halls; rough-shod steps stomping heavily along the gloomy streets, away from the docks and towards a hot meal and warm welcome; cracked, sore shuffles from side to side, pacing the better-lit corners in the hope of a kind word or kindlier handout; silent, restless feet pattering noiselessly up and down the darkened mews and alleyways, ready to spring and slip away with some other unlucky sod’s hard-worked wages.

Quick steps too for Anthony Lockwood, quick along the wider pavements, quicker still in the shades and shadows between the lamplights. Those bubbles of warm yellow light – mostly electric now, harken at the miracles of modern technology, though Lockwood preferred the reassuring hiss and pop of the old gas lamps – what civilisation they represent! Chasing out the darkness and bathing the great and good of this fine city in their safe, illuminating light. Lockwood pulled his coat tighter around his chest – though it was tight enough to begin with, not that he’d suffer anyone to say so in his hearing – and tipped his head down further as the mist coalesced into drizzle. All the lamps do, he thought grimly, is push the disreputable further into the shadows, safe from the delicate sensibilities of the so-called great and good, safer too from the long(ish) arm of the law.

Which suits him just fine.

A man’s got to make a living, after all.

Striding along the streets of Marylebone, catching a brief snatch of violins from Wigmore Hall as the besuited ushers close the doors, reminding him of warm summer nights and a long-ago life, hurry past that, a right, a left, quick quick quick down the longer roads, Christ that wind just goes right through you, passing from neat flagstone to cracked pavers and finally – finally! This drizzle is definitely rain now, and his hat left on his office desk, what a state – seeing the tiny arcade ahead of him, shops shuttered for the day.

The rain’s coming down properly now, straight off the Thames and straight into Lockwood’s boots. He’d stepped on something jagged while following his target this afternoon and it’d torn a hole through the sole of his shoe, leaving Lockwood feeling grimy inside and out. Just once, he thought, it’d be nice to shadow a cheating husband or philandering brother to the Savoy, say, or the Ritz – even some half-rate hotel that wouldn’t throw its rubbish haphazardly into the alleys and ginnels where he spent so much of his time, his poor boots at the mercy of whatever unspeakable detritus the city washed up. Holly was forever complaining about the amount of dry cleaning and cobbler’s bills she has to expense the clients for.

No such dangers here, in this genteelly shabby part of town. The little arcade, with its prettily painted signage and snug, well-kept shutters, shone like a beacon in Lockwood’s eyes, though it was but fitfully lit by a handful of gas lamps in reality. Syke’s Antiquities beckoned to him on the corner, iron lattices protecting the windows from vagabonds and chancers, the broken men home from the war to find no job waiting, no hero’s welcome, just bills and hungry bairns and the bones of their dead friends dancing through their dreams.

Lockwood all but scurried to the sunken staircase running down the side of the shop, squelching down the uneven stone steps, and shoved open the wooden door marked “Deliveries” slightly harder than he intended. Out of this godforsaken wind, out of the rain, and straight into the waiting arms of the enormous, wiry man looming out of the shadows in the doorway.

“Easy, son. Lockwood! Who raised you? Ain’t no reason to come barging into a man’s parlour with nary a knock! Nor a fine honeyed word of apology neither?”

The man set Lockwood back on his feet, peering out from under an enormous and very battered top hat. Taking a step back, the better to look his interlocutor in the eye, Lockwood sighed, shook his shoulders out, and smoothed his hair back.

“My apologies, Sykes. It’s been a long day and I’m not good company or conversation right now. I am in need of a drink, though”.

Sykes held one thin hand to his chest in mock outrage.

“A drink? In my fine establishment? I hope you ain’t insinuating that I, upon my honour, I, the reputable Mr Sykes, I, am a-serving of the prohibited alcoholic substances? For shame, Mr. Lockwood, for shame.”

Lockwood sighed again. His socks were now completely sodden, his good will hanging by the finest of threads, and the case he closed today had left a huge pile of paperwork waiting on his desk. He just wanted one drink, just one tiny little break in this relentlessly grey day, this relentlessly grey life.

“Come off it, Gravedigger.” Lockwood turned, summoning his most reassuring grin, all teeth and twinkle, and performed a sardonic little bow, replete with twirly hands and bended knee. “I find myself washed to your door by the tides, and most humbly request the kindness of your hospitality.” Lockwood waggled his eyebrows to maximise the plaintive, bedraggled-orphan-in-need-of-succour look. The fact that he was a plaintive, bedraggled orphan in need of succour didn’t pass him by, but he didn’t want to think about that right now.

Pushing aside the heavy jacquard curtain behind him, Gravedigger Sykes laughed Lockwood inside.

“Humbly my arse, Lockwood. Be careful where you point that charisma, and come see who else has been washed up to the Tideline.”

Chapter Text

The warmth hit him like a bullet. Not that he’d know, fortunately, though there had been one or two close calls recently. The curtain pulled back with a magician’s flourish by Gravedigger Sykes, who understood the art of showmanship like no-one else in this godforsaken city, and Lockwood was briefly stunned by the onslaught of heat, the thick smell of whiskey-soaked wooden boards, warm bodies, old leather, cigarette smoke, the gentle murmur of voices washing over him like a wave, scouring his mind clean of worry, the husky voice singing softly over the rackety old piano in the corner, cradling his aching bones in the precious music. Heads held close together in intimate conversation, friends laughing with friends, quiet men leaning back in their chairs at solitary tables without needing to watch their back (or front). Lockwood breathed a sigh of relief at his safe delivery, washed up on the Tideline with the rest of the flotsam and jetsam of the increasingly refined Marylebone.

Straightening up, pushing his dark hair up and out of his eyes (and cursing his haste in leaving the office, hatless and at the mercy of the weather), Lockwood moved quietly towards the low-slung bar against the far wall, threading his way between small tables and occupied chairs, the smoky haze softening features and offering quiet anonymity to the clientele – all of whom would swear on their life, officer, that there’s not a whiff of impropriety in the air, sir, that it ain’t no crime to drop in on an old friend now, is it? But if I had to name that friend, now sir, well I’m not sure I could swear to it, none of those bright streetlamps in here, on my old mum, I’d hate to mislead a fine respectable officer of the law such as yourself. Lockwood very carefully caught no eyes and recognised no faces until he was safely ensconced on one of the mismatched stools at the bar.

“Evening, Locky. You’re a sight for sore eyes and no mistake.”

Deft hands placed a sparkling crystal tumbler in front of Lockwood’s slumped form and added a generous pour of some sharp-smelling whiskey, ice tinkling as the jet of sparkling water hit and fizzed. Pulling himself together and shaking off the remnants of the day’s bad mood, Lockwood looked up and met the blue-steel stare of Flo Bones, purloiner and provider of fine things – the delicate antiques sold upstairs, and the decidedly indelicate drinks downstairs. As a node point in the febrile trades of both, Flo stocked her driftwood shelves behind her bar with much more than bottles; she was the richest source of gossip and rumour north of the Thames. Quite how Bones and Gravedigger came by their nicknames within the antiques trade, Lockwood had never found out, though he could put two and two together well enough to not risk asking. He’d heard whispers enough about Flo’s attitude to disrespectful men in her bar, not to mention the glint of the wickedly sharp curved blade at her belt.
She considered him a friend, Lockwood thought. Which was good. He’d hate to be thought of as her enemy, as he rather liked having all ten fingers.

“Evening, Flo. Glad to be of service. What’s been happening?”

Dropping her elbows on the bar, Flo leant forward, looking around and behind Lockwood at her happy, occupied, and out-of-hearing-range patrons. Scraggly blonde hair fell around her face, careworn but full of life and movement, and she rubbed the sleeve of her blue jumper absent-mindedly, worrying at a loose thread at the cuff. Flo had worked in the auxiliary hospitals during the war, nursing the shattered bodies and minds of the men returning from France. She didn’t talk much about what specific currents had washed her up on this particular riverbank, but Lockwood knew enough from watching her; Flo moved with the quiet competence of the assured young woman she was, and looked out at the world through eyes that had seen so much, too much, haunted by humanity. Lockwood had seen his share of sorrow these last couple of years, but he took a moment to thank whatever gods were listening that he’d turned 18 a fortnight before the armistice. He’d enlisted, spent two weeks marching up and down a sodden field somewhere in Hampshire, then saluted his Lieutenant and went back home to his echoing house in Portland Row. Jessica had come back from the frontline hospitals not long after, smelling of disinfectant and ghosts, determined to live as loudly as possible, and they’d- no. Enough. Breathe. Tap your fingers, one two three four. Focus on Flo.

“Strange tidings, Locky, strange tidings indeed. Don’t suppose you’d be interested in hearing old Flo tell you all her troubles now, though, would you?”

Lockwood raised his glass to her in salute and leaned forward conspiratorially. He flashed her his best reassuring grin, matching the knowing glint in Flo’s eye; they’d danced this dance a hundred times before, and would do so again.

“Troubles enough in this town, Flo, and no mistake. I’m going home after this to close this case, but I suspect there’ll be a loose end or two that comes back to bite me soon enough. You know the fancy department store up town, run by those two Aickmere brothers? Turns out, Brother 1 wasn’t keen on how Brother 2 has been spending the family profits, and once I hand over my file, Brother 2 may be in a spot of bother and find himself out of a job. I can’t imagine he’ll be happy with the agency who found out all about his little hidey-holes and peccadilloes, so I’ll need to keep this one quiet for now, even though I’m sure the business pages will be all over this in a few days. The long and short of it being, Flo, that I suspect there’ll be a bob or two to be made in the upcoming renovations and relaunch of the store in a month or so, but you didn’t hear it from me.”

Flo nodded quietly to herself, storing this away for consideration. Lockwood smiled, confident that she’d put his tip to good use somewhere in her labyrinthine network of favours owed, and took a slug of his drink. Lord that whiskey was bad, where the hell does she find this stuff? He was surprised it wasn’t eating through the varnish on the bar.

“Trouble indeed Locky, though you do always manage to come out of your trouble with your arsehole smelling of roses.”

Lockwood choked slightly on his drink. Flo laughed, then beckoned him closer. Leaning close, Lockwood saw the frown lines around her piercing eyes, caught a hint of her perfume which never quite managed to cover the smell of spilt whiskey and hard work, noticed how her calloused fingers were tense and fidgeting.

“See if you can’t make something of mine. My usual supplier has been unavailable these last few weeks, and I’m having to make do with what I can get, which is not up to my usual fine standards. Frankly, Locky, I wouldn’t use the stuff I’m getting to clean the floor, and that’s the truth.” Lockwood looked down at his empty glass, then back at Flo. He didn’t disagree.

“Word is, someone is quietly buying up all the smaller supply lines, muscling in on the bigger boys, trying to make a name for himself up and down the river. My trouble is, he’s not yet dealing with me, and I don’t appreciate my acquaintances vanishing overnight with nary a goodbye, good luck, here’s one for the road. I don’t suppose you or George have heard anything of that ilk?”

George would know. George, his colleague, his coworker, his housemate. Probably the best friend he’s ever at this point, not that he’d ever say so. George did all the research on their cases, the patient and time-consuming legwork that let Lockwood go gadding about London in search of cheating husbands, long-lost relatives, or, in the Aickmere case, a truly spectacular number of bookies and racetrack managers relieving Brother 2 of a large proportion of his time, money, and in one memorable incident, clothes. Lockwood valued George immeasurably as a colleague, loved him like a brother, and would sooner explode than tell him so. Too much, after everything that happened last year, with Je- no. Too much. One two three four. Breathe. Besides, he saw how George sat up straighter when he came to meet Lockwood at Tidelines, saw how Flo softened her eyes and sharpened her words when George was in, and he was glad for them, glad for his friends, and ignored the howl in his heart.
George. Yes. George might know.

“It’s not come up yet, Flo, but you know what George is like. If there’s anything to be found, he’ll find it. We’ve got a couple more interviews tomorrow morning, so once they’re done with, he’s free to look about, if nothing else comes in to distract him.”

He flashed his reassuring grin again, met Flo’s answering smile. They both knew that George wouldn’t rest until he had every scrap of information – fact, rumour, hearsay, speculation and hunch – on anything Flo asked of him. It’d be a nice carrot to dangle in front of him, to make up for the big pointy stick of the final few interviews tomorrow morning. Lockwood closed his eyes briefly, groaned inwardly. He’d had enough of shiny-faced young men clutching copies of The Mysterious Affair at Styles, eager to solve their first murder, unable to offer anything of actual substance other than a letter of recommendation from Daddy at the Foreign Office. Lockwood and George had agreed that they needed an additional investigator, but both were beginning to despair of ever finding someone competent who wanted to join their unusual little agency. Still. Nil desperandum and all that.

Lockwood stood, swishing his long coat around his shoulders and put some coins on the bar. In the corner, the piano picked out a melancholy tune, the dark-eyed singer offering an unexpectedly heartfelt adieu as he nodded his goodbyes to Flo. He knew the woman singing somehow, and took a minute to place her delicate features, long black hair swept into an untidy bun, dark eyes closed with the music, gold bracelets clinking and winking on her wrists – pushing them up her arm, out of the way – that’s it, she’d been at a table with Holly earlier in the week, sitting close in comfortable intimacy, eyes bright in shared confidence. Yes. Well. Another friend to be glad for, how wonderful. He smiled to himself – Holly, their secretary, assistant, office manager, whatever her title, she kept the agency running smoothly, and did a phenomenal job with quiet efficiency. She deserved happiness. And, thinking about it, she had seemed even more efficient than usual recently; Lockwood had even woken a few mornings this week to hear her singing in the kitchen, snatches of tunes he recognised from the raised boards in the corner of the bar. Hmm. Something to file away for later, maybe. Right now he had a home to get to, George to debrief and re-orient on Flo’s request, paperwork to complete, sodden shoes to try and rescue, a lonely bed to fall into. Plenty to do, before the final round of interviews tomorrow morning, plenty to keep him occupied. He moved lightly between the tables, through the heavy curtain, saluting Gravedigger as he left the warmth of the little basement haven, tendrils of song following him out into the evening and into the night.

Don’t try to run, you rascal you,
Don’t you try and run.”

Chapter Text

Miss Lucy Joan Carlyle, 22, currently of Mrs Sheen’s Boarding House for Respectable Ladies, Soho, stood up straight and exhaled every last breath of air in her body. It had been a long day (week)(year), and she had one last chance at success today before she’d have to bend her steps southwards, back towards the disapproving sniffs and sidelong glances from her short-tempered landlady. If she was honest with herself, she was on her last legs, and really needed this interview to go well. If she was truly honest with herself, this was her last decent option. She’d tried every independent agency she could find in the papers, every sectional police force north of the river, even the Met itself. The Metropolitan Police Force only wanted women for the delicate work suited to ladies – befriending sex workers so that the (male) officers could come along later to arrest them, or worse; ratting out the mystics and tarot-readers, offering what comfort they could to the hordes of disconsolate grieving widows and daughters; supervising the detained women and children in the foetid cells and crowded waiting rooms of the stations. Delicate work indeed, but not what she needs to be doing, no sense of care, no meaningful difference made to the tide of human misery in which she finds herself swimming.

She’d come to London looking for something, somewhere to put this burning need for movement, fulfilment, something to do with her one and precious life. She’d thought that the people she’d sought out so far, the officers, investigators, detectives, secretaries, all the small cogs in the grand machine keeping people safe, would understand, would help her find where she fitted in this new world. Instead, she’d been met with blank stares, patronising tones, and more than one over-familiar comment. Lucy knew she was quick to anger, and so too now did several impertinent sergeants.
Stamping some warmth back into her frozen toes, Lucy took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, marched herself up the worn stone steps at number 35 – weird looking place for an agency’s offices, far too respectable, though the sunken garden she could see below was comfortingly overrun with weeds and made her feel less like she was going to be chased away from the door with a broom – and rang the bell. Underneath the tarnished brass button was an equally tarnished nameplate.

Lockwood & Co., Private Investigations.
After dark, please ring bell and move back to the pavement.

Maybe not quite so respectable after all, then, Lucy thought wryly. Waiting on the front step, she heard footsteps coming towards her down the as-yet-unseen hallway – two sets, by the sound of it, and someone braying indignantly in that nasal accent she’d come to despise – old men who couldn’t let go of the Empire, horsey captains with country estates and wives who hated them. The wide wooden door swung inwards and Lucy moved backwards to avoid being trampled by – yep, there it is, shiny shoes and no chin – an aristocratic young man barrelling through the doorway and out onto the pavement, bleating something about an uncle in the Ministry of Defence. Turning back towards the house, Lucy found herself being sized up by a harassed-looking young man, whose wayward hair, rumpled jumper, and intense eyes behind thick glasses spoke of long nights and no tolerance for bullshit. Lucy stood up even straighter. Before she could speak, the man gestured to the side.

“Are you looking for directions? The shop’s at the end of the street, on the corner, if you’re needing a map.”

Lucy bristled. This was not going to be a repeat of the last twelve (twelve! God help her, she was so tired) interviews. She stepped forward, eyes bright, and offered her hand to the man.

“I have an appointment with Mr Lockwood? 11 o’clock? Miss Carlyle, I responded to your advert in the Gazette earlier this week.”

Something flashed behind the man’s glasses, and he looked at her with renewed scrutiny. Lucy tried not to panic. Her clothes – black trousers and boots, peachy shirt, slightly scuffed dark coat – had given her confidence earlier in the week, but the London muck and relentless tramping up and down the busy streets had left her feeling buffeted, marked out as the oddbody she increasingly feared she was. Wait. Oh god. Was this one of the men who couldn’t cope with the idea of women in trousers? She hadn’t even made it past the door of Bunchurch Investigations, so horrified was the middle-aged agent who answered her knock, and her interview there was over before it’d even begun. She swallowed a bubble of hysteria. Keep it together, Luce.

“Miss Carlyle, my apologies.” The young man moved back, gestured her inside. “I’m George Karim, Lockwood and Co’s investigative researcher. I’d offer you tea, but none of the other candidates this morning has lasted longer than two minutes, so I’ll see how you get on first if you don’t mind. I’m running out of mugs.”

Lucy, wrong-footed, didn’t quite know how to respond. The house enveloped her like a caress. Warm wood and soft lantern light, somewhere a ticking clock, old books and new coffee. She unbuttoned her coat, glad to be out of the keening wind, and followed George as he slouched down the hallway and into a comfortably shabby sitting room with wide picture windows looking onto the street. Gesturing her towards a squashy sofa against the windows, Lucy caught a glint of something in George’s eye – the suggestion of a wink? Surely not, they’d only just met! Lucy found herself smiling back as she unbuttoned her coat and sat down, a low table covered in files and scraps of paper separating her from the figure hunched industriously over a legal pad on the sofa facing her.

“Here’s the 11am, Lockwood.” George said to the man – yes, hmm, there’s definitely an undercurrent here, Lucy thought, unsure if she was in on the joke or its butt. Facing the man opposite her, Lucy watched as he flung the pad to one side with a huff, rubbed his eyes with long, strong fingers, and turned to meet her. Eagled eyed as she was, Lucy didn’t miss the exhaustion in his fine-boned face, nor the confusion with which it was replaced, nor – if she was being ruthlessly honest with herself, what a reflective day she was having – the lightning that arced from tip to toe as those deep, dark eyes locked with hers. She swallowed, willing herself not to shift nervously in her seat.

The man – Lockwood, George said, must be the head of the agency– seemed genuinely lost for words. He looked over at George, who leaned, smiling sardonically in the doorway, and cleared his throat. George twinkled again at Lucy, who sat up ramrod straight. There’s some fun to be had here. Game on.

“I believe I had a Mr Carlyle scheduled for 11, George?” Lockwood said, turning back to Lucy with a charming smile. Her breath caught in her throat – get it together Carlyle, you’ve met pretty men by the armload, literally. Focus. She inclined her head regally, watching as Lockwood’s winning smile faltered.

“Charmed, I’m sure. Lucy Carlyle. I wrote in response to theGazette notice seeking investigators? I got my license at Jacob’s in Kielder Forest, then a two year stint with Mellingcamp and his team in Newcastle. It should all be in the letter I sent. Assuming you read it, of course.” Smiling sweetly, she gestured at one of the open folders on the table, where she could see the bottom corner of her introductory letter peeking out, part of her neat signature just visible under a sheet of scribbled notes in elegant handwriting. She knew she was good, and it looked like Lockwood had had plenty of thoughts about her experience too, judging from the dense sheet of notes in what she assumed was her file.

Lockwood followed her gesture with his dark eyes, and shook off his daze, stupefaction, whatever it was that had him staring at her like some deep-sea monstrosity caught in a fishing net. He schooled his face back into the mask of the charming smile, professional and reassuring and distant. Lucy’s fingers itched to grab the lapels of his stupid jacket – who wears a full suit at eleven in the morning, for god’s sake? – and shake and shake until that unflappable veneer cracked open. Her jab at his professionalism had landed, she could see it in the tiny narrowing of his eyes, and the flash of victorious satisfaction was heady. All the needles and dismissals she’d absorbed this week, patronised and rejected and overlooked, were boiling under her skin and she didn’t have the energy to pretend any more. She was tired, and fed up, and sick of men telling her to go back to the roles and duties she’d fled at 16. She was good, dammit, and this posh prick would recognise how good she was before he threw her out onto the streets.

“I did read it, as a matter of fact. Impressive. I just wasn’t expecting you to be so - “

He stopped, looked at George pleadingly. If he says “female”, Lucy thought, I’m going to scratch his pretty eyes out.

“Young.”

Oh.

“Fully licensed at 19, which is unusual? And to have led on cases in Newcastle too, I was just expecting someone more, um. Grizzled. You say too that you had experience in France during the war? You must have been very young?”

He looked at her questioningly. Lucy’s clasped hands tensed in her lap. Shit. He was good. None of the other interviewers had done the maths. Which didn’t speak highly of their investigative skills, to be honest. She’d not hidden anything, they were just too stupid to look properly. Much like the man from the Red Cross, when she’d signed up as an ambulance driver and stretcher bearer at 16 with an artfully smudged copy of her birth certificate. Men, in her experience, tended to see what they were shown.

“That’s right. Voluntary Aid Detachment. Northern France. Ambulance team.” She didn’t want to open that particular box of memories right now thank you, not in this cosy room, where the lamplight chased away the winter gloom and the ghosts who’d followed her back from the stinking mud.

In the doorway, George pushed his wire-rimmed glasses up his nose. “Taking on all those bureaucrats and officers and coming back alive? Feisty. We need a bit of feistiness around here, don’t we Lockwood?”

“By all means, come over here, call me feisty again, and I’ll show you just how feisty I can be.”

“I’m alright thanks, I like my body whole and unbruised. I’ll go and put the kettle on. Milk in your tea?”

“Please. And two sugars, if you have it.”

“Righto. Two ticks.”

Lockwood had followed their back-and-forth like a tennis match, looking thoroughly wrong-footed. Good, thought Lucy savagely. Better him than me, for once this week.
Clearing his throat, Lockwood began again. “Right. Well. We’re a fairly small agency, as you can see – George handles the paper trails and formal research, and our housekeeper Holly Munro used to work the filing at the Met, so we still get a lot of the hearsay and rumours through her old networks. Business is picking up and we need another agent, we’re stretched too thinly. Your credentials all seem to be in order, but I’m more interested in what you’re capable of.”

Lockwood seemed to relax slightly as he was talking, but there was an undercurrent of weariness beneath his charming demeanour. Leaning forward, he pushed three manilla folders round across the table towards Lucy, each with a photo and what looked like a couple of typed sheets of notepaper inside.

“Have a look at these and tell me what you think. Ah, here’s George with the tea.”

“She’s made it to the test then? See, I told you we’d get one eventually, they couldn’t all be baldy illiterate aristos with more hair than sense.”

A steaming mug of tea the colour of old library pages was plonked in front of her. Ambrosial. Lucy hadn’t eaten properly all week, as the train ticket to London and her landlady’s avarice had left her with pennies to her name, and she tried not to gulp the hot, sweet tea – how had George found both proper milk and proper sugar, and in exactly the right quantities, heaven – too quickly, or sigh when it was finished. Buoyed as much by George’s ringing endorsement as the tea, she turned to the files. Whatever “test” Lockwood was setting his candidates, she was determined not to be found wanting.

Rain fell quietly against the windows. Rubbing her eyes, Lucy looked up and saw George flumped in a squashy armchair, leafing idly through a newspaper. Lockwood looked softer, more relaxed, but was watching her intently. She arranged her papers and her thoughts.

“Well, there’s three very different cases here. This first one, the missing girl, should be fairly straightforward. The father’s reported her missing but the mother didn’t have much to say. Some clothes missing, enough for a few days, the sister said the girl kept a diary but it’s missing too. Pretty young thing, and she’d worked in a café? I’d ask around the other café girls, any friends, but ten to one she’ll turn up in a week or so with her young man and a ring on her finger. The mother knows where she is, or suspects, and isn’t saying, so she’s not in danger.”

Lockwood smiled. A genuine smile, not the assured mask he’d shown her earlier.

“Quite right. And she did, as it happens – wrote a letter to her mum a few weeks ago, from her new home in Finsbury Park, with her husband. The father didn’t approve, but there was nothing he could do at that point. Excellent, Miss Carlyle. And the others?”

Tamping down her pleasure at the praise, Lucy picked up the right-hand folder.

“This is a more complicated one, I think. Tracing financial irregularities in a business is tricky if you don’t have a friend in the office, or the back. Two brothers, too – it could easily be a sibling squabble that’s gotten out of hand. It’d need careful watching and planning, see if the younger brother is foolish enough to be spending company money where he shouldn’t be, see where he goes and who he speaks to, if there’s anything there to dig about in. I’d be inclined to befriend one of the secretaries, see if we couldn’t get the ledgers, to give us something more solid to go on, otherwise we could be hanging about outside clubs and hotels for days.”

Lockwood shifted uncomfortably in his seat. In the corner, George sniffed and fastidiously turned a page of his newspaper.

“I told you the office girls were the way to go, Lockwood. Being all noble is fine, but you were in that alleyway for three days straight.”

Lucy was delighted. This was so much more fun than the rote questions she’d prepared for. Besides, for some reason, she quite enjoyed watching Lockwood squirm.

“Yes, well, we got there in the end, didn’t we? And it only cost me one pair of boots.”

“And your dignity.”

“Shut up, George. Very good again, Miss Carlyle! The younger Aickmere brother was indeed foolish enough to be spending his brother’s money in person, and we got him in a number of, shall we say, compromising situations with various bookmakers in the less reputable areas of the city. Excellent. What about this final case?”

Lucy frowned, leaving the middle folder on the table. She could see George out of the corner of her eye, watching her over the top of his paper. Lockwood hadn’t stopped looking at her this whole time. She took a deep breath.

“It’s nothing. I get nothing from it. A young woman with a roommate, pays rent on time, the roommate sings jazz at a members’ club somewhere, the woman chars for the big houses around her flat. No reports and nothing illegal here.”

Lockwood and George were silent, watching. Lucy knew she wasn’t wrong. She knew it, deep in her bones, and she also knew that these two men were waiting for her to fail, to show that she couldn’t be trusted, couldn’t be relied upon to get the job done. Her temper, never the best-regulated, frayed. Snapped.

“Nothing. Nothing. There’s nothing here. If you’re waiting for me to make some catty remark about gal pals or bluestockings, or what they might be serving behind the bar at the members’ club, or whether a charlady could pay the rent reliably without other income sources, you’ll be waiting ‘til kingdom come. There’s nothing immoral here, and if there’s illegality, it’s nothing I’d want to be paid to investigate. Ours might be a grubby profession at times, Mr. Lockwood, but I can hold my hands up and know they’re clean. And I’ll not sit here and be told otherwise, not by you, or any other man who thinks he can tell me what I do or don’t know. There’s. Nothing. Here.” She sat back, suddenly exhausted, and gathered her coat around her ready to leave. Maybe she could see if any of the papers needed a journalist, or secretary. She’d sooner starve on the streets than go back north. With all the poverty nowadays, she’d at least have fine company in the gutter. The rain pattered on the windowpanes.

“The attic key’s in the kitchen drawer somewhere, I’ll go dig it out”. George huffed and puffed up and out of the depths of the armchair, ambled out of the room. Lucy watched him leave, one hand on her handbag, holding her coat closed with the other, ready to be ushered out of the front door like all the other failed candidates. She looked at Lockwood. A tendril of hope unfurled in her chest.

“There’s a spare room up in the attic here. We work erratically and late, and not all landladies are understanding; the door locks, if you’re worried about staying overnight unchaperoned. Holly keeps the kitchen well-stocked, for much the same reason, though George is a bugger for stealing the last few biscuits. Washing-up is done by whoever has time, but don’t take the mick.” A small smile played on his face, and those fathomless dark eyes never left her face. She couldn’t quite believe it.

“Does that mean I’ve got the job?”

The veneer cracked; Lockwood grinned at her, joy and camaraderie breaking through the exhaustion. As he opened his mouth to speak, something crashed in the kitchen and George bellowed through the house.

“Of course you’ve got the bloody job! Now fetch me the broom, Lockwood, I’ve smashed the bastard fruit bowl again.”

Chapter Text

Lockwood watched the light glinting off the jagged hunk of ice in his drink. Maybe, if he looked hard enough, its clouded surface would clear and present him with a way out of this muddle. Oh spirits, speak unto me and reveal thy wisdom! The ice clinked gently against the edge of the tumbler, sending tiny ripples through the amber liquid glowing in his glass. This spirit was foretelling dire omens of furry teeth and a nasty headache tomorrow morning. Oh well. No use fighting Fate.

So deep in thought was he, Lockwood almost didn’t notice when someone slid silently into the armchair opposite him. Tucked away in the corner of the room, Lockwood wasn’t in the mood for conversation or, god forbid, flirtation. The regulars at Tidelines surely knew his moods well enough by now to know when to keep their distance? He looked up wearily, charming mask at the ready, to be met by the actinic glare of Quill Kipps, his sometime associate, erstwhile friend, pain in the arse, and brother-in-law.

Jessica’s death two years ago had wrenched all their lives off-kilter. Lockwood had buried himself in work, buried his rage and grief deep in his chest, and buried his heart in the corner plot of the peaceful cemetery where his whole family now slept. Quill, having had barely two years of marital bliss after his unspeakable and unspoken time in the trenches lacerating Europe, focussed his fury with the world into a burning torch. Lockwood chose not to know. Ostensibly, Kipps was a municipal gardener, helping to keep Regents’ Park the clean and peaceful oasis so beloved by the locals. If he seemed to spend a lot of time patrolling its winding pathways after dark, Lockwood didn’t ask, and he certainly didn’t infer anything when rumours swirled of badly-beaten men delivered, trussed-up and babbling apology and confession, on the police station doorstep in the morning, and Kipps came in for breakfast at Portland Row with split knuckles and fresh bruises. They were both in the business of keeping people safe from harm. For Lockwood, that meant resolving disputes, smoothing conflicts, restoring justice in whatever small way he could. Kipps concurred, and if he managed that by planting as many punches as petunias, Lockwood couldn’t – wouldn’t – judge him.

“Evening, Tony. You looking for the secrets of the universe at the bottom of that glass?”

Tony. He hated, haaaated anyone calling him anything other than Lockwood, or Anthony if they were feeling particularly risqué. Jessica had called him Tony to wind him up when they were kids, and it had. Kipps was the only person in the world who he’d tolerate it from now, a white flag waving across the wastelands of their shared loss. Didn’t mean he didn’t still hate it though. Prick. He didn’t know how he could be so exasperated by someone he held so dear. Not that he held Kipps dear. Didn’t hold anyone dear, nowadays. Didn’t hold anyone. Best not let them in. Doesn’t hurt when they leave if you don’t let them in. Anyway. He raised the tumbler to his lips.

The older man’s merciless gaze took everything in. He’d make a decent investigator, Lockwood thought, not for the first time, if he didn’t make such an atrocious first impression. And second. And twelfth. Not a people person, our Kipps. Case in point:

“You look like shit, Tony. More so than usual, I mean.”

“Thanks, Kipps. You really know how to make a guy feel special.” Tipping his glass in welcome, Lockwood knocked its contents back, the cheap whisky scorching down the back of his throat. Flo must really be struggling finding decent suppliers, she’d never normally stock swill like this. George was chatting animatedly with her at the bar now, but judging how closely they were leaning their heads, and how often their fingers brushed together, Lockwood didn’t think there was much being shared he’d want to hear. Not that they needed the extra work, far from it. Yet another unjust charge to lay at Lu- Miss Carlyle’s door.

Kipps sat, patient as a saint, relentless as the sunrise. Lockwood sighed. Maybe it’d be better to give voice to the mess in his head, have Kipps knock some sense into him. Call him ridiculous and call it a day. He arranged his face into a sheepish, self-deprecating grin, and began.

“It’s nothing, really. You know we were talking about hiring on another agent? Help us cover more ground and maybe get a few more cases? Well, we did. And it’s working - we’ve picked up more cases this last fortnight than we have since summer. Holly’s delighted, the appointment book is finally full enough for her to start tabbing and subdividing things, she’s in stationery heaven. I might even be able to clear some of the more pressing debts by Christmas, if we keep going like we are.”

Kipps nodded, frowning into his glass. Lockwood ramped the grin up another few notches, bracing for what was coming.

"Alright? That’s all good though, no? More work and more money coming in? Just like you’ve always wanted, putting Lockwood & Co. on the map. So why are you sat here glaring like you’ve found catshit in your socks? Do you not get on with the new guy? Sort of your own fault if so, you hired him.”

Lockwood shifted uneasily. He’d never been good at naming his feelings, let alone sharing them with another. Still. Nothing ventured nothing gained, and all that.

“You leave Skull out of it, he’s kept the mice out of the kitchen like a pro and hasn’t left any of the bodies in my shoes for weeks. No, it’s not that; well, not really. Um. It is sort of the new guy, I suppose. Well. New girl.” He caught the knowing glint in Kipps eye. “For fuck’s sake Quill, not like that! Not at all! Christ, this is why I didn’t want to talk to you about this, you’re like a terrier with a fucking walking stick thinking it’s a bone.” Pinching the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut: maybe it’d be easier to say it to the darkness, rather than Kipps’ smug face.

“Her name is Miss Carlyle, fresh from the north, and she’s good. Really good. She and George seem to have hit it off immediately, though I’m not sure that’s a good thing when I’m getting ganged up on. She’s competent and innovative and gets to the heart of people like I’ve never seen. And she frustrates me.”

Having addressed all this to his cupped hand, he kept his eyes screwed tightly shut. Lockwood could well imagine the sneer on Kipp’s face, the knowing look, the mocking laughter. His shoulders ached from holding himself so tightly, braced for the barrage. As the tirade of abuse failed to appear, Lockwood peeked through his clenched fingers. His friend hadn’t moved. Only raised an eyebrow at him, inviting. Okay. He rolled his neck, tense and cricking, and tried to explain himself without sounding like an arsehole.

“She’s so good, Quill. Had the evidence for the Godwin divorce case tied up in two days, I stopped in here coming back from handing over the papers. Doesn’t even complain about the paperwork. And we can book jobs that I could never have considered before – jewellery thefts and battered wives, places I couldn’t get in before as a lone man but can as a mixed team. She’s an incredible asset.” There’s a knot in his shoulder that’s making him feel like Quasimodo. “And she refuses to know it. I don’t know what I’ve said or done, but she’s so prickly with me. George somehow knows when to say the right thing, when to shut up, what to do, and they’re fast friends. But me? It’s all glares and short answers, and I can’t seem to get through to her! I congratulated her on the Godwin case this afternoon before I left and she couldn’t look me in the eye! I don’t know what I’m doing wrong, Quill, and it’s pissing me off!”

Lockwood stopped, breathing fast. The ache in his chest pressed up into his lungs, constricting. Deep breaths, Anthony. One two three four, fingers to thumb. His hands flexed, unheld.

A heavy hand on his shoulder pushed him up, out of himself. Kipps looked him in the eye, warm and reassuring, his hand tight round Lockwood’s arm, keeping him grounded, tethered. The ache in his chest diminished.

“Christ but you’re a prat, Tony.”

It only took a second or two of silence before both men were howling with laughter, slumped in their chairs, heads thrown back. George and Flo looked over from the bar in amusement, fingers entwined, smiling at their idiot friends in the corner. Kipps was right. He was a prat.

“It’s been what – two weeks? Two weeks, Tony. Two weeks to settle into the cosy dynamic you and George have been developing for, ooh, three years? Four? In a brand new city? Hundreds of miles from any home or family she has? And you’re chibbed because she’s not fallen head over heels for your winning smile and air of mystery and poured out all her secrets? Get a grip on yourself. If she’s as good as you say, there’ll be competition enough from the other agencies, and you don’t want to go chasing her away by being a moody twat. Stop getting in your own way and talk to the poor woman like a human being.”

Kipps sat back, drink in hand, shaking his head fondly at the younger man. Across the room, Holly’s roommate Eliza sang sweetly of being a lonesome babe in New York City, Holly gazing adoringly at her from a table nearby. Flo and George were back to making sheep’s eyes at each other over the bar. Gravedigger had disappeared behind the curtain, and he could just make out the rhythmic cadence of him interrogating a potential new customer, or snitch. A feeling of peace and contentment spread through Lockwood’s body, only slightly related to the single empty glass on the table. Kipps made sense; he always did, manage to make sense of whatever tangle was in Lockwood’s head, if he could only get it out. He did resent the air of mystery comment though, that was uncalled for.

“Elegantly put as ever, Quill, but I take your point. Maybe I have been a bit too demanding. She seemed preoccupied when I left this afternoon; I could maybe make her a cup of tea tomorrow morning when she comes in, before we head back out – it’s an insurance case in Hackney, shouldn’t be too complicated.” Satisfied, Lockwood began to gather himself together, ready to head out into the night and towards home, when he saw Gravedigger wending his way towards their secluded corner with a familiar-looking someone trailing behind – surely not, she wouldn’t – she hadn’t - fucking hell –

“Gentlemen! I find myself in somewhat of an unusual situation here! This young miss –“ Sykes gesturing behind him as would a jocular uncle to a misbehaving nephew who’s unsure if he’s crossed the line separating cheeky from disobedient – “This persistent young miss here was determined to have a word with you, Mr Lockwood, and bless me if I don’t encourage conversation in my house? But I’m most accustomed to making the introductions, and find myself at a loss here and requiring of an explanation, if you would be so good.”

Gravedigger took the sanctity of his establishment seriously – as he should, when any idiot knew that the speakeasies were an easy target for bored coppers looking to make up their arrest quotas for the month. Secrecy was survival, and admittance was only ever granted through personal introduction. Lockwood could only imagine the haranguing that Lucy had given Sykes to make it, un-vouched-for, through the curtain. For Lucy it was, hanging back slightly, looking like she’d realised she’d tweaked a puppy’s tail and woken a hungry wolf. Lockwood looked closer. She looked tired, and angry – no change there, not around him at any rate – but also sad, somehow? Red rimmed eyes and fidgeting fingers. He stood up, summoning his most charming smile, and reached for her hand.

“My honour, Gravedigger! What a pleasure it is to present Miss Lucy Carlyle to you, our agency’s newest and most perspicacious investigator. Miss Carlyle, this is Gravedigger Sykes, whose kind hospitality we are graciously accepting, and not asking any questions about.” He heard a throat being pointedly cleared behind him. Without turning round, he continued, “And this is Quill Kipps. Don’t worry, he always looks like that.” He turned towards Sykes, willing him to accept the implicit apology, and breathed a small sigh of relief as the tall figure nodded imperiously, swept a ludicrous bow towards Lucy, and wove his way back through the tables to his post by the curtain.

It was only as he watched Sykes sit back down that Lockwood realised two things. One: he was still holding Lucy’s hand. Two: her fingers were freezing, trembling, out of all proportion to the blustery late October weather. (Three, whispered a tiny traitor in his head: you don’t want to let go of her). He pulled her down to sit across from them both, determinedly not looking at Kipps, though he could feel the older man’s stare burning into his cheek. She sank into the chair with palpable relief, dropping her bag heavily to the floor - bag? No professional black handbag today, some sort of shapeless green canvas thing – was that a kitbag? Was that all her stuff? What the hell was she doing touting a huge sack of her belongings round London after dark for?
Oh wait.
Oh shit.

She took a deep breath, visibly steeling herself, but Lockwood interjected, manners be damned. Sometimes being a gentlemen meant being a bit of a dick, but as charming a dick as possible. He should put that on his business cards.

“Lu- Miss Carlyle, it’s been a long day. When in Rome, hey?” He caught Kipps’ eye and nodded towards the bar. “Drink? Mr Kipps was just heading up to refresh his glass.” He wasn’t, but whatever. Lucy needed fortifying, any fool could see that, and he was damned if he was going to leave her at the mercy of Kipps’ conversation without doing her the justice of a prior warning.

She swallowed, nodded. “That’s kind, thank you. I’ll have a gin please, if they have any?” Kipps, unbelievably, left with neither sarcastic comment nor friendly insult, and Lockwood and Lucy were alone. He wished they were friends enough that he could take her hand again; he’d not seen her so discomposed in the whole two weeks they’d been working together, and he was almost positive her anger was – for once – not directed at him. He shifted closer towards her, railing at the remaining required distance, and smiled gently.

She smiled back. Miraculous.

“I’m so sorry for barging in here like this, Lockwood, I really am so sorry.” Her breath, ragged and fast, stuttered on the last word.

Unbearable, this savage pain in his heart, clawing its way out of him as her smile faltered and fell, eyes shining. He reached into his jacket pocket, found a handkerchief, one of the nice ones with his initials meticulously embroidered in the corner, a gift from Jessica one Christmas, a tender piece of care he was offered once and could offer her safely now. Their fingers brushed as he handed it over. Miraculous again. The muddle in his head was back.

Kipps returned, leaving Lucy’s drink on the table as she dried her eyes. Catching Lockwood’s eye, he pulled a weird face – what’s going on there, Kipps never looks like that around him? Baffling. Add it to the muddle. He returned Kipps’ questioning glance with a small shrug, before they both swung back round to watch Lucy gather herself up. Kipps must have seen something in Lockwood’s expression, and filled the silence before it became any more awkward. Unfortunately, he filled it with himself.

“Miss Carlyle, how nice to make your acquaintance. Lockwood here has been telling me all about the marvels you’ve been working at his little outfit. Quite the find! I hope you’re keeping him on his toes, he’s gone far too long without someone calling his shi- calling attention to his foibles. I hope he’s appreciating you as he should be.” God damn it. Not the worst introduction he’s heard from Kipps, but not what he needs right now, not with Lucy sat right there, visibly pulling herself together, and with every small bicker and misjudged comment between them over the last fortnight fresh and crackling in his mind.

“You’re a better painting than radio, Kipps. Sit pretty and shut up. Miss Carlyle. You’re very welcome here, though I wasn’t expecting to see you again today? Is everything alright?”

What a monumentally stupid question. It almost hurt to look at her, sat there smaller than he’d ever seen her. Unbearable. His poor colleague, hurting. His poor heart.

Those cold fingers laced around themselves, twisting nervously. “I know, and I’m sorry. It’s just- I didn’t know where else to go. Portland Row was empty, I knocked and knocked, and then I remembered you saying last week about going for a drink after work under the arcade, and it couldn’t have been far because you walked and it was raining, so I wandered around for a while, and I swear I could hear someone following me, and then I thought I saw someone watching me from one of the alleyways, so I ran until I smelled spirits and heard singing, and saw the lantern on the staircase, and that tall man, and he insisted I needed a chaperone, but everyone I know in London must be in here, and I tried to tell him I knew you and I hoped you were inside, and-“

She caught her breath. Lockwood had never seen her so agitated. He clasped his hands together, fearful they’d betray him and reach towards her, anchor her here safe and secure in the present with him- them. Him, and Kipps, George and Flo, Holly and Eliza, everyone here who looked out for each other. And her too, now, if she’d let them. His employee, frightened and followed in the dark? Unacceptable. Anyone would feel the same, this sudden red rage of protectiveness, roaring behind his eyes.

Lucy had gulped half her drink, without wincing, which spoke as much to her distraction as it did to Flo’s victuals.

“It’s my landlady. Or, was. I went back today and one of the other girls there had seen me hanging about outside the hotel, where we were waiting for Mr Godwin to come out with his, um, secretary.” She looked nervously towards Kipps. Sat in an illegal bar, late at night, drinking with two men, alone, and she was nervous about implying a client’s infidelity. Lockwood couldn’t work her out at all, and he so desperately wanted to.
“And she must have gotten the wrong idea, because she went straight to Mrs Sheen, and when I got back this evening, all my things were in the hallway.” Lockwood could see Lucy working so hard at keeping herself composed, but the hurt was radiating off her. “And I’d paid her for the full month, and she won’t give it back. But now I don’t have anything left. So I came to find you. I- I wanted to ask if I could get an advance on next month’s pay, so I can find somewhere new to go, and also if you knew any decent landladies who wouldn’t assume I’m- I’m not respectable. Or who’d be alright with my kind of disrespectability, I suppose.” She sat straight, clear-sighted, fearless, and Lockwood could see what this was costing her. How difficult it was for her to have to ask for help. He could see Kipps moving about as if to speak, and cut in smoothly before he could say anything else stupid.

“Respectable is as respectable does, Miss Carlyle, and Mrs Sheen clearly doesn’t. You still have the attic key?” Lucy nodded. She’d stayed over a couple of times after late finishes, and nothing had gone catastrophically wrong. He’d even made her toast one morning, like a friend might. He didn’t think too hard about what came next out of his mouth; the protective roar had died down enough for him to speak, but any capacity for careful thinking had left with Sykes.

“Well then, I see no issue! You’re already familiar with the worst we have to offer, and it’ll be good for George to have to remember to wear trousers every day. We can work out some sort of rent or board or whatever whenever I get around to paying you. Holly will be delighted to have another girl to chat to, and it’ll make the briefings a lot easier if we can do them around the kitchen table. And I promise not to kick you out in the middle of the winter night for perceived impropriety. What do you say?”

If Lucy’s eyes got any wider, he’d be in danger of falling in. She nodded again, hesitantly, then with conviction.

“Yes. Yes please. Thank you. If you and George don’t mind? Though if it’d help the agency too, then I suppose that’d be alright?” She looked at the two men, as if for permission, confirmation, some sort of sign that this wasn’t a joke. He’d never felt more earnest in his life.

Kipps snorted quietly. The baffle was mounting. Add that to the muddle.

“Great!! Ahem. Great. Drink up then, Miss Carlyle, we’ve got an early start tomorrow – that life insurance case for Mr Evans’ widow? I’ll need my beauty sleep for this one.” Kipps snorted again. Lockwood found that he didn’t care. The muddle could keep until tomorrow morning. “This wastrel turns up for breakfast as and when he feels like it, which can put you off your porridge, but you’ll get used to it.”

“Such a charmer, Lockwood. Does this fine young woman realise what she’s let herself in for? Run while you can, Miss Carlyle, before you’re trapped forever by these idiots.”

She smiled at them both – a proper smile, the first time Lockwood had seen her smile unreservedly. The cynicism fell away from her, the frown lines and careworn runnels, and Lockwood was forcibly reminded that under all the terror and despair they’d collectively experienced since their teens, they were still young and beautiful and full of life. He stood, shouldered her kit bag – distressingly light, how is this really all she owns in the world – and the traitorous little part of his brain took over, moving his free arm without his permission. Who put his hand there, open like that? Under whose orders were his fingers bending gently towards her?

She took it. Her fingers felt warm and sure in his. There’s a church, thought Lockwood, a pretty church on the road by the park. I’ll go light a candle there tomorrow, say thanks for all these miracles.

“I think,” said Lucy, squeezing his hand. Two candles, he thought, and the mosque and synagogue were nearby too, maybe they’d have donation boxes or something. “I think, given everything, you should all probably just call me Lucy.”

“Lucy.” How nice that felt, the shape of her name in his mouth. He smiled down to his toes, wrapped her hand under his arm. Nodded his goodbyes to Kipps. Ignored whatever the man was blethering to Lucy, who was looking back at Lockwood with those impossible eyes, almost like she was glad to be there. Ignored whatever Kipps was trying to communicate to him with his eyebrows. The world had collapsed to a focal point a few inches across, blue-brown and bewitching, sunlight in a quiet forest.

“Let’s go home.”

Chapter Text

Lucy had never slept alone in her entire life, until last week.

Home – well, the house where she grew up – was as full as any on their street, six older sisters and each less wanted than the last, sharing the two small rooms at the back of their terrace. There were more bodies than beds, which was a blessing in the winter when the frost rimed inside the windows, piled up on each other like a litter of kittens. Safe from their mother’s fists and fury, untrammelled by a father’s protection after he’d “fallen” on the tracks after a particularly lengthy bender. Or so the gossips whispered. She’d tried her best to tune them out, to listen to the birds and the moorland, and dream of escape. She and Norrie, her partner in crime, fearless and fierce, had convinced Norrie’s brother Alfie to teach them to drive his tractors, ploughing up and down his mutilated fields until they were both steady and sure. They’d plotted, you see, heads together on how they’d escape, the life they’d build together on the other side, two of them against the world.

She’d run at 16, hand in Norrie’s hand, away from her mother’s rage, towards the promise of adventure and patriotic duty, towards life. What she’d found was camaraderie, yes, but not the freedom she so desperately craved. As they’d planned, their driving skills fast-tracked them to the Front, hauling their ambulances round craters and through the smoke and screaming, fishing the men out from the filth and stench. Back and forth, back and forth, in the noise and the reek, the bullets ricocheting (where she was lucky) and striking (where she wasn’t; she had a small scar behind her ear where one nearly did for her). Secure in the knowledge that this was work, yes, this was important, each wrench of the wheel, each dispatch call, each sobbing broken body she hauled into her truck, the difference between life and not-life every time.

She and Norrie had managed to secure billets in the same Voluntary Aid Detachment, the only two women in their team of six, all crammed into a single wide tent behind the field hospital. Edwardian ideas of propriety were a world away from the front lines; you’d as well dance a quadrille in a volcano. She trusted her VAD with her life – you had to, really, as they trusted her with theirs. And if you sought comfort in the night, in their cramped tent as the wounded wailed nearby and the night sky bloomed and shook, the reassurance that you were living, breathing flesh and blood, then it was understood. Give and take. You did what you needed to, to survive, and she had. The only one from her team that made it back unscathed, physically at least. The boys bought it, one by one, as the bullets flew. Norrie was trapped overnight under her van when a mine went off beneath her and took out her front wheels; she’d survived, but something had died in her as she huddled beneath her vehicle, watching the world explode. The armistice had been called a few days later, but part of Norrie had never left that field. She’d not spoken a single word since. Sent home on medical discharge, back to piece together some semblance of life for herself, mute and haunted.

Lucy would never, ever forgive herself for letting Norrie go out alone that night.

She’d gone back to England herself a few weeks later, packed onto a ship with hundreds of returning volunteers, shoulder to shoulder with her comrades and more alone than she’d ever been. Back to her tiny village? Not a chance. She’d not spent two years in hell on earth to go straight back to the devil. She’d saved her pay and found a tiny shared room in the town nearby, stared down Jacobs until he’d taken her on as a runner and she could work her way up to a fully licensed investigator. The girls she shared with changed as they moved out and on, away to husbands or better jobs or back to their homes, defeated. She didn’t care. Two beds to a room meant half the rent, and made the vicious winters less unbearable.

She made it herself eventually too, got her license and left town for the bright lights of the big city – well, bigger than the provincial towns, at least. Mellingcamp Agency kept dormitories for its workers close to the busy dockyards on the quayside, rows of campbeds and battered lockers, shared desks and frustrations. She’d lived in a binary state there, crackling and sparking with energy and vitality on her cases, disconnected and lifeless once the day was done. If her colleagues noticed, none of them cared enough to connect with her; lord knew she didn’t notice enough of their fugue states to connect with them either.

It was a silly thing, really, that upended it all. Nothing, in hindsight, nothing of note; enough, though. She and Norrie, wired and unsleeping during their overnight at Dover, waiting for their transport over to France, had drawn out their plans, designed their lives for after the war ended, whenever that might be, willing it into existence with the unshakeable confidence of untested youth. This Will Be Us, they’d declared, and who was there to tell them no, no it won’t? Lucy had kept it throughout, talismanic, one scrap of paper a universe entire. So to see it in the hands of a virtual stranger, knelt by her open locker? In innocence, of course, nothing was labelled in the dormitories, only tacitly claimed and mutually understood, and the girl was new, she wasn’t to know the fraught alliances and tense network of territory there. It wasn’t her fault.

But it was enough.

Lucy was on the London train three days later.

Sleeping lightly in a crowded second-class carriage, then the respectably shabby squalor of Mrs Sheen’s and her four-to-a-room avarice, safer than the park benches and bank doorways (but only just). Always the felt presence of another, pressing against her crowded mind, filling her head with chatter, its presence so ubiquitous in her life that she didn’t register it as noise anymore. How can you miss something you’ve never had?

And then two smiling men had turned her world upside down.

(Not that George actually smiled much, but you could see it glimmering in his eyes, if you knew what to look for).

(Not that she thought much about Lockwood’s smile either, not about how he had a private smile seemingly just for her, brief flashes of the man behind the professional, charismatic, impersonal mask.)

He’d smiled at her like that handing her the small iron key, their fingers brushing lightly, a small private moment between them like he knew he wasn’t just giving her the loan of an old-fashioned bedstead in a crooked attic for when they worked late. She wasn’t sure, actually, if he knew what they’d given her, these two kind idiots. When she went upstairs for the first time, shut and locked the door behind her, and looked around at the very first space she’d ever had in her whole life that was all for her. Not hers per say, not at all, just a spare room in her employer’s house that she could use sometimes, but still. No-one complaining about her sketching late at night, borrowing her one good jumper, pulling faces in the mirror when they think she can’t see. No-one to watch as she traced the bedframe, felt the cool cleanliness of linen under her fingertips, no-one to intrude as she watched the slumbering city through her tiny window, not bothering to wipe her cheeks.

She couldn’t tell them, obviously. She’d not survived this long by letting the world know how much it could hurt, to live in it, how bruised and battered she sometimes felt. George seemed to get it, instinctively, knew when to raise and when to fold, but Lockwood brought out the worst in her. She’d met enough rich boys in men’s clothing who’d made major decisions in unwarranted confidence and not had to face the consequences, enough men who’d used her brains and skills to get the job done and then cast her aside like yesterday’s newspaper. She wasn’t going to be taken for a fool by some posh twat with his fancy house and strong hands and floppy hair, even if he was kind. Even if he did seem to trust her. Even – especially – when it sometimes seemed like he was trying to be friends. She watched herself snap and bark, watched with mounting irritation at herself as she pushed back every friendly overture he made, flashes of hurt in his eyes before the professional mask came back. Went to bed each night with a heart full of hurt for Norrie, for herself, for the friends within her grasp that felt too precarious to touch.

It was almost a relief, to be honest, when Mrs Sheen had hemmed and hawed, pursed lips and rigid shoulders letting Lucy know perfectly well what conclusions she’d leapt to, an egregious affront to her rigid respectability, a relief to be able to leave the crowded terrace knowing that there were friends – friends? Yes, friends – she could ask for help.

Urgh.

She’d never been good at that.

Still. It was raining and her last pair of boots in the bottom of her kitbag were banging awkwardly against her calves. At the very least, she’d get a few minutes respite in the warmth of the cellar bar before having to go back out into the night. She was sure she’d heard someone following her, footsteps behind her that stopped as she stopped, just asynchronous enough to put her on edge. Lurking figures in alleyways that with eyes lingering a moment too long on her face as she passed. Keyed up enough that the cadaverous figure guarding the doorway capitulated within minutes; one theatrical gentleman and a dusty curtain wasn’t enough to stop her reaching her friends. She’d apologise to Lockwood for the late hour and hope he had some cash on him, enough for a cheap hotel at least.

She was grateful, at the end of their evening, for the reassuring steel bar of his arm, as her legs felt far shakier than a single gin should have made her. What a comfort his presence was – all of them really, George by the bar with the grinning barmaid – Flo, her tired brain supplied, George lit up when she came up in conversation, she could see why. Quill Kipps, clearly someone important to Lockwood, anyone with eyes could see they’d do anything for the other, for all their insults. The stunning woman sitting close to the piano, familiar from the third folder from her interview – the char with the jazz girlfriend? This must be the Holly that Lockwood mentioned. What a stunning girl. Lucy felt every speck of dirt on her, suddenly conscious of her flyaway hair and muddy shoes. Lockwood must have felt her tense up, as she found her arm squeezed closer to his body. When had he picked up her bag? Good god, what a mess she was. The shame of it, of being so needy, so nakedly vulnerable, roiled her stomach.

“That’s it, Lucy, mind that chair leg. There’s Holly, she’ll be around tomorrow when you wake up, making sure we’re all fed and presentable. Let’s get you home; I’m exhausted, and we’ll need our best feet forward for Mrs Evans in the morning. Evening, Gravedigger, and our compliments for another stimulating evening. Here we are, watch the uneven step there, and there too. Lovely. Just round the corner here. It’s quiet, Marylebone, isn’t it? I’ve thought about moving somewhere a bit more lively, but somehow can’t imagine being anywhere other than Portland Row. What do you think?”
Lockwood kept up a quiet burble of conversation – well, observation, really, seeing as how Lucy was too exhausted to contribute much – all the way back. She surprised herself with how grateful she was towards him, for keeping her tucked into his side and not asking anything of her, for not pointing out how tired she was, how ragged. For not snagging against any of her jagged edges.

He brought her all the way to her bed, deposited her bag by the wonky dresser, gestured to the tiny bathroom in the corner.

“The boiler’s off now, so it’s just whatever hot water’s left in the system I’m afraid.”

Lucy had folded herself onto the bed, just awake enough to sit upright and nod at what seemed like the appropriate points. Lockwood smiled at her. My smile, she thought. That’s nice, to have a smile just for me. She prised off her shoes.

“I’ll leave you to it. Briefing in the kitchen at 9am, and Holly’s usually in from 8 to chivvy us into shape. Sleep well.”

He hesitated at the top of her stairs, inclined his head – what a gentleman, Lucy thought, he’s such an idiot – and turned to leave.

“Lockwood?”

He stopped, haloed in the doorway by the hallway lantern light. Lucy wasn’t sure what was coming out of her mouth, but it seemed important somehow.

“Thank you. For this. For everything. I’m glad I’m here.”

How soft her pillow was. The duvet felt strange against her stockings and skirt, but she was too tired to care. The floorboards creaked. Something brushed gently against her face. This was a nice dream.

“Goodnight, Luce. I’m glad you’re here too.”

------------

If there was a more reliable universal constant than tea, Lucy didn’t know what it was. Speed of light? Conservation of mass? Faded and insubstantial next to a well-brewed cup of Pitkins. Lucy lounged against the counter, watching contentedly as Holly flitted gracefully between tasks, chatting amiably.

“The boys are alright really, Lucy, they just have a tendency to get lost in their work. Tensions haven’t run too high for a while, but you can usually piece together any arguments from the Thinking Cloth, they can get quite creative with their insults. Let me know what kind of cakes you like best and I’ll get them in the rotation. Eggs with your toast? It’s so nice to have someone around to talk to properly, George tends to fixate on his experiments and Lockwood isn’t exactly a morning person. And Skull’s lovely, but not the finest conversationalist.”

Lucy giggled. She can’t remember ever having felt so well-rested of a morning, and certainly never having been greeted with anything approaching this level of solicitude, tea in hand, eggs in the pan, laughter on their lips. Skull wound round her ankles, miaowing loudly at her. His funny little face – all white against the rest of his black fur, no need to guess where his name came from – stared up at her resolutely.

“I don’t know Holly, he certainly has plenty to say to me this morning! Don’t you little man! So pretty, such a good boy.” Skull chirruped and rubbed against her leg, purring loudly. She giggled again. How easy it was, suddenly, to laugh.

A low chuckle made them both start. Lockwood leant in the doorway in shirtsleeves and loosened tie, watching their cosy domesticity with folded arms. Huh. The fitted suit jacket must be an after-breakfast thing. Lucy definitely didn’t notice how unexpectedly muscular his forearms were, with his sleeves rolled up, as that would be an inappropriate thing to notice about your boss. Nor did she think anything improper about his unbuttoned collar. Or how the joy danced in his eyes as he watched them, their little domestic vignette.

Fortunately, (unfortunately? Shut up Lucy, concentrate on your tea), George barrelled through soon afterwards, papers flying behind him, and the business of the day began. Over tea and eggs on toast, the three agents hashed out the Evans case while Holly worked her magic in the background.

“Straightforward enough really”, Lockwood began, sweeping clear an area of the Thinking Cloth to map out his thoughts. “Mr Kenneth Evans, 14 Sandland Street, Holborn. Some bigshot industrialist, made his fortune by switching to ammunition production a decade ago, sold it all off last year and bought his townhouse. Married for – George?”

George adjusted his glasses, rifled through his stack of papers. “38 years, to a Miss Julia Smythe as was. Mrs Evans did a lot of charity work, but hasn’t been seen as much these last few years. She called it in, though.”

“Right.” Lockwood was all fire and focus at the beginning of a case, spinning patterns out of dry data, afire with the promise of a new mystery to solve. “Our client is Sunshine Insurance. Last year, two substantial life insurance policies were taken out against Mr and Mrs Evans, each naming the other as the beneficiary. Any investigation suspends the payout, and we’re tasked with checking over the police files and reporting back to Sunshine with any evidence of foul play.”

Lucy stirred. “Open and shut, you said yesterday, Lockwood. The man was 68, lived a cushty life, coroner’s report was inconclusive but suggested heart failure. What’s left to check?”

Lockwood grinned at her. “I did, Lucy, and I stand by it. Here’s my plan. You and I scrub up, then go pay Mrs Evans a consolation visit. She’s used to fancy types, but has been out of society for a few years, so we should pass muster. We have a chat, see if we can get the family doctor’s details, poke about in the deceased’s office for a bit, and leave poor Mrs Evans to her sorrows. Follow up with the medical stuff, report back and close it up, another job well done.” He sat back, mug in hand. “Five bob says we’re finished by dinner. How complicated can it be?”

When he smiled at her like that, it was impossible to think otherwise. Lucy drank her tea, warmed by the heat and the fine company. Lockwood was right. How complicated can it be?

-----------

It was complicated.

Of course it was complicated. It was the first case they’d worked together, just the two of them, and Lucy was eager to get her teeth into something juicier than the lost dogs and stolen watches she’d covered so far at Lockwood & Co., the bread-and-butter stuff that (barely) paid the bills but didn’t exactly challenge her. It’d be good to see what Lockwood was capable of too, of course. Professionally.

It got complicated before they’d even crossed the threshold. Lucy hesitated on the elaborate portico, one finger reaching for the tarnished bell. Something wasn’t right. What was it? Ah.

“Do you hear that, Lockwood?”

He looked down, brow furrowed.

“I don’t hear anything. This step could do with sweeping, though, I’ve stood in – oh god – urgh, leaf mulch. Still. Could be worse, I suppose.”

“That’s what I mean.” She gestured to the dank step, so at odds with the elegant townhouse. “A house this size, in the middle of the morning? There should be at least a maid or two, someone in the kitchen, maybe an errand boy. I can’t hear anyone moving about inside. And no self-respecting housemaid would let the front door get so grimy. Something’s not right with this, Lockwood.”

He reached across her, pressed the bell, and shot her a conspiratorial grin. “Brilliant, I hate boring cases. I knew you’d bring us good luck.”

After an age, an ancient housemaid creaked open the door, ushering them into an oppressively gloomy hallway. Dust bunnies stood sentry up the stairs, and the air smelled heavily of unopened curtains and old flowers. The methuselan housemaid led them by degrees to the drawing room, where end tables laden with tchotchkes sprouted like mushrooms across the faded carpet, and two old-fashioned loveseats flanked a measly fire. Sat on the left, a relic of a bygone age, was a doll-like black-clad figure, resolute and proud.

Lucy could feel the terror rolling off the shrunken woman from across the room.

Lockwood caught her eye, the tiniest suggestion of a wink, before the charismatic mask descended. They’d agreed ahead of time that he’d do the talking, charm the old society dame with his good breeding and educated manners, while Lucy sat like a prim and proper little lady, and took note of everything. Lockwood wasted no time, walking towards the sofas and executing a neat little half-bow from the waist. Posh twat.

“Mrs Evans, my thanks for seeing us at this sad time. On behalf of Lockwood and Co., our most sincere condolences for your loss.”

He was off. Mrs Evans didn’t stand a chance against those polished manners, the smooth flattery, that ingratiating smile. Though she was proving more resistant than they’d expected, now Lucy came to watch more closely. Lockwood was getting the rote society answers that good manners dictated, and secured permission to go through the late Mr Evans’ desk for the insurance papers and the doctor’s details, but Mrs Evans didn’t seem to bend any further. Lucy tuned out Lockwood’s patter and focussed in properly on the mourning woman.

She wasn’t bending at all, actually. Literally. No Victorian corsetry could hold Mrs Evans with greater rigidity. And she’d not leant forwards to offer Lockwood her hand in greeting. They’d not been offered tea – not that there was an available surface on which to place a tray – and the woman hadn’t said much at all, just clipped sentences. Was she overcome with distress? Her eyes were remarkably clear, undimmed by tears – unusual, for someone who lost their husband of 38 years two days ago. Lucy listened harder.

Mrs Evans’ breath was so shallow, Lucy was amazed she was still conscious. The old woman caught Lucy’s eye, and inhaled sharply in surprise at being so closely observed. Lucy couldn’t miss the low hiss, the spasm of pain that shot across her face, before she smoothed it over and turned back to Lockwood.

Her terror was almost tangible.

Fuck.

This was supposed to be open and shut.

Lucy caught Lockwood’s eye, nodded imperceptibly to the maid standing unobtrusively to the side. Confusion in his face, but only a moment of hesitation before he nodded back. How well they read each other already. How unsettling, to be read so easily. Shake that off Lucy, come on. She did her best imitation of Lockwood’s most reassuring smile, though she felt it came out more like a grimace, and addressed Mrs Evans directly.

“Ma’am? Would your maid be able to show me to your late husband’s office and provide me with the doctor’s number? I think my colleague’s time would be best spent in this charming conversation. I’ll be back presently. Hill, is it? Lead on, Hill, I’m yours to command.”

Bobbing an awkward half-curtsey – what the hell was that Lucy, what’s wrong with you – she ushered the elderly maid back into the hall, took her elbow and spoke low and urgent.

“Hill? I need you to trust me. Can you do that?”

Hill drew herself imperiously, bristling with righteous fury.

“I don’t know what you mean, miss. We’ve already spoken to the police. I don’t know what else you expect from us.”

Lucy didn’t have time for pleasantries. She needed Hill on side before Lockwood exhausted Mrs Evans completely and they were dismissed.

“Look, Hill. I’m not stupid. Your mistress has one broken rib at least, more if I’m not mistaken, and you neither of you seem to be particularly sad about losing Mr Evans. You’ve kept this house running by yourself, seemingly, so you’re not stupid either. Let me help, please. I’ve read the coroner’s report, and I’m happy to sign off that Mr Evans died of heart failure; all we need, please, is a doctor’s letter or prescription, and a signed testimony from a senior staff member who can attest to Mr Evans’ poor health. Neither myself nor Mr Lockwood are interested in any mysterious empty bottles, rat poisons or unsigned chemist receipts, alright? Let us help. Please.”

She held Hill’s furious glare, watched as the older lady wavered, decided. Smiled grimly. Nodded once, sharp and resolute.

“Miss Carlyle. I understand. Mrs Evans is the dearest thing in the world to me. It’s been my life’s work to care for her, lady’s maid to housekeeper, and I will continue to look after her until my last breath. The other staff left one by one, and I don’t blame them; Mr Evans was a brutal man. Brutal. It will make both our lives easier once we can hire decent help again, now this house is peaceful. My lady is prostrate with grief, naturally. Mr Evans’ passing was a long time coming.” She narrowed her eyes at Lucy, chose her next few words with deliberate care.

“My mother used to swear by foxglove tea to strengthen the heart. I offered some to Mr Evans earlier this week. Perhaps he misjudged its potency.”

Lucy squeezed her elbow, exhaling heavily with relief. She was right, and it was reassuring that she'd not left her instincts back in Newcastle with her spare pair of boots.

“An easy thing to do, Hill. Digitalis is a tricky medicine to self-administer. What a shame the poor man didn’t take sufficient care. Onwards! His office is through here? Lovely.”

She rummaged efficiently through the messy drawers, Hill hovering nervously behind her. Bingo! A box of powders for high blood pressure, with a dispensing label and doctor’s note tucked inside. Done and done.

“My thanks, Hill. I hope we’ve brought you some comfort in this trying time. Sunshine Insurance should be in touch with your mistress about the payout in a day or two, once we’ve submitted our report. Please do continue to look after Mrs Evans.”

Lucy heard the maid laugh shakily. What tension there was in this house; what sorrows. Lucy smiled as reassuringly as she could, and returned to the overstuffed drawing room. Lockwood jumped up as he saw her approach.

“Mr Lockwood! Mr Evans was most obliging in leaving a box of his heart medicine front and centre in his desk. We’ve got everything we need, I believe?” She shot him a Look. He nodded mutely. Good. She wasn’t in the mood to be questioned right now. “Excellent. Our condolences once more, Mrs Evans, and our best wishes for a happier and more prosperous future. Mr Lockwood?"

She waited as he executed another flawless half-bow to the stunned Mrs Evans, offering her his thanks and goodbyes. If he was any smoother, he’d slide right through the floorboards. Emboldened, she tucked her hand under his elbow as he reached her, the very picture of a modern professional couple – pair of agents. As they passed Hill, standing guard by the front door, she caught at Lucy’s coat sleeve.

“Thank you, miss,” she whispered rapidly. “I’ll look after her now, don’t you worry.”

Lucy winked. “You do that, Mrs Hill. I have every confidence in your abilities.”

Brightly shone the sun as they walked sedately down the street. Lucy found that she was disinclined to loosen her arm from Lockwood’s, so she didn’t. It was late October, after all, and she could feel the heat of his body even through all the layers of cloth separating them. Besides, he didn’t seem to begrudge sharing.

So engrossed were they in comparing notes and sharing thoughts as they meandered back to Portland Row, they neither of them noticed as a patch of shadow slipped behind them, flitting from street to street, all the way home.

Chapter Text

It was usually fairly easy to solve the case of the slamming front door at 35 Portland Row. A good detective would first head to the kitchen, carefully noting the pattern of biscuit crumbs and jam smears on the table, the residual temperature of the tea mugs and how much was left undrunk. A particularly astute agent would remember how the Thinking Cloth had looked the previous night, and be able to identify any new insults, notations, or anatomically correct caricatures. Having formulated their working hypothesis, they would proceed to the office and/or library, to see who remained in the house, stewing in the remains of the argument, and offer solace or a bollocking accordingly.

It caught Lucy off-guard, then, when she peered round the kitchen after hearing the front door crashing shut all the way up in her attic. No abandoned mugs, no new cartoons, and she’d not heard any raised voices either. She padded through to the library, where George was happily buried in the latest local gazetteers. No simmering tensions here either. What was going on?

George looked up, saw her hovering in the doorway.

“Everything alright, Luce? Only you’re blocking the light. No offence.”

“Some taken, George. No, I thought I heard someone leave, and wanted to check up on the aftermath. You okay? Did you piss Lockwood off again?”

“Again?” George took off his glasses, rubbing them indignantly on his jumper. “I don’t know what you mean. He finds my frankness and robust ideas refreshing, I’m sure. No, it’s the 28th.”

Lucy must have looked as blank as she felt.

“The 28th? Of October? It’s Lockwood’s birthday tomorrow. He’s gone to see his family.”

“Oh right. I see. Does he not get on with them or something? Only I heard the front door slam all the way upstairs.”

“No, Lucy.” George replaced his glasses, frowning up at her from behind his wall of newsprint. “They’re all dead. His sister a couple of years ago, nasty business, and his parents when they were both kids. There was an uncle too, I think, never came back from Ypres, but the others are buried in St John’s, up by the park. He goes for a chat when he’s sad.”

Amazing she could breathe, really, with this gaping cavern suddenly hollowing out her chest. Dizzying to look down into, so let’s not. Her friend was hurting. Anyone would feel badly for their friends. No need to go spelunking.

“Oh god, I had no idea. About any of it. I’d have… I don’t know. Bought him a tie, or something.” She leaned hard against the doorframe, trying to think her way through the maelstrom in her heart. This house, then, so full of mementoes and curiosities, but no photos, no drawings – oh god, she’d been so blind. She was sleeping in his childhood bed, for god’s sake, how had she not thought to ask –

“Luce. I can hear you thinking from here, it’s exhausting. Stop it. You know what Lockwood’s like, you’d sooner get personal anecdotes from Skull. He gets sad, goes for a chat, comes back with a sprig of something purple in the springtime, and that’s an end of it. And Holly makes enough fuss for all of us in the mornings when it’s a birthday, we don’t do presents or anything, you’re off the hook. Now.” He picked up an enormous broadsheet, disappearing into the gossip pages. “If you don’t mind, I’m doing vital research on the latest scandals from Kensington. There might be a case or two in it, if we play our cards right.”

Dismissed but not assuaged, Lucy made her way slowly back up the stairs. That surely wasn’t right, that birthdays could pass without some token of affection between friends? Lucy hadn’t had many gifts in her life, but the ones she’d received with love had anchored themselves in her heart. A braided bracelet from Norrie when she was 12. Alfie, bringing her and Norrie up to his highest field on the morning of her 16th birthday so they could all watch the sunrise together. A precious bar of chocolate from a doctor, Paul, who’d taken a shine to her in the field hospital, as she turned 17.
Friends don’t let friends age alone, unmarked, unloved.

Full of sudden purpose, she hurried on up to the rickety desk by her window, the lamplight adding to the glow of the full moon streaming through her open curtains. Where had she put the – no – yes, there it is. Tucked neatly at the bottom of her paperwork: her sketchpad and pencils.

She curled up contentedly at her desk and began.

When Lockwood came through into the kitchen the next morning, he’d been met with the usual gleeful hug from Holly, who’d made his favourite almond buns for breakfast. George had dug up some juicy new leads from a fashionable part of town for him to sink his teeth into, and had even donned a clean(ish) jumper for the occasion. Kipps had unearthed a bottle of Tullibardine from somewhere, best not to ask, a promise of companiable evenings by the library fire to come. Lockwood thanked them all, his friends, these tangible pieces of affection. But on the table, what was that? Under his empty mug?

Lockwood slid, unthinking, into his chair, holding the small piece of thick paper against his fingertips like he was afraid it would crumble if he touched too roughly. Two enormous buds of lilac, so minutely rendered he could almost smell their perfume coming from the paper, flanking a delicate posy of blossoming lavender, each perfect purple petal vivid and alive against the creamy background. He’d not seen colours like that since – well, since he went to the cemetery last June, just as the blossoms were falling in the summer’s heat. It was difficult to take in. His throat felt very tight all of a sudden. Maybe George had put something in his tea, one of his endless experiments.

Someone pulled out the chair next to him, sat down. Put a warm hand on his arm. Squeezed him tightly. Maybe George had spilled bleach or something on the Thinking Cloth, his eyes were reacting to something nearby, all prickly and hot. George and his damn experiments.

He looked across at Lucy, sat next to him with a small, almost sheepish smile on her heart-shaped face. She must be psychic, to have seen so clearly into his heart. He’d never known anything like it. Like her. Her beautiful, beloved face. How had she known?

“Happy birthday, Lockwood.”

Chapter Text

Flo, bless her and keep her, had found some new-cut pine logs from somewhere; the fire had banked comfortably in the corner stove, filling the cellar with delicious sylvan-scented heat. Lockwood definitely didn’t snuggle down into the plush cushions of his favourite secluded armchair, most certainly didn’t let the contentedness escape in a little wriggle, emphatically didn’t let his mind go blissfully blank, shapes and images and faces drifting through like clouds over soft grass. One face in particular? Nothing unusual there. Alert and aloof and professional, he was. Always.

His reverie – sorry, analytical watching brief – was interrupted by an unexpected flumping on the adjacent sofa. Cracking one eye open, he met the wide grin and shrewd eyes of Flo. Bestir yourself, come on; Flo never left her bar unattended without very serious reason. Sitting up and rolling some of the knots out of his neck, he returned her grin and gestured to the long driftwood bar, where he could see Genevieve looking harried. She was better suited to singing jazz than slinging spirits, but she wouldn’t be alone long – wait for it – yes, here she comes, Holly appearing from stage right with a bottle in hand. They were nice to watch, working together, every laughingly-caught eye, every not-so-secret touch attesting to the deep devotion they shared. Nice to see his friend happy, Holly’s neat chignon and Viv’s long blonde curls bobbing and whirling behind the bar, dancing to a song only they could hear. He swallowed down the weird feeling in his throat. His friends deserved happiness. They were happy. He was happy for them.

Wrenching himself back to the present, he raised a cheeky eyebrow and gestured to his half-full glass.

“Table service now, Flo? I’m flattered, but quite happy for the moment, thanks. Honoured by your presence though. What can I do for you?”

“Locky.” Flo’s grin flickered and sank into something quieter, more worried. Worried? Flo was never worried. What was going on? “I’ll not intrude too long on your precious thinking time. Not that I need to know what you’re thinking about, grinning away like the love-sick fool.”

“Don’t know what you mean, Flo. I’m just reviewing some tricky case notes.”

“Right. Sure. These would be the cases you and Miss Carlyle have been working on together, say? She’s a smart one, Locky, and no mistake. Brightens up my whole evening when she graces our humble establishment with her presence. I don’t think Mr Neddles will ever quite be the same again, and no bad thing for that.”

Lockwood snorted into his drink. He’d heard about it from Holly the morning after, how she’d brought Lucy out for a girl’s night with Viv, how Duane Neddles, deep in his cups, had made an improper suggestion to Lucy as she stood at the bar. How she’d let him know, emphatically, that she didn’t appreciate his intrusion. How, if he was lucky and did as the doctor bid, he’d be able to sit comfortably again within a week or two. Holly, recounting the tale, could barely speak for laughing. Weirdly, Lucy had just blushed and changed the topic, and Lockwood hadn’t wanted to press her further. He was proud, though, that his employees could stand up for themselves, that they were all looking out for each other. Proud of her. A bit intimidated too, truth be told, but in a good way? Anyway.

(The traitorous voice was back, whispering dark suggestions about what he’d have done to Mr Neddles had he been there, of raining hellfire and retribution on anyone who dared threaten a single strand of that shimmering auburn hair on her perfectly determined head, but Lockwood had gotten quite adept by now at tuning it out.)

“She’s a valued member of the team, Flo, and no mistake. We’re picking up better cases now, too, now that there’s two of us. We’ve got a suspected jewel thief in Kensington, you’d love it. We think it’s a pair – they scout out the parties and soirees, then switch the jewels for paste replicas once everyone’s drunk and careless in the powder room. We’re hoping to catch them in action at the Wintergarden’s ball this weekend.”

Flo threw her head back, crowing with laughter. The firelight made her dark skin glow, sparkling off her gleaming teeth and the buttons on her faded blue jumper.

“A valued member of the team? At some fancy party together ? You’re a fool and no mistake, Locky. Ah well, best of luck to you and the young miss. Fools the pair of you. No, much as I’d love to hear all about your grand heroic adventures, I’ve got a favour to ask. Well, not so much a favour as a job.”

Lockwood sat straighter, fishing a crumpled notebook and pencil stub out of his coat pocket. He’d show her. Fool? He was the best damn investigator north of the Thames, nothing foolish about him.

“Anything for you, Flo, as well you know. What’s the trouble?”

“It’s like this, see.” Flo shifted closer, her back to the room. He’d never seen her so serious. “You know I’ve been struggling with supplies recently? The usual runners have been vanishing, one by one, since the summer, and some of them are reappearing now with a new boss and prices that would shame the devil himself, Locky. Snippets and scraps have been washing up to old Flo’s door for a few months now, and earlier this week I heard something solid. The girl who scuttles up and down Old Lady Thames to bring me my bottles dropped off a name with her shipment. Word is, this new boss is trying to buy her out or shut her down, and she’s having none of him. Well, he’s not liking that at all, and my pal Mathilda is concerned there may be infringements upon her liberty a-coming. This boss, see, it’s him and his wife, and there are noises about his young son also. It’s a nasty set-up, Locky, and me and mine would appreciate someone having a careful look-see at it.”

Lockwood was scribbling hastily in the notebook. He wished Holly was here, her writing was so much neater than his. He wished George was here, he always knew what to ask to get the fine detail. He wished Lucy was here.

“Gladly, Flo, gladly. What’s Mathilda saying?”

“Plenty, Locky, and none of it good. This Winkman, Julius he is, and his wife Adele and son Leo or Leopold. They’ve bought some of the old bombed-out warehouses on the docks, rebuilt them with strong doors and stronger guards, full of hidey-holes and dark corners. The business is fronted by the pair of them, they have a jewellery shop on Blackfriars, on a fine row of fine emporia for fine folk near St Paul’s Cathedral. Mathilda's heard tell of items appearing there, pocket-watches and pins and the like, that bear more than a passing resemblance to items she’s seen sported by our runner colleagues. Colleagues who haven’t been seen in months.”

Flo’s eyes bored into his, dark and swirling with the secrets and worries she wore about her like armour. Lockwood could count on the finger of one thumb how many times Flo had asked for help like this. Minor scrapes and tit-for-tat errands, sure, the reciprocal ebb and flow of favours that kept a community going, but never like this. Flo looked scared. Flo never looked scared. He reached out, covered her work-weary hands with his long white fingers, stark against her skin. The silver signet on his finger winked and glittered in the firelight.

“We’re on it, Flo. Leave it with us.”

Flo nodded, hesitated. Covered his hand with hers.

“Please, Locky. Please don’t do anything reckless here. These men, this team, they’re dangerous. I’d hate to see your pretty ring for sale in Winkman’s shop.”

He squeezed, trying to convey some of the reassurance he felt.

“Florence. When have I ever been reckless?”

“Just now, when you called me Florence. Do it again and I’ll cut you off.”

“Point taken. Trust me, Flo. George won’t rest once he knows what’s going on, you know what he’s like about you. Besides which, you’re our friend. Friends don’t let friends get monopolised by upstart crime lords.”

“Very touching, Locky. I hope and pray that Miss Carlyle can knock some sense into you. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some fragile bottles to rescue from that inept jezebel. Tell my Georgie it's past time he came by for a drink with old Flo.”

With a swish of skirts, Flo swept back to her bar, leaving Lockwood with a head full of questions and an empty glass. This used to be his favourite part, the mystery of a nascent case, a new book with spine uncracked and secrets yet to be revealed; sometimes the anticipation was better than the case itself. Not so often these days, mind, not since Lucy had invigorated their lives, filling Portland Row with music and laugher and more joy than he could believe. She’d be invaluable in this investigation for Flo, capable and sure. He needed to get this sorted and presentable, ready for inclusion in tomorrow’s Kensington jewel thief briefing. He needed some quiet space to get it clear in his head. He needed to go home.

Lucy had settled into life as a permanent Portland Row resident faster than she’d thought possible. Learned which stair tread squeaked the loudest, how not to take George’s silences personally when he was buried in research, how much fun there could be in gently ribbing Holly as she breezed through the house with artless grace. She and Genevieve (“Call me Viv, dearest, all my friends do”) had hit it off immediately, something in the woman’s free spirit and pealing laugh reminding Lucy of Norrie, back in the day, and she loved watching Viv and Holly care for each other with such unselfconscious devotion. Piece by piece, she was leaning what a family, a real family, might feel like.

One thing she’d not yet learned, however, was what to make of her landlord and boss. She and Lockwood made a surprisingly effective team, working together with what felt sometimes like psychic attunement, responding to each other’s most minute expression. They were cordial at home, but had never since regained the easy intimacy of that first night, when she’d been tucked safe and sound against his side. She’d stopped rebuffing his friendly overtures, sure, but something felt stuck. They could be great friends, she was sure of it, but she didn’t know how. His reserve and her defensiveness had them locked in a holding pattern, circling each other like wheeling birds. She’d felt so brave, offering that olive branch of lilac and lavender on his birthday, and she thought he’d appreciated it, but they’d not talked about it since. More into the thrilling stories of pirates and swashbucklers, she’d never been one for the romantic novels and magazines traded so freely in her dorms and boarding houses, never one to sigh and pine and cast lingering looks, and she wasn’t doing that now. Not at all. Any thoughts of strong forearms or teasing glances or sharp intakes of breath were tamped down immediately, and if they reappeared when she was alone in her attic bedroom, then who was to know?

And so it was with zero trepidation that Lucy ambled into the kitchen that night, hoping a good cup of tea would help her settle into bed, calm her jangled nerves after a long workday. As the kettle boiled, she saw light spilling through the door to the basement – just storage, George had said, the boiler and storage space. Thinking George might appreciate a brew, if he was down there doing inventory or maintenance or whatever, she padded down the tightly spiralling staircase to ask.

Two turns in, she stopped, all rational thought driven from her head by the sight of Lockwood, in loose trousers and the thinnest vest she’d ever seen, a truly remarkable feat of material science, dancing back and forth in the wide subterranean space, some sort of blade flashing and twisting, carving intricate patterns in the dust motes.

She sat hard against the cold step and watched, mesmerised.

He was beautiful.

She’d never seen anything like it. Surefooted and strong, following a set of complex patterns that wove in and out, forward and back across the room, the needle-thin blade an extension of himself. Beguiled by the fluidity and ease of the motions, it took Lucy longer than she’d expected to notice the tension in his muscled shoulders, the definition in his arms flexing with every feint and lunge. The rise and fall of his chest, Greek statuary in motion. Anyone would be transfixed, no? Anyone would stop and admire such precision, such artistry. This jolting in the pit of her stomach, surely nothing extraordinary, nothing unusual about her flushed cheeks, the sudden acute awareness of the blood thundering through her body.

Dimly, she was aware of Lockwood’s movements slowing, stopping. Stopping? Shit. Lucy scrambled to her feet, embarrassment warring with whatever else was coursing through her veins. He could, under no circumstances, find out how long she’d been sat watching through the bannisters like some peeping tom. What would he think of her?

Doing her best to affect a nonchalant insouciance she definitely didn’t feel, Lucy attempted a saunter down the last few steps. Lockwood was oiling his sword down in long, languorous strokes, which Lucy was totally fine with, and which was definitely not sending her wicked mind spinning in unspeakably delicious directions. If she made it back upstairs alive, it’d be a minor miracle.

“Lucy! I didn’t hear you come down! Ah. Um. Sorry, let me just-“

Lockwood grabbed a towel from a cluttered side table, wiping across his forehead and neck. Major miracle, Lucy thought. Saints preserve her.

“Lockwood! I. Er. Sorry for interrupting. What you were- whatever you were doing, I was just making a cup of tea and saw the light on, I thought. Um. I’d offer. Tea, that is.” She devoutly hoped that the low lamplight was disguising the blush which she felt engulfing her cheeks.

Hastily donning a shapeless jersey, Lockwood smiled at Lucy, the small intimate one that spoke straight to her heart.

“Thanks Luce, that’d be perfect. I had a tasty lead from Flo earlier and wanted to sort through it in my head before serving it up to you and George at breakfast tomorrow. I fenced at school, don’t get much chance to spar nowadays, but it helps me clear the mental decks. Have you ever tried it?”

Lucy snorted, unladylike. Her school had done the basics, reading and writing and accounts, home skills and a smattering of general knowledge, but her love of sketching and adventure stories had come from Norrie, Alfie, and whatever she could scrape from their small local library. Fencing had definitely not been on the curriculum.

Not that she could say that coherently, not with Lockwood so close, dishevelled and luminous in the soft light. Breathing just hard enough for her to see rise in his chest, decently covered by the ugly jumper now, but she knew the shape of him beneath. Such unearned intimacy. He’d called her Luce, though. Norrie used to call her that. It sounded right, somehow, coming from him. She shook her head, gestured towards the staircase.

“Alright. I’ll go pour the tea. We’ll need our sleep, if you’re hitting us with two briefings tomorrow.” She turned and made her way upstairs, grateful for the cool solidity of the railing beneath her hand.

“Thanks, Luce. It won’t be a full briefing from Flo, the Kensington case is big enough as it is, but I’d appreciate your thoughts on it. By the way, how are you set for posh frocks?”

She looked down at him, impish grin sparkling in the dim light. What was he on about?

“Posh frocks? Am I not decent enough as I am?” She gestured ironically to her thick flannel pyjamas, fluffy woollen socks, her long blue housecoat slung over against the winter chill. Practical, modest, and as flattering as a coal sack.

Lockwood smiled again, swallowing. Lucy tried, she really tried, not to notice how his Adam’s apple bobbed against the sinews of his throat, the sharp angle of his jaw casting shadows below.

“More than decent, Luce, but the Kensington toffs are something else entirely. You and Holly can take the rest of tomorrow off, go find something on Oxford Street – we can call it a business expense, claim it back from the client. It’ll come up tomorrow morning, but I thought I’d give you advance warning, before Holly spends the day dressing you up like a doll.”

It must be later than she thought, or her brain more addled by the scent of Lockwood’s cologne than she’d realised (juniper and seasalt, which Lucy was trying hard not to think about, and failing). She wasn’t following.

“Brace yourself, Luce. We’re going to the Wintergarden ball, you and I, and we’ll need to look every inch the couple of Bright Young Things.”

Fuck.

Chapter Text

Not for the first time, Lucy was having a minor breakdown in front of her mirror. With six older sisters and a mother with a tongue as brutal as her fists, Lucy was no stranger to standing in merciless scrutiny of herself, finding proof for all the cruel words she’d had thrown at her in anger and spite. She’d grown hard, eventually, hard and dismissive, stopped looking for beauty in her reflection and sought solace instead in her strong arms and quick mind, how she could make Norrie snort with laughter, the freedom of her hard-won independence, 23 now with the world at her feet. Her mother’s voice still rang in her head, though, echoing down the years: pretty’s not your profession.

How strange, then, to have to be professionally pretty; Lucy wasn’t doing well with it. Holly, however, had nearly combusted with excitement at the end of that morning’s briefing, practically vibrating off her chair as Lockwood summed up.

“To recap, then. George thinks the jewel thieves will be at the Wintergarden ball this evening, and I agree. Lucy and I will get dolled up and attend, mingle and chat, and wait for the thieves to strike. The police detectives have a few suspects but can’t pin any one of them down, so it’s our job to go in quietly and report back to Mrs Wintergarden in the morning; she’ll proceed back to the police or their parents, depending on what we find. George, we’ll need crib sheets for the likely attendees, especially any gossip or rumours; Holly and Lucy, take the day and find something to wear – we’ll need to look rich, bored, and stupid. I’ll follow up with the pawnshops and jewellers, see if we can start working out where they’re selling the stuff. Luce, get a nap at some point, it’s going to be a long night. All clear? Good. The taxi’s booked for 7pm. Hop to it, everyone!”

Lockwood had barely capped his pen before Holly was dragging Lucy by the hand to the front door to be bundled her into her coat and thrust headfirst into the bustle of Oxford Street. Several unpromising shops in and feeling increasingly dispirited, Lucy had seen a bit of blue-draped window display, admired it, and accidentally unleashed all of Holly’s skills in organising and making right. Lucy had let the whirl happen around her, her numbness making her an excellent mannequin, as Holly and the shop girls worked around her to pin and tuck, Holly’s fingers flying faster than she’d ever seen them, the blue-gold fabric taking shape around her. Holly, bless her, could see that Lucy was flagging after an hour or so, and shooed her gently out of the boutique.

“Go home, Luce, and get some rest. The girls and I have everything we need here; go and find some matching shoes and leave us to it, go lie down for an hour or two. I won’t have you leaving the house this evening looking anything other than perfection itself.”

Lucy was glad of the instruction, and gladder still for Holly’s care. She hesitated, then leant forward and gathered up the taller woman in a crushing hug.

“Ooft! There, now, Luce, you’re alright. Mind these pins!”

“Thanks, Hol. I hate feeling so out of my depth, I don’t know what Lockwood was thinking, bringing me along on this case. I’m going to stick out like a sore thumb.”

Holly pulled back enough to hold Lucy’s shoulders firmly, looking her straight in the eye, and shook her gently.

“Lucy Middlename Carlyle. Three things to remember. One: by the time I’m finished, Erté himself would have you walk for him, so don’t you dare slander my good name by questioning your look. Two: rich folk aren’t any different from you and me, they just carry themselves with confidence and never question themselves about anything, ever, and you can do that too. Three: you scare the shit out of me, George and Lockwood too, all your skills and determination, and inability to back down from anything ever. So, whatever’s going on in your head that’s making you doubt yourself, tell it to fuck off.”

Lucy didn’t know whether to goggle, giggle, or cry. Six weeks she’d been at Lockwood & Co., five weeks of living at Portland Row, four and half weeks of being firm friends with Holly, and she’d never heard her swear once, nor been the recipient of this unexpected fierceness, or love. Bit overwhelming, truth be told, and it made her feel all hot and squirmy in her chest. It was quite nice, to be cared for so inescapably, but she didn’t know what to do with it. Holly made the decision for her by pulling her back into another hug, a rogue braid tickling Lucy’s nose and making her laugh.

“You’re my friend, Lucy, and I don’t let anyone treat my friends badly, including themselves. Now, go pick some shoes – properly matching, please, not just the first pair you see – and go home, rest up, and await further orders.”

Lucy smiled, wiped her face as discretely as she could, and saluted Holly with military precision. If she’d been advising General Kitchener, Lucy thought wryly, Hol would have had the whole war sorted out in a couple of months, tops.

Lucy had never had the time or resources to think about fashion, told herself it didn’t matter and that she didn’t care. She didn’t grow up in circles where parties and balls were a regular fixture; she’d left for the Front at 16, where her VAD uniform of plain, sturdy blue skirt, blouse and jacket had kept all the ambulance crew identifiable and homogenous. She and Norrie had admired how grown-up they looked in their thick coats, the Red Cross shining like a beacon from their shoulders, and laughed as they tipped their hats at rakish angles. Coming back three years later felt like returning to a whole other world, one where she didn’t know how to talk to the other girls her age, how to join in with their chatter and laughter like any other 19 year old, how to get the set of their hair just right and pleat of their frocks to fall beautifully before a night out dancing without feeling like she was speaking another language, missing such basic skills. Private investigation required her to be unobtrusive, respectable without recognition, and she grew used to her small wardrobe of dark, workworn clothing. No use primping a piglet, as her mother was so fond of reminding her.

It was a strange situation in which she found herself, then, standing in front of the mirror in her attic, 23 years old and no idea how to respond to the sight of herself in such finery. Holly had absolutely outdone herself, a true fairy godmother transforming Lucy from her drab daily self into the shimmering blue fairy she saw in her reflection. Lucy had chosen the plain, unfigured frock because she liked the colour – royal blue, an afternoon sky in late September, and Paul had said once that their blue uniforms brought out her eyes – but it had looked completely different on the mannequin, static and angular. Not like now, where the deep blue drapery hung about her in soft folds, drifting from her shoulders in Grecian waves, down her back like elegant wings, gathered about her waist in wide pleats, and falling to the floor to puddle behind her with ripples of bewitching movement. Holly had somehow found gold leaves to stitch along the wide waistband and along the bottom, so Lucy looked like she was rising from the autumnal forest floor. She’d never seen anything so beautiful.

”Look at you, dressed up like you’ve got somewhere to be. They’ll see right through you, you slapper, you tart, see that you’re nothing and no-one and don’t belong, see that a pretty frock doesn’t make a pretty face.”

Lucy screwed her eyes tight, shook her head to dislodge her mother’s vicious hissing in her inner ear. Holly was right. Fuck off, Mam. You’re not welcome here anymore.

Holly had come up earlier to help her slick on some makeup and set her auburn hair in a sleek low bun, nestled at the nape of her neck, with thin golden ribbons twisted through to catch the light. During Lockwood’s briefing that morning, she’d accepted that she was acting as bait for the jewel thieves, but reality was just now setting in. Professionally pretty? Mingling unobtrusively with the great and good of London society? She wouldn’t convince a child, with her flat vowels and patchwork education! Just as Lucy started to panic, someone knocked quietly at her door.

“Luce? The taxi’ll be here in a few minutes, can I come up?”

Lockwood must have heard enough agreement in her garbled invitation as she saw him in the mirror, climbing her stairs with a small stack of boxes in his hands. He caught her eye in their shared reflections, and she turned to face him. Unusually, Lockwood seemed at a loss for words. Oh god, did she really look that absurd? His eyes couldn’t seem to settle, sweeping over her from top to toe, making her blush. It didn’t help that he looked so good, so ridiculously good, in his sober black tuxedo, all clean lines and nipped-in waist. His blinding white shirt and perfectly symmetrical bow-tie, the sparkling diamond pin in his immaculate lapel, hair slicked back so smooth and suave, but part of her treacherous mind went straight to all the ways he could become unbearably mussed by evening’s end. The blush threatened to engulf her as she let herself imagine what it might be like to dance with him, be held by him, so close in the cold night.

He still hadn’t said anything.

Lucy patted her hair nervously, did a little twist to the side, spoke to somewhere behind her shoulder.

“What do you think? I’m not sure it’d hold up to chasing renegade businessmen down dank alleyways, but it might do okay for this case? Holly worked all afternoon on it, I don’t think I was much help, but she promised me at least that she’d taken all the pins out.”

Lockwood swallowed, nodded, swallowed again. Clutched the boxes like a lifebelt.

“I’ll double her pay this month, I think. Treble.”

His smile, what Lucy thought of as her smile, the one that seemed to come right from the heart of him, warmed Lucy down to her toes. She nodded at the boxes. Lockwood started, seemed to remember when and where he was, and stepped closer to hand them to her.

“Here. They’re not the most fashionable pieces, but I found a couple of bits that should hopefully catch our thieves’ eyes. Although we could put a tin bangle on you this evening, Luce, and they’d go for it, the way you look.”

Lucy watched Lockwood’s cheeks stain the prettiest pink colour, sunrise on snow, and hoped her answering grin didn’t look as goofy as it felt. She snapped open the lid on the topmost box and found two small golden combs, delicate leaves and flowers traced in thread-thin filigree with miniscule seed pearls dotted here and there, and gasped aloud.

“Lockwood! They’re beautiful! Where on earth did you find these! Oh god, I’m going to be so paranoid all night – what if they get lost, or damaged? I can’t wear these!”

Lockwood only smiled at her, taking the combs from their velvet cushion and gesturing for her to turn around. She watched in the mirror as he slid them in, felt his fingers smooth down her hair, trace the delicate skin around her ears, and had to concentrate very hard on staying upright.

“Nonsense, Luce, there’s no-one I trust more. My father liked to buy pretty things for my mother, for the rare occasions they were in one place long enough to be invited to dinners and parties and the like, and they’ve been sat gathering dust for years. Much better to have them out and worn. See, they match your ribbons perfectly.”

He gently turned her back to face him, and opened the second box.

“I, er. I thought these would work too, if you’d like?”

Two short ropes of such depth and clarity, chunks of starlit midnight suspended between thin gold loops. Lucy thought she could live a thousand years and never see anything as lovely.

“My mother favoured sapphires, but I don’t think she ever wore these. I thought they’d match your eyes.”

Whisper-light, Lockwood closed the first loop around her wrist, fingertips to her pulse point as he moved the bracelet to catch the light. Wordlessly, Lucy offered her other arm for the second, lost not so much in contemplation of the sparkling gems as the intense look of concentration on Lockwood’s face as he fastened the jewels on her wrist. She caught his hands as they slid over hers, palm to palm in holy palmer’s kiss, and raised her eyes to his. She felt his blood thundering at his pulse point beneath her fingertips, roaring with vitality, answering the thunder in her own ears.

“Lockwood, I-“

A horn sounded on the street below, and she felt his startled jump as much as she did her own. He grinned, the thrill of the chase echoing in her own galloping heart as he raised one of her hands to his lips, mischief glinting in his eyes.

“Your carriage awaits! To the ball, Miss Carlyle; our hunt begins.”

------------------------------

Lockwood didn’t want to jinx it, but this might be the case that finally puts his agency on the map. Everything was going according to plan. Well, professionally, at any rate. Mrs Wintergarden was one of the best-connected women in Kensington, and her tall townhouse was lit up like a Christmas tree. Seemingly, all of London society had descended on her hospitality, and the house heaved with the best and most brilliant bright young things the capital had to offer. Ideal hunting ground for the opportunistic thief, or thieves. Spiriting jewellery away from under the noses of their owners was quite a task, and their working theory was that it was a pair: scouting out their best targets at cocktail parties and dinners, working the gossip channels to establish what gems they'd be wearing, and where, and having cheap replicas made. It was a relatively straightforward step, finally, to attend the party, to wait until their victim was drunk or distracted, to switch the pearls for paste, and thence to the pawnshops. The seediness of it made Lockwood faintly nauseated; he'd expected something more elaborate. This smacked of the cheap scams he'd spent his career so far solving, and he'd hoped the upper crust would provide something less grubby. Says something about people, perhaps, or the nature of greed. George could think something clever about it once they'd submitted their invoice.

Stepping out of the taxi, music and laughing voices poured out of the golden-lit house, spilling onto the pavement like wine. He and Lucy had barely made it through the door before the women descended, admiring her dress and the jewels on her wrists, clucking and squawking in their feathers and finery. The men weren’t any better, braying voices and too much cologne, peacocks and poisoned minds. Lockwood smiled and schmoozed, Lucy’s fingers locked tightly around his arm as if in fear of him flying away. No chance of that. Lucy was the most stunning person in the room, and he wasn't leaving her to the mercies of these jackals. He'd be here as long as she wanted him. Professionally, of course.

George had done an exemplary job as ever, and the late afternoon hour they’d spent memorising flashcards of London’s high society had paid off; Lockwood and Lucy were posing as bored socialites from out of town, and once Mrs Wintergarden had greeted them loudly in the packed ballroom, they were able to inveigle themselves into enough groups to avoid suspicion. Lucy was carrying it off with aplomb; Lockwood had never known she was such a gifted actress, matching tone and inviting confidences with ease. He’d had plenty of practice, of course, many years of charming clients, informants, banking staff, his sister, his parents. The charismatic mask went on a little too easily, sometimes. Her fingers gradually loosened from his arm, until they were circulating independently, working their way through the list George had provided and coming up blank every time. They’d all been absent from one of the parties where a piece had been stolen, or had been out of the country, or had been victims of the thieves themselves and too ashamed to report it.

He took a meditative sip of his drink, lounging against the well-stocked bar in the so-called library – packed as it was with people and music, the odd forlorn book scattered on the sticky surfaces crying for its shelf-mates. Lucy and he had narrowed down their suspect list to four: the first pair were working the library as he watched, two beautiful and very twinkly young women whose shrewd eyes belied their frivolous conversation. Lucy was ingratiating herself with the second pair, a brother and sister who couldn’t be as stupid as they seem, surely, the greasy brother leering at the bejewelled guests, the shrill and twittering sister spending more time in the powder room than the party. Lockwood was watching the twinkly women circulate the library, chatting and laughing around the guests, but not obviously plotting on any of the necklaces or tiepins on display. Slightly shabby but sparkling conversationalists; driftwood floating harmlessly in post-war poverty. Lockwood sighed, put his half-finished drink on the bar – camouflage only, they could neither of them afford to get tipsy on the job tonight – and hoped that Lucy was getting more from the idiot siblings.

He'd barely passed into the ballroom before Lucy appeared out of the crush and grabbed his arm. She was so beautiful, a beacon of authenticity in this sea of posturing and pretence, that Lockwood found himself smiling unbidden at her, his careful mask fallen away with the rest of his suavity. There was something desperate in her eyes, though, the way her fingers mercilessly clung to his arm, that made his blood roar in his ears. What had that disgusting letch said to her?

“Lockwood! There you are.” She laughed affectedly, glancing behind her as she tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear, eyes darting side to side. “Dance with me?”

Excellent idea. No-one would think twice about two friends having a private conversation on the crowded dancefloor. That this would mean he’d be holding Lucy close for the next few minutes meant nothing at all, and certainly wasn’t the reason he could feel his heart dancing in time with the music.

The gods were obviously smiling on him that evening, as the enormous gramophone had just that moment filled the room with the swelling sound of a foxtrot, muted trumpets singing out over the chatter, and several couples were even now twirling dreamily around the space. Lockwood pulled Lucy into his arms and swept them gracefully into the dance. She fitted so perfectly against him, the top of her head just brushing his chin, her waist curved exactly to the shape of his hand, their fingers slotting together like jigsaw pieces. She smelled of lavender and earl grey tea and Lockwood had to bite his tongue to stop himself from dropping a kiss to her crown. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all.

He felt Lucy relax against him, saw her shoulders drop and her head burrow slightly into his shoulder. It suddenly became very important to practice his Latin conjugation. Facio, facis, faciat, no, facit. Lucy sighed happily, her breath ghosting against his neck, Jesus Christ, facimus, faciunt. He swallowed heavily, concentrated on the one-two-three of the music, step close step, tried desperately to think of past indicatives and future perfects. This case was going well professionally, sure, but personally? He’d never felt such burning confusion, nor this weirdly happy. The muddle in his head threatened to overpower him, but there were vanishingly few conclusions left to draw. He didn't want to think about it, not when Lucy was right there, with him, dancing with her head on his shoulder and the world at her feet.

As the singer began to croon of daydreams and ordinary miracles, Lucy raised her head and smiled at Lockwood, the desperate sort of panic gone from her eyes.

“Sorry. Hi. Having a nice evening? I think I’ve found our thieves – well, they’ve found me. The Hambletons, the brother and sister? The clammy brother cornered me in the hallway, he was very insistent on admiring my bracelets up close. I hope I gave him enough to go back to his sister with, but, eurgh.” She shuddered in his arms; Lockwood could barely see for the red mist descending. “He was pawing at me like a dog and I’d had about as much as I could take. No cologne on the planet could cover up that manky breath. I’ll get Miss Hambleton in the powder room soon, see if I can catch her making a switch, and we can get this wrapped up.”

Lockwood breathed slowly, Lucy safe and solid in his arms, and tried not to think of beating Mr Hambleton into an unrecognisable mush. Not that Lucy needed protecting, not at all; he’d never met a woman so capable of taking care of herself. Still. You could never have too much care.

“Great work, Luce. I’ll take the brother from now on, you’ve done enough there. We just need something solid to take back to Mrs Wintergarden for the police, and we can clock off and just enjoy the party.”

Lucy grimaced adorably. Adorably? Don’t think about that. He caught her eye and raised an eyebrow.

“No offence, Lockwood, but you’re probably well used to all this.” She jerked her chin towards the spinning couples glittering in the lamplight, and Lockwood felt a flush of pleasure in the thought that she wanted to let go of his hand as little as he did hers. “All these people and small talk, how to move and smile the right way. It’s fun, sure, but it’s not my idea of a perfect night.”

“Oh?” Any sting in her words was ameliorated by the softness in her eyes, the two of them dancing in their own private universe. “And what is your idea of a perfect night, Miss Carlyle?”

The curve of her lips deepened, so torturously close to his own.

“Well, Mr Lockwood, I’d have to think about it. There’d have to be paperwork in there somewhere, I can’t get enough of itemising my expenses. Maybe George could be in a huff with me for moving one of his book piles. It’d be raining so I couldn’t go out dancing with Holly and Viv.” She twinkled at him, heedless of the change in music – fortunately, another slow number, so Lockwood didn’t have to relinquish his hold on her. Wild horses couldn’t drag him away, but at least he wasn’t causing a scene mid-Charleston, or something. “Honestly? These last couple of months, it’s been the first time I’ve ever had evenings off and the ease to enjoy them. To be able to sketch all evening, or sit with a book and a pot of tea, or dance with the girls without worrying what the morning would bring. I sometimes don’t know what to do with myself.”

His heart ached for her, to have lived so long without leisure. His heart sang for her, to be so at peace in his house, their home, that she could set down her burdens and find some joy. It bubbled out of him without thinking.

“You could always join me downstairs, if you’re bored.”

“Fencing? You’d trust me with a sword?”

“I’d trust you with my life. Besides, I’m an excellent teacher.”

“I’ll make my own mind up there, thanks. You’ll have to work hard to impress me.”

“I’ll do my best. I’d hate to disappoint you.”

“I’m not sure that’s possible, Lockwood.”

Barely a murmur, her last sentence, but it rang through Lockwood like a carillon. The roses in her cheeks were in full bloom, and Lockwood thought there could be no prettier colour in all the world. The space between their bodies was non-existent, two moving as one, and Lockwood was about to say or do something very stupid indeed when something flickered in his periphery, breaking into their reverie. Lucy, confusion clouding her stormy eyes, followed his gaze and sighed.

Miss Hambleton had snared two incredibly drunk young women festooned in diamonds and pearls, and the threesome had careened, arms linked, into a group of men by the door. Apologies and shrieking laughter, tenor and soprano in grating harmony, filled the room, above which rose Miss Hambleton’s drawling voice.

“So sorry! We’re too, too much! To the powder room, ladies, this is too, too diverting for words!”

Lucy looked back at Lockwood apologetically, stepping back and letting go of his hand. Her absence was palpable; Lockwood could feel the knowledge of her physical presence seeping into his skin, marking him like a tattoo.

“Duty calls, Lockwood. The last chocolate digestive says I’ll have the paste jewels and a confession out of her in twenty minutes, before you can charm the brother into saying something incriminating.”

Right. Yes. The case. The case they were here to close. The case that could bring them renown and riches. That case. Lockwood’s charismatic mask wasn’t slipping back on as easily as usual, but he tried to smile back as normal, even if it felt more like a grimace.

“Fifteen minutes, and you’re on. The brother should be a piece of cake, if he’s genuinely as thick as he seems. I’ll have him singing before you can powder your nose.”

Lucy grinned at him before weaving deftly out of the ballroom. Lockwood felt a piece of him leave with her, his fingers flexing in the space where she wasn’t. The muddle in his head was clearing, one inescapable conclusion emerging, and he didn't know how much longer he could pretend not to know how much he loved her.

Chapter Text

Sheen’s Boarding House for Respectable Ladies, Soho, W1. 1st October 1922

Dear Norrie,
Forgive the brief note on this postcard but I wanted you to know that - I made it! London is every bit as loud and busy as we feared, but I’m here (albeit a little earlier than expected – I’ll tell you about Mellingcamp when I have time for a proper letter). I found a bed at Mrs Sheen’s - address above – and I have interviews with all the big agencies and even the Metropolitan Police Force this week! Everything we planned for, Norrie, and I’ll do it for us both. I wish you were here with me.
All my love, always,
L

Sheen’s Boarding House for Respectable Ladies, Soho, W1. 1st October 1922

Dear Mr Mellingcamp,
My final payslip appears to have been mislaid in the post; I would appreciate it if it could be cancelled and reissued to me care of Mrs Sheen’s Boarding House, Soho, W1.
Many thanks,
L. Carlyle (Miss).

Mellingcamp & Sons, Breamish Street, NE1 3rd October 1922

FAO: Miss L. Carlyle
Our records indicate that you terminated your employment with us without serving requisite notice; your final pay period was therefore amended accordingly. Mr. Melligcamp will respond to no further correspondence on the matter.
Dictated but not read,
Harriet Jones, secretary for Mr. Mellingcamp

Highvale Farm, Byrness, NE19 4th October 1922

Dearest Miss Carlyle,
I put your card on our Norries bedside table so she can look at the pretty picture every evening such fine tall buildings on it and the great dome too St Pauls it says. Lord Miss Lucy but you done us proud, fancy you living and working in London you made it Miss Lucy and we think right highly of that. I read yon letters to our Norrie bless her soul and I trust theres enogh left of her in there to listen, she stays so quiet-like but the birds sing at her still and I talk enogh for both on us. Yon sister Miss Mary was round asking after you yesterday and I did give her a hint of your address Miss Lucy, begging your pardon but she was so feart for you on leaving Newcastle and no word to her so forgive me if I done wrong but she loves you so and you her.
With our best love Miss Lucy and in hopes of another letter from you soon if you can spare the time to think a kind thougt for your friends who do miss you,
Alfie

6 Millbank Cottages, Cottenshope, NE19 6th October 1922

Dear Lucy,
I hope I copied the address down right and this reaches you, Alfie wasn’t for letting your postcard out of sight for more than a moment! I was pleased to hear of you safe and settled in London, and I hope and trust you are keeping yourself carefully. I hope and trust also that you left Newcastle and Mellingcamp’s under good circumstances, and are not in any trouble. Tongues wag, Lucy, and it would be good to give them something solid to bank the flames; a line or two, anything to stop Mam cursing your name for abandoning her – you know what she’s like, and you’re right to have moved away. There’s nothing left for you here, Lucy, and I’m glad you have the chance to spread your wings. I will visit Alfie again in a few weeks, and look forward to hearing all about your adventures from him - he reads all your letters aloud, and Norrie sits so still and quiet as he does, I'm sure she's listening. My Thomas is working hard and we send Mam what we can, when we can, but here's my news: we expect an addition to our home in the spring! Tom’s hauling his old cradle down from the attic as I write, and I should finish here and help him before he breaks it, or himself.
With love,
Mary
P.S. Forgive the scribble Lucy but Mam came round as I was upstairs and saw this envelope, I fear she may write you some grief or grumble, pay her no mind. Love you. Be safe. M.

7th October 1922

To the most ungratfull dauter what ever was,
No thout for your mam was there you stupid slut when you up and left your respectible and good payd job, how am I suposed to manaj and myself a poor widow. A good child woud think of her mother befor making such a foolish desisiun and bringing ruin and scandal on her good family name. Such wickidness I never did see and I no I raysed you better you ungratfull bitch. I awayt your letter of apolojy and sutable moneys for making me fret so, my own litul girl run away to the dredful sity, full of theves and robbers and bad men, how cud you do this to your poor mammy who loved you and raysed you and put cloths on your back and food in your worthles bitch mouth. How can I show my poor downturnt face in town when you have broht such shame on me, my poor hart. Be my good dauter and make it rite. Fondest lov, your mam.

c/o Sheen’s Boarding House for Respectable Ladies, Soho, W1. 11th October 1922

Dear Norrie,
What a week it’s been! You’d not believe the amount of tramping I’ve done, I swear, from office to agency to the great white columns of the Metropolitan force itself. Many fine gents I’ve met, the likes of which you’d know all too well, and many’s a time I’ve felt your hand on mine when I’ve needed to hold my tongue with some of their answers. But that’s by-the-by, as I’ve done it! I’m working with an independent agency as a full private investigator, just like we always planned.
They’re a strange little bunch – just the two men, the head and his researcher, and apparently there’s a woman who keeps house and supplies all manner of gossip too. Everything’s so neat and ordered, I can’t imagine what she’d make of me and my case note system – don’t laugh, it’s a system, I swear! – maybe we should just stay out of each other’s way, save everyone the aggravation. It’s mostly small fry so far, lost watches and grubby little divorce cases, but Mr Lockwood – the agency head he is, and doesn’t he know it – he has grand designs on being the most celebrated organisation in all of London, if not England. Remember that braying captain that lasted all of two days on the Front before scampering off home to mummy? He’s not that bad, I suppose, but you know how my mouth says things without my permission, so I’m trying not to let anything unprofessional escape. Detective Carlyle, at your service, and Lucy herself kept firmly under wraps. George, the researcher, he’s content enough with his papers and books; he reminds me of you, Norrie, how he’s not afraid to say what he’s thinking and damn the consequences. I wish I had half your courage; sometimes I feel like there’s so much unsaid inside of me that it’ll come pouring out of me like lava if I don’t take care.
I’ll say some of it now – I miss you, Norrie, and I think of you often. You too, Alfie.
Lucy

c/o Sheen’s Boarding House for Respectable Ladies, Soho, W1. 14th October 1922

Dear Norrie,
I hope you’re sitting down for this: I think I’ve made a friend. I know. The charwoman who keeps the men tidy and fed, who was definitely going to hate my notes system? Holly, her name is, Miss Holly Munro, and she did (does?) hate my system, given how many sweet little prickly comments she makes about the loose pages, but I ended up going dancing with her and her live-in friend, Genevieve, after Lockwood and I closed a case earlier this week. Lord but we laughed, Norrie, laughed like I haven’t done in such a time. London is full of squirrelly little hidey-holes, it turns out, and Genevieve knows some brilliant places with music and people and none of the shadows that followed us around in Dover and Paris. It’s quite hard to see Hol as the picture perfect princess I thought she was, neat as a pin and shiny as a button, once I’d seen her Charleston on a tabletop with her hair whirling and stockings flashing! She can file and tabulate as much as she likes, I know what dervish lurks within her heart, and I love her for it.
Must dash, as Lockwood has me chasing some promising leads on an embezzlement case this afternoon – he’s a posh prick, Norrie, but he knows what he’s doing. Doesn’t mean he doesn’t get on my last nerve, though. You’d be able to make him laugh at himself, and we’d all be the better for it. Love always, Your friend Lucy.

35 Portland Row, Marylebone, W1 26th October 1922

Dear Norrie,
I’m sorry I’ve not written for a while – with one thing and another, I’ve only just found my feet. My gargoyle of a landlady kicked me out last night, with some cock and bull story about protecting her respectable name – she’s as respectable as mam, Norrie, and I’ll say no more on the matter. Lockwood has a huge great townhouse where he and George live and work from, and I’ve moved in to the attic room there for now: I’m writing this at my own desk, in my own room, by my own window, as the dawn breaks on us both. The door locks, don’t worry – not that there’s much of my virtue left, and George has his books and something going on with a woman nearby who definitely doesn’t work at a secret speakeasy selling bootlegged drink, because that would be illegal. Besides, Lockwood is too much of a gentleman to try anything dishonourable. I think I was too harsh on him to begin with, Norrie, he’s not a posh prick – well, not a prick at any rate. He’s brave and resourceful, even if his suits are too tight, and I’m trying hard not to push him away. George too, and Holly and Viv. I can hear you in my head sometimes, Norrie, chiding me – independence is not a cardinal virtue, Luce, it won’t kill you to let people in – I’m trying, I suppose. No man is an island, though this woman may be an isthmus.
In hope,
Lucy

16th November 1922

no reply yet i see miss lucy well i understand perfect such ingratitud such callus disregard for yor mother i never new such wikidness. consider yorself no dauter of mine you selfish bitch. yov made your choises and you must now liv with them. dont darken my doorstep agen miss lucy you are no child of mine. yov made sum desisions in yor life what i wud be ashaymed of and you must now liv with the conseqwenses. you hav broken yor poor mothers hart. dont come crying to me wen you are cast out on the streets like the comun slut you are. yor mammy lovs you still tho you dont deserv it and i cant hav nothing more to do with you until you rememember wat you owe the woman wat raysed you.

35 Portland Row, Marylebone, W1 18th November 1922

I hope this makes sense, Norrie, because it certainly doesn’t feel like it. I barely know what I’m saying to you. The kitchen is still dark, London winter mornings aren’t for the faint-hearted, but I couldn’t sleep. We got home a few hours ago, Lockwood and me I mean, back from such a party as you’d never believe me in a million years. Lights and music and the clothes, Norrie, you’ve never seen such finery. And me in such jewels as would make your heart sing, as beautiful as the night sky itself, all there to trap a pair of thieves (which we did, but that’s not the point. Is it? I don’t even know any more.) Such a tumult I’m in, Norrie, and you not here to talk sense into me. One dance it was, one dance with him and I’m some silly girl with a head full of fancies. Maybe mam was right. Maybe I can’t be trusted to make my own decisions.

Lucy broke off, her pen clattering to the table as she started, footsteps pattering down the stairs (avoiding the creaky floorboard) and the kitchen door swinging open. She just had time enough to wipe her eyes and cover her half-finished letter before Lockwood arrived, dishevelled and still wearing the comfy pale jumper and loose trousers he’d changed into when they arrived home from the party last night.
“Luce! You’re up early! Everything alright?”

She smiled, nodded, but Lockwood looked unconvinced. She was so tired.

“I’m fine, Lockwood, really. I couldn’t sleep, is all, so I thought I’d make tea and sort through some letters.”

She gestured sparingly to the sheaf of papers in front of her, the full cup of stone-cold tea, and tried not to sound as exhausted as she felt. Lockwood raised an eyebrow and smiled at her.

“An excellent plan. I couldn’t sleep either – mind if I join you?” He turned away from her, filled the kettle and set it to boil. She could see the broad line of his shoulders through his cable-knit jumper, the strength and tension in them. He continued without turning back, facing away from her as her fingers traced idle patterns on the Thinking Cloth. “If I’m not intruding? I know last night was full on, Luce, with the party and that lecherous brother and all, and if I did anything to make you uncomfortable, I’m sorry.”

She snapped upright, all weariness forgotten.

“No! No. No, not at all, Lockwood, nothing like that. I’m so glad you were there with me, I’d never have survived all that on my own.” Uncomfortable? Why would she be uncomfortable with him? They fitted together like jigsaw pieces; her only discomfort was in remembering, when his arms were around her, that she was his employee and friend. If anything, she must have made him uncomfortable. “I know I said the wrong things and moved the wrong way, and I hope I didn’t embarrass you too badly.”

Something clanged, a spoon on china, as Lockwood whirled round to face her, eyes wide.

“Embarrass me? Where’s this coming from? You were brilliant, Luce, absolutely brilliant, not to mention the most beautiful person there. What did you say wrong? It can’t have been that heinous, to have befriended Miss Hambleton so quickly, and render her disgusting brother putty in your hands. What’s going on?”

His wide dark eyes were too deep to fall in to without drowning. She looked away, rubbing her thumbnail against the nap of the tablecloth as his praise warmed her from top to toe, warring with the vicious whispering voice of her mother. A mug of hot tea, the perfect colour and still swirling from stirring, was nudged gently towards her. Lockwood sat next to her, close enough for her knee to knock against his once, twice, and away. She took a fortifying sip, looked to the ceiling, tried to drown out her mother’s poisonous words hissing in her mind.

“It’s silly, really. I got a letter from my mother yesterday, after I’d gotten back from dress shopping with Holly, and it got under my skin.”

Lockwood smiled encouragingly at her, purple shadows under his sad eyes.

“You must miss her.”

Lucy snorted, and then again when she saw how high Lockwood’s eyebrows went.

“Ha! No, she’s not really the sort of person you miss. She raised me and my sisters alone, once Dad died, and there was never much time or love to go round. I ran away at 16 for the Front, me and Norrie, and Mam never forgave me – though I don’t know whether she was more angry at the scandal, or the fact that I didn’t send her all my pay. I’ve not been back since.”

She hesitated, then pushed her mother’s most recent letter across the table. Lockwood’s brow furrowed as he read, deeper and deeper until he threw it back on the table with disgust.

“Bloody hell, Luce. I’m so sorry.” He reached across the table for her hand, rubbing his thumb across her knuckles. “I’ve never seen as much rubbish in my life. You’re brilliant, like I said. It’s sad for her that she can’t see that. Sadder for you that she won’t see that.” The thunder in his face belied the gentle tone, and Lucy could feel his hand shaking slightly in hers. “She’s got no right to say that to you. No right at all.”

Lucy laughed shakily, gulping down the tears that suddenly filled her eyes. This was why she didn’t talk about her past life; the scars were healed, sure, but raw.

“It’s not often she writes, and she’s neither money nor inclination to get the train south and hunt me down herself. It’s fine. One of my sisters writes with what little news there is from home, and my friend Alfie sends me a note when he can spare the time away from the farm.”

Lockwood’s fingers stiffened on hers, his thumb stopping abruptly between her first and second knuckles. Something shuttered behind his eyes as he spoke to the table.

“Alfie? Oh. I didn’t know there was anyone back home, I’m sorry.”

He made to pull away from her, but Lucy covered his hand with hers without thinking. Something about this, the safety of the kitchen table, the pool of lamplight in the secret hours stolen from the night, invited confidences and required comfort. Who was comforting whom at this point, she wasn’t so sure.

“Not like that, Lockwood, don’t be thick. Alfie’s my best friend’s big brother, the three of us were inseparable as children, me and him and Norrie. He taught us to drive his tractors in secret, his farm is right up in the valley so you can see for miles. Norrie lives up there with him now, I send her letters for him to read to her. I like to think of her out there, walking the secret ridgeways and forest paths we found as kids, up in the fresh air and quiet. She deserves that, at least.”

Lockwood looked up at her, a quiet question in his eyes. Lucy swallowed heavily, wriggled her toes. The pressure on her fingers increased, safe and secure. She took a deep breath and spoke in a rush, wanting to get it out and over with.

“There was always supposed to be six to a team, two drivers, two medics, two stretcher-bearers. By the end, we were spread so thinly that we often went out alone while the medics worked on the men we managed to bring back. Norrie went out alone one night. We’d been paired up, she and I, for eighteen months we’d made it through as a team, but I’d wrenched my collarbone on the last run out and the medic said not to lift anything else, anyone else, that night. She left without me. I let her leave without me. There was a landmine. She was stranded overnight, out in no man’s land. I went out and got her back the next morning, but she left something of herself on that field. I got her back to Alfie after the Armistice, but she’s not spoken or communicated with anyone since. I made the wrong decision and lost her. I chose wrong.”

Lucy felt Lockwood slip through her fingers and screwed her eyes shut, determined not to cry in front of him. Her mother was right. She makes bad decisions and can’t be trusted, and now Lockwood knew. Another door slammed in her stupid, unthinking face. Hopefully he would give her a day or two to find somewhere else to live before kicking her out.

Before she could fully lose herself to the looming panic, strong arms wrapped around her shoulder and waist, cradling her head and holding her tightly. Lockwood crushed her against his chest like he was afraid she would fall to pieces if he let go, and the part of Lucy still capable of rational thought agreed with him. The rest of her reacted instinctively, burrowing her hands and face into his jumper, greedily inhaling the juniper-seasalt scent of his neck, darkening his shoulder with tears. He gripped her fiercely as her shoulders shook with silent sobs, her grief for Norrie and herself finally finding expression.

She wasn’t sure how they’d ended up on the floor, with her practically sitting in Lockwood’s lap as he sat back against the kitchen cabinet, stroking her back and murmuring soft words into her hair. Reassurances that it wasn't her fault, that her mother was wrong, that she was good and lovable, that her friends here in London were her family now. They both dissolved into giggles when Lockwood referred to her mother as "a brainless harpy", and her sorrow and his rage both mellowed into something companiable, something shared in secret between them. The storm in her chest abated as the blackbirds awakened and began to sing, but neither of them felt the need to move. Lucy's head fitted perfectly into Lockwood's shoulder, just as it had last night as they were dancing, and she began to hum their song without thinking. She felt Lockwood's laugh rumble through his chest, his arms never letting go for a second, and she closed her eyes in wearied contentment.

When Holly arrived a couple of hours later to prepare for the morning's jobs and briefings, she found them sat there on the kitchen floor, curled up around each other, fast asleep.

Chapter Text

Lockwood shifted his weight wearily from one foot to another, hunching deeper into his greatcoat as the icy rain pattered down. This glitter and glamour of the Wintergarden ball seemed a hundred days and a thousand miles away from this dank alley, rather than just last night. A stray droplet slid through his coat and collar, running a freezing fingertip down his spine, and he cursed under his breath. It woke him up a bit, at least – the late finish and sleepless night were catching up to him, to say nothing of the roaring tumult he’d carefully dammed in his head from the precious hours he’d shared with Lucy in the kitchen. Can’t let all that flood out now, or he's done for. He sighed, leant heavily against the slick brick wall, and addressed the grumbling shadow behind him.

“Anything on your end, George? I’m getting nothing over here.”

Lockwood closed his eyes in fond despair as he heard George’s notebook and pen crash to the ground, and the muffled grunts and huffs as they were sought and saved from the grimy puddles underfoot.

“Nothing yet, Lockwood. I was worried I’d miss it, you know, all this lurking in manky side streets, now that we’ve got fancier clients coming our way. Fat chance of that, I’d say. My feet are soaking and I can’t see properly through this drizzle. Remind me again why I’m here instead of back in my nice warm library? Isn’t this exactly what we hired Lucy for?”

Lockwood grinned, despite himself. George had never flourished in the field, but Lockwood felt it was important that all his agents – himself included – could cover any role in a pinch. Lucy had been horrified at the prospect of having to wade through the stacks of George’s research, and George had harrumphed for a whole day when he realised that he’d still have to take some of the active surveillance shifts, but everyone had settled down eventually, and Holly now ran their combined diary with quiet efficiency and minimal grumbling. He’d taken matters into his own hands at this morning’s kitchen table briefing, however, with the weight of Lucy’s body haunting his arms and the swish of her lavender-scented hair ghosting across his face. She’d sat across from him with a sleepy smile playing about her lips, while George and Kipps argued through spluttering mouthfuls of toast about the logic behind the Prohibition and Holly quietly nursed a huge mug of tea.

“Right, everyone. I know yesterday was full on, and we’re all tired, but this booze-running racket of Flo’s is going to take some time to explore properly and I want to get cracking. We can do the fine details later, once everyone’s slept properly, but the long and short of it is this. Someone’s disrupting Flo’s usual lines, buying out the smaller runners and disappearing the ones who push back. Flo’s contact Mathilda says it’s a family affair, a husband and wife and their son. The husband runs the lines, Flo’s given me the address of a few warehouses in the docks she thinks he’s working from, and the wife runs a jewellery shop in Blackfriars, most likely a front for laundering the cash. These are dangerous people, okay? Someone’s been following us as it is, and I’m not having anyone getting into a struggle. So: we’re going to go nice and slowly, and not piss anyone off.”

Kipps had rolled his eyes so theatrically here that he practically fell off his chair; Lockwood had thrown a toast crust at him and ignored the indignant squawk that followed.

“I’m serious! Reconnaissance and research only, to begin with. Holly, can you have a chat with Genevieve and find out if she or any of the band have seen or heard anything? Kipps can go with you, he knows all the local reprobates. Lucy, can you close last night’s file and have a look through the papers for anything about the jewellers’? I’ve got to meet Mrs Wintergarden this afternoon, give her the stellar results of our investigations last night, and then George and I will scout out the first of the warehouses this evening.”

Lockwood smiled, heedless of the rain that was now falling with grim determination. They’d all slouched off, yawning and grizzling about working overlapping cases, but Lucy had caught his eye and smiled at him before leaving, something quiet and private in the moment between them. He needed her to close the Wintergarden case, sure, but he also thought she could do with an early night at home, rather than standing in what smelled suspiciously like raw sewage in a slimy alley in the East End, watching two closed wooden doors stay resolutely shut and devoid of activity for the whole evening. Also, said the traitorous little voice in his head, you didn’t want to stand so close to her for hours now that you know what it’s like to have her curl up against you, because you’re distracted enough as it is, and you’re worried you might accidentally kiss her, or admit you love her, or propose, or something equally as stupid.

Lockwood shook his head, focussed on the rain and the cold and the blank brick walls and George.

“Stop moaning, George, it’s good for you to get out of the house every now and then. I agree, though, it’s not looking like this is the place, is it? No movement all evening, no tracks on the floor or scuff marks on the walls, and the hinges on these doors are caked in rust. If this is Winkman’s depot, he’s doing a blinding good job of disguising it. Let’s call it and get back home.”

Portland Row was cosy and shuttered when they returned, tumbling through the door in a flurry of wet coats and muddy boots, stopping only for a quick rock-paper-scissors in the hallway for the last of the hot water. Clean and exhausted, Lockwood collapsed into bed, comforted by the thought of Lucy sleeping peacefully above his head, and fell asleep with their song dancing through his head.

The next day dawned crisp and cold, the bright clarity of daylight you very rarely get in November in London. Over breakfast, George refused point blank to, as he put it, “freeze my bollocks off in some foetid ginnel waiting to be shanked by an upstart mobster’s goon”, and Lockwood didn’t have the heart to disagree with him. Vindicated, George bustled off to Companies House on Chancery Lane, muttering something about paper trails and bean counters. Holly was writing up the Wintergarden case and answering letters; true to her word, Mrs Wintergarden had been singing their praises to her friends and frenemies, and a handful of enquiries already had been delivered with the bills and newsheets this morning.

Which left Lockwood alone in the kitchen with Lucy.

Over-eager to avoid any potential awkwardness, Lockwood’s mouth spoke without any input from his brain.

“So, Luce! Looks like it’s us in the foetid ginnels this evening. Smashing.”

She smiled, rolling her eyes as she picked up her mug of tea.

“Can’t wait. You sure know how to show a girl a good time.”

“You can’t say Lockwood and Co. doesn’t provide you with range. Glitter and gutters in the same week, the Met could never swing that for you. Tell you what, though – although George was maybe being a bit dramatic about the shanking, it might get a bit more dangerous than we’re used to. How’re your reflexes? Did your last posting give you any self-defence training or anything?”

Lucy sat back, cradling her mug. She’d not looked away from his face once as they were talking, eyes warm and soft.

“Some, fairly basic but enough – breaking grips and kicking shins so we could run away, mostly, nothing fancy. I survived two years at war and saw enough bombardments and sorties across the battlefields, though, so my reflexes must be pretty good or I’d be dead by now.”

A chasm yawned in Lockwood’s stomach, threatening to swallow him whole; the thought of her absence, a world where she didn’t exist, sent him reeling. He caught his breath, took a swig of tea, plastered a reassuring smile on, hoping to have avoided her scrutiny. Unfounded, of course, those stormy eyes missed nothing. She waited until he could meet her gaze once more, and raised one elegant eyebrow. He swallowed hard, smile faltering.

“Of course, Luce, I didn’t mean any disrespect. We’ve worked together enough by now to know how capable you are.” He drained his mug and put it down onto the table with a decisive thunk. “Tell you what. Drink up and come downstairs with me. It’s unlikely any of Winkman’s thugs will be armed with rapiers, but it’s good practice nonetheless. Anything that might help keep us alive is good news, in my book.”

He tried not to think about how happy it made him to see how brightly shone her answering smile, and the haste with which she scrambled out of her chair and through the basement door.
An hour later, the list of things he was trying not to think about had grown to almost unmanageable proportions. He leant over the kitchen sink, where he’d purportedly gone to fetch them some much-need water, and seriously considered dunking his whole head under the tap.

Lucy had proven a natural with a rapier. Her stance had needed a lot of work in the beginning, though, and she preferred to be shown rather than told. Lockwood groaned, his face buried in his hands. Right at the top of the list of things he was trying not to think about was the feel of Lucy’s hips in his hands, the curve of her body fitting perfectly against his palm and fingers, how pliable she made herself for him. Hot on its heels was the little huffing noise she made, a tiny gasp escaping those perfect lips as she lunged for the first time, and Lockwood’s traitorous brain immediately began conjuring scenarios where she might make similar noises. It was all he could do to keep himself upright, lips pressed together in mute smiling praise, as she turned to him in delight.

“I did it! And my feet didn’t move an inch! This is brilliant, Lockwood, I had no idea! Let’s go again, I want to get my legs just right too.”

He’d lasted three more repetitions, Lucy getting steadier and more strong-footed each time as he made minute adjustments to her posture and positioning, feather-light touches to her waist and hands, once even nudging her knee forward lightly with his leg, before he’d garbled something about getting them a drink and escaped up the iron staircase.

He’d lost track of how long he’d been slumped by the sink before a clatter from downstairs brought him back to himself. Shaking his head (and firmly tamping down the familiar voice in his head whispering lasciviously about strong thighs and firm grip), he filled the glasses and descended.

Lucy was standing by the rapier rack, trailing her fingers along the ornate hilts. He wordlessly proffered her the glass, and they drank in silence; Lockwood didn’t trust himself to say anything sensible. Lucy caught his eye over the rim of her glass and twinkled conspiratorially at him.

“Come on, Lockwood, I want to try against a real person. Lovely as the straw dummies look, Winkman’s men aren’t going to be standing still waiting for me to stab them. Grab your weapon and show me what you’ve got.”

She was going to be the death of him.

Literally, he feared sometime later. He’d started with a kitchen knife, hoping devoutly that they wouldn’t actually have to deal with any of the smugglers in a fight, but figuring that if they did, they were more likely to be carrying shivs than swords. Unless Winkman had taken his piratical dealings to heart and gone full Blackbeard. Regardless, it was quite something to see Lucy armed and dangerous, holding her rapier like it was an extension of her arm, poised and ready to strike. The knife in his hand felt stubby and badly weighted, nothing like the elegant blades he was used to.

“See here, Lucy, how my wrist turns upwards as I move towards you? That’s the weak spot, if you can nick an attacker there, they lose their grip and drop the knife, and you’ve bought yourself some time to run. You want to try? Just tap me, please, I don’t want to bleed out all over the floor. Feet like we’ve practiced, quick lunge forward – perfect!”

Lucy had darted forward like lightning, gently nudging his wrist with the tip of her rapier and jumping back from him. His heart swelled with pride, how quickly she’d picked up the footwork, how light and quick she was. He’d still rather not have her in any danger, but she was more than capable of taking care of herself.

“Brilliant, Luce! Anything sharp works, you’re not likely to be walking through the East End with a sword either, but anything you’ve got to hand that can slice the other guy works in a pinch.” He relaxed, moving over to the side table to put the knife down and gestured towards the rapier rack. “Of course, this is all hypothetical – Plan A is to watch and report back, with no engagement of the runners at all. We still don’t properly know what we’re up against, and I’m not putting you in harm’s way if I can help it.”

The shink of the rapier slotting into the rack made him look up, where Lucy stood with one hand balled on her hip and the other wiping her forehead. She looked across at him with a storm brewing in her glinting eyes.

“I’ve no intention of being “put” anywhere, Lockwood.”

“No, I didn’t mean that, just that-“

“Besides, I can look after myself.” Lucy took a few steps towards him, and he moved backwards instinctively, towards the swinging dummies and the pile of old cushions they used for crash mats, steps synchronised like they were dancing once more.

“I know you can, Luce, I wouldn’t dream of suggesting otherwise.”

“Good. I’ve been on my own for years, Lockwood, working by myself, looking after myself. I’ve had plenty of men getting too close for comfort, showing no respect for a young woman in the world.” She grinned at him, her eyes sparkling with mischief. Lockwood’s mind had gone completely blank, utterly lost in her inescapable gaze, and he stepped backwards again, stopping when he backed into the dusty dummy.

Lucy’s eyes narrowed playfully as she moved forward to meet him, her lavender perfume filling the air between them, never looking away for the briefest moment. He swallowed heavily, his pulse thundering through his fingertips, roaring in his ears.

Lucy took one final step towards him, closing the gap between them, and Lockwood lost track of what precisely happened next. He felt a small foot hook around his ankle, pulling one of his legs forward, as firms fingers grasped his shoulder and pushed lightly. The next he knew, he was lying prone on a pile of old sofa cushions, staring up at the cobwebbed beams of the basement ceiling, and trying desperately to ignore the vital weight of Lucy sat on his abdomen, her thighs clamped tight to his sides, his arms pinned under her knees, and her hands anchoring his shoulders relentlessly to the ground. He closed his eyes. Maybe she did accidentally kill him with the rapier. Maybe he died and went to heaven. Or hell. He couldn’t think clearly enough to decide.

Lucy cleared her throat.

“Lockwood?”

She gave a wicked little wriggle when he didn’t immediately respond. Jesus Christ. Hell, definitely, he must be in hell, to have her right there, untouchable. He’d give himself to the flames happily, if this is what damnation felt like, pinioned for eternity between her thighs.

She sat back on her heels, releasing his arms, and shook her hair out. The sight of her there went straight to his heart, and he knew he was lost. Shaking his head dully, he sat up, groaning at the effort, and rested back on his elbows.

“See? I told you I could look after myself.”

She grinned at him, laughter in her eyes, and he felt his own answering smile spread across his face like the sunrise. The words were rising in his throat, bubbling on his tongue, when an almighty crash echoed upstairs. They both froze, startled, as George bellowed through the house.

“LOCKWOOD! LUCY! GET UP HERE RIGHT NOW!”

---

They sat around the kitchen table, triangulated around steaming teapot and a bedraggled scrap of paper. Three mugs of tea were lifted to three silent, contemplative faces. Three pensive sips were taken. Peace reigned in the rambling townhouse for the first time since George had come crashing through the front door, facsimiles flying from his overstuffed bag, and on finding the note on the mat, knocking over the umbrella stand in his haste to summon his friends.

Lockwood put down his mug with a sigh, steepling his fingers around his mouth as he read the note once more, fingertips pushed reassuringly into the bridge of his nose. The uneven lettering and mismatched fonts spoke to the number of local gazetteers and gossip rags which the sender had cannibalised to convey their message.

cONsider This yoUr ONly WARNING! Leave WELL Enough aLone if you Know What’s Good for you. Mr. WinkMan don’t like inTRUders in hIs BUSINESS afFairs. WALLs have eArs And eYES too. regards A CONcerneD citizen

George pulled his glasses off, polishing them vigourously on a clean-ish bit of his jumper.

“That surely settles that, then. We must be getting somewhere, even if we’re not sure what it is we’re getting near to.”

It took a moment for Lockwood and Lucy to work out what he meant, but George had now replaced his glasses and was stabbing at the note with one stubby finger while his other hand rummaged in his overflowing bag.

“Someone was definitely following me this morning as I left for Companies House, I heard him – soft footsteps but really heavy breathing, and a nasty deep cough. I didn’t fancy missing my appointment so didn’t confront him, but I did see a guy duck into a shop when I stopped to cross the road – he had a battered old leather jacket on, like the boilermen and motorists wear. And look at this!”

George brandished a thin sheet of copy paper from his bag with a triumphant flourish. Lockwood squinted.

“I can’t see anything when you’re waving it about like a flag, George. Calm down.”

George pushed his glasses, which had slid down in his excitement, back up his nose with a haughty sniff.

“I’m exactly as calm as is warranted, Lockwood. This is a list of Winkman’s registered businesses from the last 10 years. He was in scrap metal and salvage before and during the war, which would have taken him all over London and the nearby counties, and then had a string of unsuccessful businesses afterwards – here, look, a knife-sharpening gig, and a peddler’s stall, and then something called First Shipping, an import/export thing. That’s still going, by the way, it’s not been updated as closed like the others have. It’s listed as based at a warehouse in the East End, in Limehouse. One of the ones that’s on the list Mathilda gave to Flo.”

George dived back into his bag while the others sat, dazed by the speed at which George was flinging information at them; they’d barely caught their breath before he’d resurfaced and was off again.

“But the latest one, this is the one I think is covering the smuggling lines. Bloomsbury Jewel Emporium, look, on Lombard Lane. Bit cheeky, calling it that when it’s closer to Blackfriars than Bloomsbury, but you can’t blame a man for gilding the lily. Registered 1920, and making a very tidy profit at that. They’d need to be moving massive hunks of diamond to be getting these numbers, pearls enough to dam the Thames. We’ve got them, Lockwood, there’s no way the auditors would believe their books if we made our case.”

He stopped, breathing heavily, excitement flashing behind his thick lenses. Lockwood smiled wearily and sat back, scrubbing his eyes with scrunched fingers. This was all too much to take in, given that a large chunk of his brain was still occupied in reliving the sensation of being under Lucy.

“It’s brilliant, George, you’ve done amazing work. As always! But if what Flo says is true, this Winkman isn’t any old dodgy rum-runner. He’s survived this long, and to be ruthless enough to take out his competition without raising official suspicions? I’d bet this house that he’s got a taxman or two on the take, maybe some of the coppers too. A paper trail is necessary, and a really solid foundation, but I don’t think it’s enough to bring him down.”

George flumped down with a huff, and Lucy reached out to pat his arm.

“You’re amazing, George. Truly. Now we know what our next steps are, and won’t have to survey any more of those blasted warehouses in this sleet and fog. That’s worth an extra biscuit in my book.”

She smiled at him encouragingly, and was rewarded with a begrudging sniff. Lockwood grinned at them both. The fizz of a new case ran under his skin, jangling his nerve endings and propelling him up and out of his seat.

“Lucy’s right, George! Not about the biscuits, though, don’t take the mick. Now! We have the beginnings of a plan! Scrap the warehouse watching brief tonight, Luce, there's no need now we know which one is his. We'll made a new plan!”

He shifted from foot to foot, sketching shapes in the air with his elegant fingers.

“From what I can see, we have four ways to go. One: try and get hold of the business accounts, find something irrefutable that not even the most crooked accountant could explain away. Two: try and catch whoever it is that’s watching us in the act, and ask him nicely to reveal his secrets. Three: stake out First Shipping, see if we can’t catch them in the act. I’ve got a friend – well, more of an acquaintance really – in the Met, a decent Inspector who’s too unimaginative to be bribed. I’m sure he’d be glad to accompany us, if we could guarantee he’d see something incriminating. “

George snorted derisively.

“Barnes? Old Walrus Barnes? The man needs to submit a form in triplicate to take a leak!”

Lucy laughed, clapping a hand over her mouth in scandalised shock.

“He’s not that bad, Lucy, don’t listen to George. He’s just cross that Barnes refused him access to the Police Archives once for a case, because he’d not submitted the right paperwork. Had to spend a whole day chatting up the desk officer to get the files, didn’t you George? Got them in the end, though.”

George pulled off his glasses once more, rubbing them furiously on his pullover.

“He was a nice lad, that Jenkins. Ever so obliging once he’d finished telling me about the migrating birds of the Euphrates basin. We go to the museum together sometimes.”

Lucy looked fondly at George as he replaced his glasses, then back at Lockwood.

“That’s three plans, Lockwood. None of those sound like my forte, but I’ll give them a go if I have too. What’s the fourth?”

Lockwood smiled hesitantly at her. It’d seemed so obvious in his head, but now the sentence was forming, he was suddenly struck by a very uncharacteristic attack of the collywobbles. The last few days had left him unmoored, and he was feeling a little lost at sea. Still. When in doubt, confidence and a toothy grin was a good start.

“On the ground investigating, Lucy, that’s where you shine, bright as a diamond. Plan four is simple. You and I head across to Blackfriars tomorrow to see what Bloomsbury Jewels can offer us.”

Lucy scoffed; George had gone very still, his eyes focussed intently on Lockwood, who was ignoring him. Lucy had folded her arms.

“You pay me decently, Lockwood, but not enough to go shopping for tiaras! How on earth am I going to pull that off?”

Lockwood could feel George’s stare burning into his cheek. He tried not to let his sudden spike of anxiety show as he made an exaggerated bow and presented his hand with theatrical flourish to Lucy.
“Why, by simply strolling down the street with your devoted fiancé and being seized with a sudden fancy to look at engagement rings, of course. What else?”

------

The next day's early afternoon sun shone brightly on the paved streets winding towards the river, smooth flagstones sparkling with melting sleet, as two smartly-dressed young people ambled arm-in-arm along the covered walkways of Lombard Lane. The bells of Temple Church rang two o’clock to the solicitors and clerks hard at work ordering the chaos of the human condition into their legal ledgers, and the shorter of the young people – a woman, in kitten heels and a darling little cloche hat – pulled at her tall companion’s arm and gestured excitedly at one of the shop windows. He tipped his hat back as he looked, smiled indulgently at her, and the bell tinkled as he pushed open the shop door for her.

It took Lucy a moment to acclimatise to the gloomy shop after the bright winter sunlight, and she fussed with her handbag to cover her disorientation. The room was smaller than she’d anticipated, the walls hung with heavy dark velvet, so that she felt like what little light made it through the dusty windows was absorbed immediately, rendering the interior hazy and soft. Locked wooden cases with glass panels lined the room, and the air hung thick with a thick, heavy scent, spicy and sweet, which made Lucy’s head spin. She slipped her arm through Lockwood’s elbow, as much for the reassurance of his presence as the support. She felt him tense as a patch of shadow detached itself from the wall and moved into the grimy light.

“Can I help you, dearies?”

Lucy pressed closer to Lockwood as she took in the woman, unsure why she felt such profound unease. Her straggly blonde hair was caught up under a dark cap, frilled and austere like some Victorian nursemaid. The rest of her was similarly clad in fashions straight from their grandmothers’ wardrobes – the delicate floral fabric doing nothing to alleviate the severe cut, high neckline, and creaking of corsetry under considerable strain. Her lips were pressed thinly into what could generously be considered a welcoming smile, if one were to squint in the poor light and be suicidally naïve. Flinty eyes spoke to a quick mind and quicker temper.

Lucy felt sick. Pretending to be a society lady at the ball had been fun, in the end, and hoodwinking all those fancy rich folk had turned into a kind of lark. This? This wasn’t fun. Lucy knew, with horrible certainty, that this woman was capable of more than a cutting remark if their pretences failed. She swallowed, the perfumed air cloying and sickly, and squeezed Lockwood’s arm. He took her hint and began, every inch the posh idiot of straitened means they’d agreed on beforehand.

“Madame! Delighted.” He tipped his hat to her with a rakish smile. “We were taking a constitutional in the area, you know, and my fiancée here saw the most delicious little sparkle in your window, what? Such luck! The pater is being a real bore about the family jewels, you know, so we thought we might cast about and find one just for ourselves. And here we all but stumble over your charming shop!” He looked about admiringly, though Lucy couldn’t see a thing in the low hazy light; the cabinets might hold ribbons and teaspoons for all she knew.

She felt something kick against her ankle, and remembered their plan. Thick and charming, that’s the ticket. Pity she’d never been good at the charming bit, but needs must. She let out a breathy giggle.

“Just so! I’m ever so pleased! I just adore a diamond, and my Freddy here has promised me the best! It’s too, too perfect to have found you!”

She did her best to simper at the woman, and back at Lockwood, who she thought was trying not to laugh. Bastard. She kicked him back as she turned back to the woman, who’d unbent enough to stand behind one of the cabinets, her piercing eyes assessing their clothes, hair, accents, the lot. Lucy swallowed nervously.

“Yes. Well. We have quite a selection here, as you can see. This is my husband’s business; I’m Mrs Winkman, Mrs Adelaide Winkman. Pray take a look. Without touching, if you please.”

Her words were clipped, issued from pursed lips and clenched teeth, her tone flat and uncompromising. Lockwood ramped up his smile a few more notches as they moved towards the glass case.

“What luck, what luck! I say, there are some smashing things here, what? Do you know, Mrs Winkman, we were worried that we’d not be able to get married properly at all! Imagine! Between pater being a beast about the gems, and the impossibility of getting anything decent to drink in this damn city, we’d almost given it up for lost!”

Lucy was leaning towards the nearest case, pantomiming peering into the slightly drab selection of wrist and pocket watches, but actually watching Adelaide’s reflection in the glass. She saw the older woman draw back slightly, thin lips setting into an even harder line.

“Young people these days. One can celebrate without alcohol. The rings are over here, Miss, unless you’re wanting a new watch to match?”

Lucy smiled blandly at her, shooting Lockwood a warning look as she passed him. One of his eyes fluttered with the suggestion of a wink. Lucy gritted her teeth at his obstinacy and turned towards Adelaide.

“How pretty! These are too, too lovely! And I quite agree, Mrs Winkman. You’d be horrified at some of the japes our friends can get up to at some of their gatherings, it’s too, too scandalous. I can’t fathom where they get the spirits from, they must be terribly clever!”

Adelaide sniffed sharply, cracks appearing like hairline fractures on her brow.

“Disgraceful. You want to be careful of the company you keep, Miss. These are dangerous times to fall in with a bad lot. Now, if none of these are to your taste, I have another tray of rings and some nice matching sets here too.”

Lockwood ambled over as Adelaide bent beneath the counter to retrieve another velvet tray, his hand falling naturally at Lucy’s waist. His shoulder was exactly the right height for her to rest her head, gentle as a falling leaf. Sapphires and rubies and emeralds winked and twinkled under the lights, raindrop splashes of diamond against bands of sunrise gold and midnight silver. Lovely things, but she preferred the understated elegance of the combs and bracelet Lockwood had lent her for the ball. These settings had a sad, tawdry air to them – though the muffled and sombre shop atmosphere certainly wasn’t helping. Lockwood squeezed her waist gently and murmured into her hair.

“Lovely, aren’t they? But tin and pebbles next to your shining eyes.”

Lucy could watch the flush cascade across her cheeks in the shiny glass, were she in a position to pay attention to anything but the riot erupting under her ribcage. Adelaide straightened, corsetry creaking like ships in a gale, the tray in her hands, as Lockwood snapped back into character.

“Mrs Winkman! I’m certain we’ll find what we’re looking for here, what exquisite taste you have! With all this luck, we might even happen across a bottle of champagne on the way home, darling, what do you think? Celebrate our extraordinarily good fortune, what?”

Lucy shook her head slightly, trying to focus on the task at hand and not get lost in her own head. Adelaide had set down a tray containing some genuinely beautiful pieces: clear-cut solitaire diamond rings, a delicate gold band inlaid with tiny emeralds with a matching gold-link pendant necklace, stacked eternity rings, and a thick-set Victorian mourning ring with its sad cargo encased in jet and clear resin.

Lucy was focussed on smiling winsomely at Adelaide to cover Lockwood’s clumsy bait – like any self-respecting smuggler would run champagne, with its traceable labels and outrageous pricing – and was fluttering her fingers over the tray when she felt Lockwood freeze into immobility beside her. While Adelaide was distracted plucking out the rings she’d indicated, Lucy turned Lockwood to face her with coy laughter, playacting the excited bride-to-be while her stomach clenched. Lockwood moved towards her like an automaton, eyes wide and pupils blown, staring into nothingness as his chest rose and fell with quick, shallow breaths. She shook his arm gently, then harder when he didn’t respond. He wouldn’t meet her eye. Lucy had seen enough soldiers and medical staff shut down like this to know what was happening; Lockwood’s mind had gone somewhere safe, protecting him from whatever terrible thing was happening in the present. She didn’t know what had happened, sure enough, but she knew enough about what was coming to make her extra anxious to get out of this horridly close little room with the quietly intimidating woman. She took Lockwood firmly by the arm and began to move them both towards the door, keeping up a meaningless and increasingly desperate burble before Adelaide could say anything to detain them further.

“It’s perfect! It’s too, too perfect, Mrs Winkman. Wouldn’t you agree, Freddy dearest? Of course you do. Then it’s settled! We’ll go, right now, and draw a banker’s draft immediately. Or would you prefer notes? Notes? Notes it is! Come, darling, let’s not waste the daylight. Au revoir, Mrs Winkman! We’ll be back before the door’s shut behind us, ahaha!”

She caught one last glimpse of the woman’s stern face, fury cracking through her seemingly implacable disapproval, as she steered Lockwood into the fresh air and towards the kerb. Their mendacious callings on Lady Luck had obviously drawn her attention, as an unoccupied black cab was just that moment passing by. Lucy sent a silent prayer to whoever was listening and bundled them both in, calling the address through to the driver as she took Lockwood’s icy hands in hers. He still wasn’t breathing properly, and Lucy felt the tremors in his hands as she squeezed him as tightly as she dared. She kept up a constant stream of narration – street names, interesting pedestrians, even a comment on a particularly deep puddle they splashed through - until they were back at Portland Row. Throwing a note at the unsuspecting driver, up the steps and through the front door, into the blessedly silent house – George must still be out in the records offices, thank heavens – and into the library.

Lockwood had been coming back to himself the closer they got to home, and one could almost imagine him back to his typical charismatic self as he folded himself into his usual armchair – except that he wouldn’t meet Lucy’s eye, and his jiggling legs and fidgeting fingers couldn’t disguise how much they shook. Lucy wasn’t fooled for a moment. They’d been growing closer in the last few weeks, and she sure as hell wasn’t going to let him suffer the next few minutes alone. She grabbed a thick blanket and spare cushion from the sofa, dropped them both at his feet, and knelt on the floor in front of him. He smiled at her, but it kept slipping, and his breath was coming in ragged pants.

“I’m so sorry, Luce, I don’t know what’s come over me. It’s fine, you don’t need to stay, I just – it’s fine. I’m fine.”

Lucy rolled her eyes and took his hands, rubbing his frozen fingers between hers, and deliberately slowing and deepening her breathing. She’d never been brilliant at this bit, but anything was better than leaving him alone. That was the hope, at least.

“Stop apologising, you prat, you’ve got nothing to be sorry for. Something happened in that ghastly little shop and you went somewhere in your head, and now you’re back. This next bit is going to be horrible, but you’re alright and I’m not going anywhere. Look at me, please. Lockwood. Anthony. Look at me.”

She’d never used his given name before, and liked how it fell from her lips more than she’d expected. Maybe it was the shock of hearing himself addressed so intimately, or maybe it was being called a prat when he was on the verge of tears, but it was enough to make him focus in on her and meet her gaze. Lucy’s heart cracked at the wells of sorrow she saw, the depths of his eyes brimming over with such pain as sent fissures deep into Lucy’s chest.

“Listen to my breath, Lockwood, and match me, please. In and out, that’s it. Nice and deep. I’ve got you, I’m not letting go. In and out.”

And she didn’t let go, not once, not through everything that came, the panic and terror, the wild and untamed grief forcing its way out of Lockwood from wherever he’d kept it locked up and buried for so many years. Lucy held his hands, held his arms, clambered awkwardly upwards to hold his whole body as it wracked through him, held him as the calm descended, there in the library as the warm firelight dimmed into a comfortable glow, sat across his lap holding his entire self in her arms. His shoulders rose and fell as she rubbed slow circles across his back, reminding him that he was here, in this room, in this present moment, safe with her. She could listen to his slow breathing all day, peaceful now the storm had passed.

Time passed. Neither of them was particularly interested in how much.

Eventually, Lockwood stirred, lifting his head enough to rest his forehead against Lucy’s. He looked up at her though his impossibly long lashes and then away, a flicker of embarrassment clouding his eyes, and opened his mouth as if to speak. Lucy raised a hand to cradle his cheek, her thumb stilling his poor chapped lips.

“If you say sorry again, I’m handing in my notice.”

She felt his smile under her palm, saw it settle across his face, and her heart swelled. They sat there together a moment longer, Lucy stroking his cheek absent-mindedly, before she brought her hands together with a quiet clap and stood up.

“Come on. Get a wash and go lie down, you’ve got a headache from the devil himself on the way and there’s no use fighting it. I’ll make some tea-“

The front door slammed open, and George’s habitual grumbling filled the hallway, Holly’s overlaying dulcet tones as soothing and practical as always. Lucy saw the indecision flash across Lockwood’s face, and put a hand on her hip.

“Did I stutter? Upstairs. Now. I’ll tell George and Holly you’re needing an early night after all these late ones, they’ll not disturb you. I’ll leave your tea outside your door, and we’ll be down here when you’re ready.”

Lockwood shot a grateful smile at her, squeezing her hand as he scrambled past her and up the stairs. Lucy watched him go. Her heart ached for him and her heart sang for him, which seemed about right for her these days. She took a few fortifying breaths, shook the tension out of her arms, and headed into the kitchen, where George and Holly were arguing about the best way to cut bread.

“It’s butter first, then you slice off the loaf! Honestly, George, were you raised by wolves?”

“If you sit down at breakfast tomorrow to butter the whole loaf first and then slice, I’m moving out. Absolutely deranged behaviour, Holly, and that’s coming from me.”

They looked up as Lucy came through the door and sat heavily at the table. George and Holly shared a knowing look, and George turned to fill the kettle as Holly slipped into the chair next to Lucy.

“Hey, Luce. Everything alright? You look done in, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

Lucy chuckled, wearily. She couldn’t even be mad at Holly, who still looked crisp as a fresh sheet of paper even at the end of the day, because she knew it was coming from a place of love and friendship. Besides, she felt done in.

“It’s been a long day, Hol. Lockwood’s taken an early night. Can you both be here bright and early tomorrow?”

George placed a glass of water in front of her, pushing his glasses up his nose.

“Early, yes, but no promises on bright. What’s going on?”

Lucy looked at her friends – her family – as a spike of determination flared in her stomach. This whole thing was rotten to the core, and they were going to sort it out. Together.

“This Winkman business.” She smiled grimly. “I think we’re ready to make our move.”

Chapter Text

Something about the way the dawn’s light slanted through his window told Lockwood that snow had fallen through the night; there was a softness to it, where the shadows fell differently and rays refracted from suddenly-white surfaces. Something clean and pure about it, smoothing ragged edges and swallowing noise. He scrambled into his clothes, desperate to taste the fresh air, his blank bedroom walls mocking the tumult in his mind.

Yesterday’s events fell into place with crystalline clarity in the new-minted morning. How natural it had felt to have Lucy on his arm, looking for engagement rings; the correctness of it almost took his breath away. Inhale deeply and remember how close and cloying the little shop had been, the air heady with an undercurrent of what he thought was opium resin – he’d worked low-level crime in the docks for long enough to recognise its sharp scent. Adelaide Winkman, lurking in the shadows, guarding her shop with restrained ferocity – he made a mental note to ask George more about her, as she clearly was a force to be reckoned with.

The tray.

The ring.

Lucy.

How she’d stayed with him, all those long hours in the library – she must have got him home somehow, but he was blanking on that bit. She’d not seem fazed by the shuddering violence that ripped his body apart, gasping and wheeling, held together by her steadfast arms. She’d not run screaming, or sneered at his vulnerability and raw grief. She’d stroked his back, his hair, his cheek, and kept him safe. The intimacy of it tore through his heart, and it swelled with gratitude and affection for her care, for her unflinching acceptance of the roiling bleakness at the core of him that he worked so hard to keep hidden. He scrubbed a hand through his sleep-tumbled hair, rubbed his eyes. God only knows what she thought of it all, of him falling apart for no obvious reason. If he hadn’t scared her off for good.

Oh shit.

What if he was too much?

What if he’d scared her off?

The soft click of the opening back door cut through his racing thoughts like a pebble in a rushing stream. Hope bubbling unbidden in his chest, he grabbed his thickest jumper, chugged the water sat on his bedside table, and clattered down the stairs.

Lucy stood on the top step, looking out over their sunken garden. The apple tree stood starkly beautiful in the frozen space, the early morning light gently illuminating the falling flakes, the angular branches, the gentle curves of her treasured self, leaning languidly against the doorframe. A tableau that Lockwood could happily look at forever. His breath caught in his chest, too many words choking his tight throat. He must have made some noise, some tell, as Lucy spoke without turning round.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it? I didn’t think you got proper snow in London. Too far south.”

Beautiful was the word, yes. He took a hesitant step forward, and another. His hurriedly-donned unlaced boots were so ungainly and huge in comparison to her stockinged feet, the frost surely biting through her socks. He couldn’t bear the thought of her being cold. Lucy must never feel discomfort ever again. He leant against the wall facing her, folded arms restraining the craving to reach out for her, cradle her safe and warm against his body, never let her go.

No.

He couldn’t do this, keep having these thoughts, these feelings.

He was her boss and her landlord, for fuck’s sake.

He’d heard enough tales at boarding school, the purported cream of British society, to turn his stomach. Dependents and servants terrorised, the boys secure in the knowledge of their wealth and influence. So-called gentlemen who were anything but gentle. Lucy had clearly had experience with that type too, dropped hints about over-familiar doctors and commanding officers on the Front. Given how quickly she’d had him on his back in the basement, she’d had plenty of practice fending off unwanted advances. Mr. Neddles certainly knew that now too, the pig.

He couldn’t have her think that her job, her home, came at a price.

He was her friend.

He couldn’t risk it. Risk her.

So he folded his arms, held them tight against his hollow chest, his principles howling in the empty space between them. Watched the soft shadows play in the planes of her face.

“It doesn’t happen often. It’ll be slush by midday, but I love the snow. Jess and I used to play explorers, imagining we were travelling to the South Pole – she’d read me the news stories about Shackleton and Admunsen when I was little, and we’d set off in search of the unknown, filling in imaginary maps and battling ice-monsters from the frozen wastelands. There’s a sledge we begged our parents for, buried in the house somewhere.”

The apple tree stood in silent witness to them both, their words caught and cushioned by the falling snow. Restful to watch them drift downwards, gentle and inevitable. Lockwood felt something uncoil in his chest, one of the iron bands around his heart loosen. Lucy smiled up at him, eyes clear and unafraid. He spoke to the snow.

“My sister. Jessica. She was six years older than me, and brilliant. You’d have loved her.”

The cracks in his heart were making it painful to breathe. A woolly-socked toe nudged the side of his foot, a little crackle of life arcing from her to him. He breathed around the fissures in his chest.

“She and Kipps met during the war. They were both on leave, him from Ypres, her from her nursing post. Some dancehall in Kent, near the barracks and the hospitals. They were married three months later, and came back to London after the armistice. Nearby, actually, a tenement in Camden – Jess loved the park, anything green really. The apple tree was here when we were kids but she did everything else in this space, all the lavender bushes and flowers, it’s all her.”

The knowledge pressed heavily on him, knowing that he avoided this little garden because it sang so loudly of her, but that every dead plant and invasive weed made him lose what little of her he had left.
Lucy hadn’t moved her foot.

“We had two years of peace. Our parents died years ago, our uncle in the trenches, so it was just us, and we were fearless. Wild and young and free. She could befriend anyone, Luce, she knew everyone and always had a kind thought for them. She pushed me to do something useful with myself, get my education finished. I didn’t want to leave London for university, leave her, so she found me tutors and jobs at the Inner Temple and Old Bailey, anything that might turn into a career.”

He smiled, a flicker of warmth in the ice of his heart.

“Which it did, I suppose. Much easier to investigate crime when you’ve a decent-ish knowledge of criminal law.”

He dared to glance upwards and caught Lucy’s eye. No stormy seas today, no thunderous skies. Only care and calm shores. Deep breath.

“She died. Two years ago. Kipps and I were working for a criminal barrister in Lincoln’s Inn – Kipps had just finished his degree before he enlisted, and was working towards the bar. I was filing and cross-referencing and listening a lot, making a lot of useful acquaintance. We were looking into a shipping network, there was something going on with wartime supplies and salvage going missing, the accounts didn’t add up. A lot of violence on the streets, I don’t know what it was like up in Newcastle, but the war broke a lot of people and the ‘flu took the rest. No jobs and too much grief, people went feral. The gangs got bolder until the Met made a show of force, but it was too late for Jess. She got caught up in crossfire on the way home from the library. She’d asked me to come for a walk in the park, see the last of the lilac before the summer heat set in, but I was buried in my books and waved her off. She was alone. She went alone because I was too busy to be with her.”

Lockwood stopped. All the air had flown from the world, leaving him dizzy and breathless. The words poured out of him, heedless of his mounting distress, and he dimly registered Lucy reaching out to cover his clenched fingers with hers.

“Me and Kipps, we had to go identify her body. They couldn’t make a positive identification on the spot because of her injuries. An enforcer had ripped her wedding ring off her finger, broken it, snatched her purse and the pendant from her neck. People saw but wouldn’t name him, fearful for themselves. I get it. We had to see her, name her in the morgue. Kipps broke. Left his studies and went to work in the park, where he feels close to her – she loved it there, the plants and wildlife. I opened this agency a few months later. There were a few more bystander deaths like hers and the Met couldn’t turn a blind eye any longer – the patrols went out every night, and a taskforce was set up to smash the worst of the gangs. Barnes did a good job, took out the leaders and their lieutenants, but he was hamstrung by his higher-ups. Jessica’s killers were never found.”

His hand felt like sculpted marble under Lucy’s warm fingers, her pulsing vitality keeping him present while his brain tried its hardest to drag him back to the foul-smelling mortuary. He’d washed and washed when he’d gotten home, but he could still smell the antiseptic and decay in his nostrils two years later.

The snow fell. Yesterday was buried, for now.

“Kipps had saved for months to buy her a real wedding ring. Emeralds, he said, emeralds for her dancing green eyes. It was a pretty thing, elegant, and he found a pendant to match. They never found them, the police officers – scoured the pawn shops and pubs, or so they said.”

He felt, rather than heard, Lucy’s sharp intake of breath, felt her fingers flex and tighten briefly across his knuckles. Even though he could barely breathe for grief, there was a tiny part of him that glowed with pride for her, for putting the pieces together so quickly. For moving to put her arms around him even as the words escaped containment, so that he spoke their last into the lavender-scented warmth of her hair.

“Adelaide had them. Yesterday, in that dreadful shop. The Winkmans have Jessica’s jewellery. The Winkmans killed my sister.”

The dawn broke fully some time later, crisp light illuminating each figure in the library like characters in a melodrama. Raise the curtain, meet the cast: Lucy and Holly on one sofa, knees pressed close, hands clasped closer. Lockwood and Kipps, flanking the fireplace in mute conversation, coals banked and tension crackling. George at one remove, armchair set slightly back, watching from behind a sheaf of papers.

The air was pregnant with words said and unsaid, Jessica’s ghost visible from the corner of the eye. Twin auras of fury and grief raged outwards from the standing men.

The tension was shattered by the arrival of Skull, loudly carolling his displeasure at being left out as he leapt onto Lucy’s lap, chirping and purring until she scratched his cheeks. Lockwood huffed in annoyance at the intrusion but moved to sit opposite them, a small smile playing on his drawn face as he watched the women fuss over the cat. Lucy had seemingly briefed the others last night on their trip to Adelaide’s lair, but his revelation this morning had torched their tentatively-laid plans to go to the Winkman’s warehouse.

George cleared his throat.

“Look. I know tempers are running high right now, but we can’t just go tearing off to the docks, we’ll be slaughtered. Can we please just think for a moment? The jewellery isn’t proof positive that the gun runners who killed Jessica were working for the Winkmans – don’t look at me like that Kipps, it’s not. They could have pawned, or stolen, or even legitimately bought them! It’s unlikely, I know, and fits rather unpleasantly into everything else we know.”

He pushed his glasses up his nose and began ticking points off his fingers.

“Julius Winkman working in salvage and recovery during the war, which could cover anything from scrap metal to smuggling, or worse. Made a tidy profit, but his accounts don’t quite add up – there’s a lot more money coming in than there ought to be. In addition to whatever wartime profiteering gigs he ran, he has an ongoing shipping business, registered to a warehouse in Limehouse in the East End slums. Flo’s contacts are vanishing and their routes taken over by the Winkmans, operating from a warehouse in Limehouse and staffed by a motley crew of oiks and enforcers. Networks and structures like this take time to establish, they don’t develop overnight. I think it’s safe to put two and two together here, but Lockwood was right about the paper trails not being enough. If Barnes was stopped from investigating properly two years ago from pressure from higher-ups, he’s going to need something absolutely undeniable to give to his superiors.”

Kipps, having heard George’s speech with implacable calm, swung suddenly from his post by the fire and gesticulated wildly.

“This is what I’m saying! Let’s fucking go already! We know which warehouse it is, and the Thames is too frozen today to ship anything in or out! We can slip in unnoticed and find something solid, and they’ll not be able to slip out of it again! Why are we stood about here like pillocks instead of fucking moving? Let’s go! Right now!”

Lucy had never seen Kipps so agitated – chest heaving, pacing about the room like a caged tiger. Her heart ached for them all, all their pent-up frustration and anger and loss that finally had somewhere to go. She caught Lockwood’s eye, shook her head minutely. He gave her a tiny nod, and she stood and took Kipps’ waving hands in hers, speaking low and forceful.

“With no shipments, Kipps, the warehouse will be crawling with bored men with nothing to do but play cards and drink. We’d be spotted immediately, and lose everything. It’s a good plan, and it’ll work, but we need to have something to cover us, keep Winkman’s men busy. How’s this? Lockwood and I will go find Flo this afternoon, find out when the next shipment of alcohol and whatever else they’re moving is due. While they’re all busy shifting boxes and stocking their runners, we can sneak about and find some hard evidence. Without us all getting killed.”

She held Kipps’ furious stare for a long minute, willing him to channel his rage rather than be consumed by it. Skull butted her ankles, demanding attention.

Lockwood smiled humourlessly, sat forward in his chair with hands clasped white and tight.

“Lucy makes an excellent point, Kipps, and I wholeheartedly agree. We’re so close, I can feel it, and much as I’d love to rip that bastard Winkman limb from limb, I’d rather not put anyone in danger. We’ll wait for the first opportunity we have to sneak in safely, and we’ll bring him down, and we’ll walk away safe and sound.”

Kipps closed his eyes, swallowed heavily. Nodded.

“Alright. Alright, Tony, you’re both right. I’m telling you what’s happening at the end, though. You’re getting us into Winkman’s warehouse safely, whatever, fine. We get whatever shit we need to get to Barnes. But after that, you’re leaving Winkman with me, and then you’re leaving, and you’re not asking any questions.”

He drew himself up, an avenging angel in mud-stained overalls, and waited for Lockwood’s nod before stalking out of the room. The front door slammed.

Holly let out a shaky breath.

“Well. It seems like we have a plan. If you and Luce are heading out in this snow, I’ll make griddle cakes for breakfast so you don’t freeze.”

That afternoon, well-wrapped and with full stomachs and fuller hearts, Lockwood and Lucy stepped out into the slush and stinging wind to Sykes’ Antiquities, hoping to catch Flo in a talkative mood. The ground was slick with melting ice and compacted snow, and Lucy was glad when Lockwood took her arm without asking at the bottom of their steps, tucking herself into his side. Errant snowflakes stuck to her coat and skirt, winking out like dying stars. Lockwood hadn’t said anything more to her since she’d watched something in him fracture by the garden, reacting with more instinct than judgement as she clung to him against the drifting snow. He didn’t say anything now, but they didn’t need words – a squeeze of her elbow, a press against his shoulder, a shared glance and secretive smile.

So closely were they pressed, synchronised in step and mind, that they felt each other jolt in a feedback loop of surprise when a patch of shadow detached itself from a passing alley wall and hissed Lockwood’s name. They froze, turned, Lockwood moving to shield Lucy with his body from whatever emerged from the ginnel’s mouth. Lucy saw the tension in his shoulders, felt his feet move into a familiar fencing stance, ready to spring and protect at a second’s notice.

Out into the grimy light stepped a man, stooped and shifty, eyes never settling as he beckoned them over to speak. He was barrel-chested and thick-armed, or so Lucy guessed – his thick leather jacket only hinted of the build beneath. Blurred tattoos snakes across the backs of his hands, peeped out of his grimy collar, and he whispered Lockwood’s name once more, suppressing a deep cough afterwards which shook him to his toes.

Lucy nudged Lockwood forward gently. Here was the man, she thought, who’d been following them all throughout the last few weeks – his jacket looked vaguely familiar to her, and hadn’t George said something about soft breathing and a bad cough? This poor man didn’t seem in much fit state to fight, and might even have something useful to say. Lockwood took a cautious step forward, staying well out of the man’s reach, and inclined his head. The man coughed again, spat something unspeakable into the slush, and murmured out of the corner of his mouth, eyes never ceasing their watchful flickers.

“Din’t you get my note? You and your team have to stop. Winkman’s getting cross, and he don’t take so much care when he’s cross. He heard about your speccy friend rifling through his company papers and blew a gasket. You listening? You got to stop, leave it alone. Our orders have changed, you’re all considered fair game now. You get in his way, he kills you. You got to stop.”

Lucy felt her stomach drop through her shoes. Lockwood didn’t seem remotely fazed by the man, or his warning, and she was worried he was about to do something reckless. Without looking, her fingers found his and slotted into place, intertwined. He squeezed, neither of them looking away from the twitchy enforcer.

“That was you, was it? I’m grateful for the warning. To whom am I grateful?”

A coughing fit was all the answer Lockwood got, wracking the man with spasms so severe that Lucy feared he’d collapse on the spot. The attack passed, and he leaned against the freezing bricks to catch his breath. Lockwood and Lucy had to lean in closer than comfortable to catch his words, slipping breathlessly from blue-tinged lips.

“Gratitude is nothing to the dead. I’ll not see another winter, and I’m not spending my last killing kids. Winkman’s getting advice from bigger players than himself, and I don’t like where it’s taking him. It’s bigger than him and it’s too big for me, but there ain’t no way out but down. Take a dead man’s advice, Lockwood. Leave it alone. Listen to old Carver and let this one go.”

With a final nod, Carver slunk back into the shadows and disappeared, leaving Lucy and Lockwood momentarily frozen by more than the cold.

Genevieve had found a battered guitar behind the bar and was coaxing a plaintive tune from its patchwork body as Lucy and Lockwood sat close on a sofa by the fire. The bar wasn’t technically open yet (not that it was ever “technically” open, or so the bobbies patrolling outside were told), but Flo had taken one look at their pinched cheeks and wide eyes, blown into the antiques shop in a sudden flurry of flakes and facts, and marched them downstairs. Ten minutes had transformed the dark subterranean space into a cosy, private nook, warmed by the new-laid fire and the music. Lockwood had noticed her shivering and wrapped his arm around her shoulders, and Lucy was once more curled into his side, staring into the nascent flames.

She’d spent a lot of the last week held close against Lockwood, and it was only just now that they had a moment of peace and quiet that it registered with her. He was holding her close. Not from necessity, no external forces pressing them together – no terror, no pretence, no biting wind or driving rain. She’d stopped shivering some minutes ago, but his arm hadn’t moved, nor had he stopped absent-mindedly rubbing circles with his thumb into her shoulder. She tried not to think too hard about it, but her mind was spinning in a hundred different directions.

One part saying: he’s your employer and you live in his attic, don’t be a fool.

One part saying: Carver said we’re to be killed on sight. Killed. Dead and killed.

One part saying: this is nice.

One part saying: how can you be thinking such slatternly and improper thoughts about a man so wracked with grief, who trusted you enough to fall apart last night in terror, who trusted you to take care of him. You are a disgrace and are taking advantage of his trust, yet another proof that you make terrible decisions and are not worth the clothes on your back.

One part saying: we’ve let him in accidentally, sorry. We tried not to but he’s lodged right in there, in our heart. Sorry. We tried, but he slipped past us and we love him. Our bad.

One part saying: the frozen Thames will have held up shipping, and with all the festive parties beginning, Winkman will be anxious to get his cargo moving, get his booze to his carriers and out of his warehouse. We need to be ready to go at a moment’s notice.

One part saying: this is really nice.

Her spiral was interrupted by Flo’s return, swishing onto the opposite sofa in a flurry of skirts and scents – silver polish, dust, toil, spilled whisky and coalsmoke. Three steaming mugs of tea materialised on the table in front of them, and Lockwood didn’t move until Lucy had reached for hers. She nudged his knee with hers, distressingly conscious of Flo’s bright eyes.

Lockwood smiled back at her, her own special smile, heedless of Flo. Lucy watched his charismatic mask descend as he turned towards his friend, getting her up to speed while Lucy stared absently into the flames and thought about Carver’s warning. She resurfaced as Flo whistled, long and low.

“I warned you, Locky. These men are dangerous, and now you’ve pissed them right off. I told you to take care of you and yours, and now you’re sat at my fire with an active order out against you? What were you thinking?!”

Lucy hadn’t seen the older woman so worried in all the weeks she’d known her. Flo’s reaction resonated with her own mounting anxiety, and she felt her heart thumping violently beneath her blouse. Who were they, she and her team, her friends, to be taking on a network of violent and dangerous rum-runners, who had numbers and muscle and friends in high places? Her head swam. What if they attacked the house? What if Kipps, or Holly, or George, got hurt? What if they tracked it back to Flo, and came for the speakeasy? What if Lockwood – a wave of nausea crashed through her. She couldn’t lose her friends, not now. And whatever else she felt for Lockwood, she was his friend, and the thought of him being injured or worse made her dizzy.

Sensing her distress, Lockwood reached for her hand, familiar and reassuring.

“What I’m thinking, Flo, is that we’re outmanned and outgunned. I’m not stupid. But we’ve got all the pieces now, and it’d be a crime to not put them together. Listen, I’m not asking for your approval, or even your presence. All we need is to know when the next shipments are due for dispersal, when your Matilda is going for her pick-up. We’ll be quiet as church mice and twice as discrete, Flo, on my honour as a gentleman.”

Flo sniffed, rolled her shining eyes. It was impossible not to feel mollified by Lockwood’s unshakeable confidence, his unswerving belief in their collective competence, in the surety of everything working out alright in the end. Lucy tried to hold on to that reassurance, to the pressure of her hand in his, and to quell the rising waves of fear for her team, her friends, her family. She squeezed his fingers tight, as if she could keep him safe through force of will alone.

Flo’s eyes flashed to their entwined hands, up to Lucy’s face, and settled on Lockwood. She held his gaze for a moment, chewing her lip, before holding her hands up in surrender.

“On your head be it, Anthony. I trust your fierce young miss here to curb the worst of your recklessness, and if she or my George come to a whisper of harm in all this, I will hold you personally responsible. There’ll be nothing left of you for the Winkmans to find.”

Lockwood, for once, didn’t deploy a single one of his grins. More earnest than Lucy could believe, he nodded at Flo.

“On my honour, Flo. Just reckless enough, and not a hairsbreadth more.”

“I’ll believe that when I see it. Fine. Here’s what I know. The ice is posing problems for our Julius, or so the river-birds tell me. Unnamed independent operators known to my own good self have been directed to return three days hence, once old Mother Thames has opened her arms. Shadowy things scuttle in the winter darkness, Locky, and I do believe there’ll be significant movement after ten. Now. Finish your tea and take Miss Lucy home. It seems you’ve got things to discuss.”

Chapter Text

On one comparatively easy return trip to the field hospital, Lucy had kept up a near-constant flow of conversation with the young man in her ambulance. He’d lain back without complaining, holding his spilling innards back with one immovable hand, and he’d told her stories of a monk he’d met on his travels before the war. This monk, he said, as Lucy swerved as gently as she could to avoid the craters in the road, had achieved nirvana by watching a termite mound outside his temple’s steps. He’d sat in silent contemplation of these little insects for days, weeks, and his mind slowly emptied of all care as he observed this self-contained world. He was in the middle of explaining how he tried to emulate this zen state when they’d arrived at the hospital and the medics descended.

Portland Row wasn’t a temple, and late November in London was certainly no subcontinental paradise, but Lucy thought of that young man as she sat on the garden step and watched a line of ants industriously investigate one of the overgrown beds, where soil spilled from a dislodged brick in the low wall. Back and forth they went, carrying back their spoils to their hidden tunnels, a universe entire beneath her feet and beyond her sight. She’d come outside for some desperately-needed fresh air, the three long days preceding lying heavily on her shoulders, and slumped wearily against the doorframe. They’d woken to bare dripping branches that morning, the old house creaking like a ship in a gale as the mercury finally rose above freezing, and all the frenzied preparation they’d thrown themselves into after speaking with Flo suddenly crystallised into an actual plan.

Which left Lucy a little dazed, truth be told. Sat on the garden step as the afternoon’s light drained sluggishly from the sullen sky, watching the marching ants blankly while she sorted through her thoughts. The suffocating fear she’d felt on learning of Winkman’s kill orders had settled into a leaden weight in the pit of her stomach, bile rising when she thought about it, a poisonous toad in a foetid pond. Easier to ignore when there was so much else to do – supplies to source, maps to memorise, roles to rehearse. Tension in the air like burnt toast.

Something in Lockwood had shuttered as they left Flo’s bar, sealing a piece of himself off from Lucy. She railed at the distance he created, then railed at herself for being so upset – over her boss, of all people, her boss whom she’s known for all of two months, and who clearly doesn’t think of her in any other way than a colleague. Subordinate, even. Whatever closeness had been building between them over the last few weeks, the shared looks and fleeting touches, the mounting trust, had all been frozen in ice by Lockwood’s studied remoteness. They’d hurried back to Portland Row, and he’d immediately sequestered himself with Kipps, leaving Lucy to garble an explanation to Holly and George.

She couldn’t get a handle on Kipps. He’d been affable enough over their occasional shared breakfasts, cracking jokes and ribbing Lockwood in the way only devoted friends can, but there was something in him that left Lucy disquieted. Like banked coals in a shuttered stove, needing only a gust of air to roar into life and burn down the building. He and Lockwood had spent hours shut up in the library that evening, eventually emerging with shining eyes and clenched jaws. A sharp nod to Lockwood and Kipps vanished into the murky night, studiously avoiding the others’ questioning gazes. He’d sporadically flitted in and out of the house over the last three days, never staying long enough for conversation or companionship, a coiled spring winding tighter and tighter.

She couldn’t get a handle on Lockwood now either, and that hurt more than she’d expected. It had taken a lot for her to let her guard down, to trust in their friendship, and she felt jarred by this new remoteness. Shared looks were cut short, her special smile flit across his face like sun through clouds, but whatever Lockwood was preoccupied with wasn’t something he felt necessary to share with her, and the distance it created felt artificial and jagged.

Hot on this thought’s heels came the nervousness. Lucy had been busy enough these last few days, they all had, but she’d not missed the energy radiating from Lockwood – the same as Kipps, she thought, if he was around long enough for her to compare properly. Banked coals and coiled springs, something tense and furled within him that drove him on through the shortening days and endless nights. Racing from task to task with increasing desperation, throwing himself into whatever problem arose in their planning like it would destroy him to leave it undone, Lucy saw Lockwood’s drive tip into reckless determination, and she was afraid. She’d spent yesterday afternoon in the basement with him, training until she was breathless and hot, drill after drill until her arms ached and legs shook. Hours and hours, until she was dropping with exhaustion and argued fruitlessly with him to leave it, to get some rest before their big day. On and on he trained, battling his shadows alone through the night.

Worry wormed its way through her heart, and she thunked her head against the wall with a sigh, eyes to the heavens while the ants continued their worldmaking under her feet. Lucy feared for him and Kipps both. A coiled spring can only absorb so much pressure before it shears.

The rough brick caught against her hair, each snag anchoring her to the present as surely as the cold seeping through her boots and the tendrils of freezing fog caressing her face. Eyes closed, she felt the air change behind her, heard the near-silent footsteps approach, the hitch in his breath. The felt sense of someone safe nearby.

“Of all the places in this house for quiet introspection, Luce, you really have found one of the least comfortable.”

She huffed a half-smile, opened her eyes to the quietly familiar sight of Lockwood leaning against the doorframe opposite her, arms loosely folded, crossed feet nudging up against her boot. For all his complaints about comfort, the man could lounge on a tightrope. His comparative ease resonated discordantly with her own anxiety, jangling her nerves into a symphony of stress, flooding her head with images of all the ways this could go badly. She folded her arms tighter across her chest, holding back the tidal wave within, and tried to swallow around the stone in her throat. Lockwood’s blazing eyes hadn’t left her face, watching her watch the mist drape itself over bare branches.

“I know it’s not our usual casework, but we’re as prepared as we’re going to be for tonight. I believe in our team, in us. The Winkmans won’t know we’re there, and it’ll all come crashing down around them once we’ve scarpered. In and out like ghosts, home in time for breakfast. It’s going to go smoothly, Luce, I just know it.”

It was the conviction that did it. The easy assurance that mollified so many fractious clients poured over her like oil on fire. The kaleidoscope of worst-case scenarios wheeled through her mind as she turned to face him, heedless of the flames in her cheeks.

“How can you say that? How can you possibly say that, Lockwood? Three days you’ve been driving us all forward like some relentless demon, three days of pushing and checking and keeping us all at arm’s length the whole time, ignoring everything me and George have been saying about the risks! There’s reckless and then there’s plain stupid!”

Held upright solely by her arms corseted around her waist, squeezing against the rapid rise and fall of her chest, Lucy swallowed the rest of her sentence along with the traitorous tears threatening to spill. She’d never cried in front of another person, and she damn well wasn’t going to start now, especially not when that other person was looking at her like she’d just slapped him.

“Luce, I-“

“Shut up. I don’t know what’s going on with you right now, whether it’s revenge or fatalism or if you’ve just given up on yourself, but you don’t get to just pretend like we all don’t exist any more now you’ve got a target. This noble hero schtick, this pushing us all away, it’s rotten to the core. And I didn’t know Jessica, fine, but I’m damn sure she wouldn’t be happy with you getting yourself killed trying to avenge her, or whatever.”

Eyes blazing, Lockwood moved as if to grasp Lucy’s clenched arms, but any tenderness would cut through her rigid defences like a bayonet through tender flesh, and she couldn’t, wouldn’t, leave herself exposed and hurting ever again. Leaning away from him, she dashed away the few renegade tears that had escaped containment and spoke to the misty garden.

“I don’t know what’s coming tonight, Lockwood, and I am scared. I’m scared, I’m scared of all the thousands of ways this could go wrong, that me or George or Kipps’ll get hurt, that that your recklessness will drive you into something inescapable, and I can’t- I can’t, I can’t lose anyone here, not now, not again, one wrong choice and it all-“

Shuddering breaths overtook her as the scenarios played out relentlessly in her mind. Her friends – no, her family – maimed, tortured, captured, killed. The echoing house, an unused mug on the shelf, an empty chair in the library. Having to pick up the pieces of her shattered heart and start again, again.

It wasn’t a big doorway, particularly, just a standard frame-width, just wide enough for two adults to stand side-on without touching. Plenty of space for someone to step over and wrap an arm around someone else’s waist, cradle their tear-streaked face in a calloused hand, stroke their flushed cheek with an elegant thumb. Haloed by the dying day, wrapped so closely around each other that they make a single silhouetted figure.

“Lucy. Listen to me. You’re right. I have been distant these last few days, and I’m sorry for that. Quill and I, we’ve- well. It’s been a long time coming, but we’re finally getting justice for Jessica. But the only way I can do that now, Luce, is because I’ve got you by my side. I can look to the past because you keep me grounded in the present, my north star guiding me home. Please know this, please believe me, when I say that I have to be just reckless enough to see this through, and then I will always come back to you. Always.”

He has to stoop slightly to touch his forehead to hers, but he doesn’t seem to mind. Lucy wasn’t sure when exactly she unravelled her arms from around her ribcage, but they seem happy enough resting on Lockwood’s shirtfront, his heart under her fingertips. His cologne, juniper and seasalt, mingles with the scent of rapier oil, toil and labour, and she’s never felt safer or more secure than here in his arms, cradled against the terrors around and within her.

Their eyes meet, midnight sea and rain-soaked earth, and Lucy gasps softly as Lockwood’s thumb brushes against the edge of her lip. The tip of his nose ghosts against hers, their breath mingling in the chill November air.

“Please don’t give up on me. I’ve been an idiot, the world’s biggest idiot. But if you’ll have me, I’m your-“

A resounding crash startled them apart, heavy footsteps and muttered grumbles through the basement. As Kipps rounded the corner, Lucy and Lockwood were the picture of professionalism, if you ignored her flushed cheeks and his rumpled shirt, and the awkward chorus of clearing throats and shifting feet.

“Fuck’s sake, Tony, where have you been? The cabs are here. Stop mooning and get yourself together. You too, Lucy, it’s zero hour. Let’s go.”

-------

The local taxi drivers had long since gotten used to collecting and depositing the team at Portland Row at all hours of the day and night. Lockwood’s easy charm and generous tipping ensured their professional incuriosity about any of their passengers’ misshapen baggage, dishevelled clothing, or mysterious bruising. Three cabs in the early evening for three pairs of sombre-faced, dark-clad adults carrying small knapsacks with no visible wounds or irate adulterers in pursuit was practically humdrum, and the cars trundled off into the gloaming. The first, carrying George and Flo, was headed for the docklands, where they were to meet with Matilda and the remaining rum-runners, tasked as they were with keeping the river available as an emergency escape route in case their cover was blown with the Winkmans. Lucy smiled wryly as she thought about the glint in Flo’s eye as she volunteered: no doubt there’d be rich pickings on the flotsam and jetsam this evening, ready to be saved from the water and available at her bar in due course. Lockwood had been bundled into the second car by Holly, who was in charge of liaising with Barnes and whatever Met officers he’d managed to piece together under his disapproving supervisor’s bleary glare. Part of their preparations over the last few days was spending a morning with George, pouring over maps at the kitchen table to work out the most likely routes Winkman’s men would use to leave the warehouse and vanish into the night. A hemispherical perimeter had taken shape in red ink around the warehouse, the river to the south, which Lockwood had agreed to explain to Barnes before rejoining Lucy and Quill at the warehouse itself; Holly would stay with the police and ensure her team weren’t rounded up with Winkman’s men.

Lucy was glad they’d gone over and over their plans, drilling until they could answer without thinking, because she and Lockwood both seemed unusually clumsy and slow after Kipps’ stunningly ill-timed interruption in the garden. They’d not had a second alone together since, caught up in the whirlwind of getting ready and out of the front door, but Lucy had felt Lockwood’s eyes on her more than usual, and if she noticed because she was looking at him more often than not, then so be it.

She was chafing a little, still, at having been disturbed at what could have finally been an explanation, a clarification on what they both were feeling. Instead, she was sat across from Kipps in the back of the third cab, arms crossed tight and mouth set in a hard line, a hundred different scenarios playing through her head as to how Lockwood planned on finishing his sentence. Watching the tall stone buildings slip past her window, she caught a glimpse of Kipps staring at her in the reflection, hands crossed awkwardly high over his chest, and she turned to him indignantly.

“What? And don’t say a single word about my outfit, you’re in position to judge.”

It was true. Hoping to make themselves as inconspicuous as possible, Kipps had arrived at Portland Row that morning with a huge bundle of patched overalls, moth-eaten jumpers, greasy coats, oil-slicked trousers and a collection of the most battered footwear Lucy had ever seen. Holly had set to work with old tea-leaves and bootblack, so that they trooped into the taxis like a band of grimy, work-weary folk on tramp – which was exactly what they were going for. It didn’t mean it wasn’t uncomfortable, though – Lucy was trying hard not to think about where Kipps had sourced their disguises, and he absent-mindedly rubbed at the smudge Holly had artfully applied to his cheekbone, the boot polish smearing under his fingers.

He smiled at her – a rare enough occasion – and leaned towards her conspiratorially, shifting carefully as if something was digging into his side.

“You’re a fine-enough looking creature under all that muck, Lucy, but I know it’s not me you’re wanting to hear that from. You’ve a look, sometimes, of Jessica about you – when you get all steely and determined, her eyes used to flash just like yours. I’d just capitulate when I saw it, because she’d not be backing down. I’ve sometimes a mind to wind you up, just to see it, except I’m not a cad.”

Lucy pressed her lips together, unsure of how to respond. Kipps flitted in and out of the house like a stray cat, but they’d rarely spend enough time together to bond properly. This was the longest conversation they’d had since she’d barrelled into Tidelines all those weeks ago when she’d been evicted. She wasn’t sure how she felt about being compared to his dead wife, to Lockwood’s lost sister, to the woman they were on their way to avenge (hopefully without getting killed in the process). Kipps’ eyes stayed on her face, watching her with amused detachment and something close to fondness.

“I’m glad you stuck around. Tony and George can be trying, god knows, but you’re good for all of us. And yourself too, I think. You’re doing more here than you’d ever get chance in a regional outfit or under some bureaucratic sergeant. You’re a formidable investigator and I know how much the team appreciates you.”

Lucy smiled in an awkward grimace. She still wasn’t used to being praised. Kipps saw her discomfort and rolled his eyes.

“Come off it, Lucy, you know you’re talented. Besides, I’m not blind. Tony’s finally woken up now that you’re here. Losing Jess almost buried us both. I deal with it my way and he his, but I’ve not seen him like this for years, living fully in the world again. Whatever I disturbed between you and him earlier in the garden, it’s clear as day that you’re good for each other.”

The taxi pulled up to the shadowed pavement before she could formulate an answer, which was just as well. She had no idea what to think, what to say, except to scowl at Kipps when he laughed at her ferocious blush as he swung out of the car.

---

She knew exactly what to think and say some twenty minutes later, arms clamped around the rusting iron drainpipe where rainwater gurgled by her ear on its way down to the disgusting alley below. She refused to think about how far below, having stopped looking down after her third step upwards. Eyes screwed tightly shut against the height, she shook her head resolutely.

“There’s absolutely no way, Lockwood. No way in hell. It’s not happening. Find another option.”

She heard his soft chuckle away to her left, the bastard, and dredged her memory for all the insults she’d learned in the field hospitals. One must surely capture the depths of annoyance she felt right now. Their meticulously laid plan had said “sneak into the warehouse undetected”, not “shimmy four storeys up a rickety drainpipe which creaked and bent where the nails had rusted through, then swing, unsupported and untethered, across the blank wall to a small window”. She was going to kill George and Lockwood both, and maybe Kipps for good measure. Bounders. Jackanapes. Arseholes.

A stifled giggle reached her ears from the open window. Kipps would suffer for this, she’d think up something extra painful for him. Involving nail files, maybe, or the garden hosepipe.

She indulged herself in daydreams of bloody revenge as splinters of rust dug into her palms and muffled grunts and snatches of broken sentences carried across the space. A gentle touch on her arm shocked her eyes open.

“Come on, Luce. One little hop over and you’re in. Look, I’ve got you – grab onto my arm here, see, and you’ll be through in a flash.”

Lockwood had somehow managed to lean up and out of the window, angling his torso sideways across the blank wall so that his outstretched arm was holding Lucy’s taut elbow with heart-wrenching gentleness. She couldn’t think of the practicalities of it because her mind was screaming at her about drops and falling and metal fatigue points and splash. Unwrapping her left arm from around the pipe, she grasped his shoulder, swallowed heavily, and half-kicked, half-slithered across the space and through the window, landing in a tangle of bodies on the dusty floor.

Lucy sat up, coughing, as Lockwood stood and brushed dust from his tattered overcoat. Kipps knelt, groaning, and batted ineffectively at the two muddy footprints adorning his slim thighs. Lockwood saw her looking and grinned.

“Kipps was gracious enough to give me a boost so that I could reach you. Stop grumbling, Quill, these clothes are for the rag-bag anyway. Come on! The Winkmans await!”

He raced off to the door, across what Lucy could now see was a disused office space. Bits of furniture littered the room, evidently hacked about to be repurposed or burnt during the long winters, and papers and detritus covered the floor. The dust lay thick, smelling of wood shavings and packing hay, and there was a curiously heady undertone to the air, cloying and spicy-sweet. Lucy sniffed; it reminded her of something, but she couldn’t put her finger on what. Something medical, clinical, from the field hospitals, but also something more recent. She sneezed.

Kipps offered her a hand and they pulled each other up. His face was carved from unforgiving granite, a world away from the familiar teasing friend who’d shared her taxi or the grumbling brother who’d helped Lockwood reach her just now. His eyes glittered, iron grey and merciless.

“Stinks, doesn’t it. Opium. Dangerous to bring into the city, but it’ll be making someone a fortune.” He looked at Lucy, who saw suddenly how he wielded his grief like a knife. “The sort of trade that can’t have loose ends or chance witnesses.”

He nodded grimly to himself and turned to follow Lockwood out of the room. Lucy closed her eyes and took a moment to parcel up the emotions of the day, box them away to be unpacked later. They all needed to be fully present and completely undistracted if they were going to make it through the night intact. This swell of sympathy for Kipps needed to be packed away, along with the maelstrom of whatever was going on with Lockwood, the worry for her other friends, and the cloying unease of what awaited them below.

Hurrying out of the door, hanging off its hinges, she found the two men in whispered conference in the small, uncarpeted hallway. To her left, the hallway ended abruptly in a tall window facing onto the river; most of the panes had broken and a few desultory slats had been loosely nailed across the wide gaps, letting in the cold night air. To her right, two more wooden doors were spaced down the wall, presumably leading to similar office spaces, before the corridor twisted sharply to the left. Lucy could hear the rumble of voices, things being moved, punctuated by sporadic shouts – someone barking orders or reprimands, she couldn’t tell with the distance and echoes. Lockwood beckoned her over with a crooked finger.

“Mark it, Luce – if things go really wrong downstairs, this window leads to a straight drop to the Thames. We’ll call that Plan F. Feet together and jump out and straight down, if it comes to it. George and Flo should be watching the river, they’ll scoop us out.” His low voice was reassuring, but Lucy could only goggle at him.

“Have you completely lost your mind? That better be Plan T or U at the very least! I’m not jumping from all the way up here, not after scaling that bloody drainpipe! You know how I feel about unnecessary heights! And necessary heights, come to think of it!”

Lockwood only twinkled at her.

“It’s one of many possible escape routes, but Plan A involves us strolling unhurriedly out of the front door, remember. Speaking of! Let’s go see where this corridor takes us. If George has read his building plans right, there should be a short flight down to the gantry that runs around the top of the main warehouse itself. Remember the plan? We’re staying nice and quiet, keeping low down while we watch and see what’s going on. Barnes has a perimeter up but there are gaps in there that I don’t like, so ideally we don’t want them all scarpering at once. Ready? Kipps?”

Kipps had been listening with intense focus, standing poised as if ready to spin into action at the slightest provocation. Barely restrained fury rolled off him in waves, but his steel eyes were sharp and intent on Lockwood. He clapped a hand on the younger man’s shoulder, and nodded briefly. Lockwood covered Kipps’ hand with his own and looked him full in the face.

“Remember the goal here, Quill. Recon. Minimal disruption, and never to your own detriment. Understood?”

Kipps stared Lockwood down for a long moment, some unspoken battle of wills playing out that Lucy couldn’t quite follow. Eventually, Kipps blinked and turned to leave, but not before Lockwood pulled him back once more.

“Quill, please remember. There’s always tomorrow.”

Kipps rolled his eyes at the younger man, but Lockwood was tenacious. He only stepped back once Kipps had nodded his agreement, and he and Lucy watched the older man vanish down the corridor.
Lucy caught Lockwood’s ragged cuff as he made to follow, her throat dry.

“What do you mean, Lockwood? What’s happening tomorrow? What aren’t you telling me?”

Lockwood’s warm brown eyes landed on hers, crinkling at the edges as he took in her anxious face. He raised one hand as if to cup her cheek, but let it fall to her upper arm instead, where he gave her a reassuring squeeze.

“Nothing, Luce, it’s not like that. It’s something Kipps once said to me after Jess died. I wasn’t handling it well and he thought I was going to do something irreversible. I haven’t seen him like this in years, and I’m a bit worried he’s going to take needless risks. He needs to remember that there’ll be a tomorrow, whatever he’s feeling right now. Just like he reminded me when I needed to hear it. Sometimes you have to choose to see it, but there’s always a tomorrow.”

So much for boxing up her emotions. Lucy couldn’t bear the thought of Lockwood being so distressed, in so much pain, and she moved towards him unthinkingly, her free hand cradling his cheek, wide eyes burning into his as if she could keep him safe through willpower alone. She felt him smile gently under her palm, squeeze her arm one final time as he moved backwards and towards the noise and shouting.

“Come on, Luce. Once more unto the breach, and all that.”

---

True to form, George’s research was as accurate as ever. Lucy hunched between the two men, heels pressed hard into the ridged iron gantry encircling the entire warehouse floor, shadowed and hidden by a metal lattice fence with peeling paintwork. Lucy begrudgingly handed it to Lockwood – by having them climb up so high (the bastard), they’d ended up on the topmost walkway. Steeling herself to look down through the slatted floor, she could see a second gantry one storey down; the long-wired bare bulbs hanging from the ceiling reached this lower level, so that everything above it was in darkness, and therefore difficult to see from the ground level. She was grateful for the extra cover, as the hive of activity below was busier than she’d imagined. Knowing how Flo and Mathilda operated – very much a lone-ranger type situation – she’d assumed the Winkmans kept their operation similarly intimate.

Not so. Spread below them like a board game, the agents watched the teams work the incoming and outgoing material, overseen by the Winkmans themselves. It was strange, Lucy thought, to see the notorious family at work from their high vantage point – she found the mounting fear and apprehension, building since she’d learned of Jessica’s killers from her distraught Lockwood, hard to sustain when the dreaded figures were as small below her as the peg-dolls she and Mary had played with as children.

To the front of the room, in the wall backing directly onto the river, were an open gate and trapdoor, currently occupied by a long rowboat stacked with kegs. Two burly men in shining oilskin coats were hauling the small barrels up from the boat in silence, stacking them behind an imposing figure in a severe dress, who was marking the cargo into a large ledger. Adelaide Winkman’s hair glowed ethereally under the harsh electric lights, and Lucy was once again reminded of her intimidating aura from the jewellery shop.

The unloaded kegs were being stacked at the end of a long row of marshalled barrels, crates and boxes, several items wide and running almost the length of the warehouse. Gaps in the row allowed people to move back and forth across the space, where smaller piles of cargo lay arranged with almost military precision, mainly clustered against the far wall opposite the walkway where the agents crouched. The great double doors on the rear wall, opposite the river gate, were barred and chained, but two smaller doors in the wall directly across from Lucy were open. Two men were taking boxes outside, two more standing close to a squat figure in a thick coat; Lucy was almost blinded as he moved slightly and the light bounced off his shiny bald spot directly into her eyes. He held another ledger, the twin to Adelaide’s, and Lucy briefly wondered at the implausibility of the huge, thick-set haulers approaching him with such deference, slump-shouldered and eyes downcast. Waving them away with a brusque gesture, the shorter figure turned and Lucy caught a glimpse of the hard line of his mouth, the ruthlessness in his eyes, and wondered no longer. Julius Winkman was, like his formidable wife, not to be underestimated.

Julius nodded in their general direction, and Lucy felt rather than heard Lockwood’s sharp intake of breath at her side – had those unforgiving eyes spotted them crouching up here, across the distance and through the gloom? A movement beneath their hiding place caught Lucy’s attention – someone was standing in the murk beneath them, but the angle was too awkward to make out any distinguishing features. She gestured to Lockwood, who nodded his understanding, and tried to catch Kipps’ eye in warning too, but the older man was carved from marble and wouldn’t meet her eye.

Lucy turned back to the busy floor, trying to ignore the cramp in her calves. Three teams of two giant lackeys, plus the two Winkmans – more than she’d expected, and that was excluding whoever was keeping to the shadows below them. Barrels of something liquid, boxes and crates with unknown contents – Kipps had said opium earlier, and Lucy also heard the clink of glass bottles as two of the men hefted a crate onto their shoulders, Julius snapping reprimands at their carelessness. His sharp bark was echoed by a smaller man – boy, really, prancing through one of the open doors with affected confidence, shiny shoes peeping out from over-long trousers, brandishing a theatrical cane at the sweating smugglers. He swaggered across the floor, cutting in front of the labouring men and yelling something when they veered out of his path, boxes swaying and a swirl of straw escaping from the loosened lid. Hadn’t George said something about a son? Leonard, or something? Lucifer?

Lockwood leaned imperceptibly towards her, murmured from the corner of his mouth.

“Young Leopold doesn’t seem to have his parent’s flair for leadership, does he?”

Lucy snorted, clapping a hand over her mouth. Leopold had managed to get tangled up between his cane and a smuggler carrying a tall stack of paper-wrapped parcels. They were rolling on the floor in a muddle of limbs and dust, Julius bellowing at them to sort themselves out and mind a small parcel that had come undone in the confusion, spilling what looked like globules of thick red tar across the floor and men alike.

Lockwood took advantage of the interruption to gesture the others back towards the wall, where they huddled close and low.

“Seems straight-forward enough, doesn’t it? Stuff comes in, there’s a few minutes’ calm while whatever it is gets counted and unloaded, and then the suppliers arrive to take some of it away. It looks like we have two main exits – the river-gate, where those two gorillas and the austere Lady Adelaide are, and the side doors, where we have a pair of lackeys on each, plus our charming host and his imbecilic son. I’m guessing there’s two men unloading stuff coming in and two for carrying it back out when Flo’s associates arrive to buy. That makes nine, by my count, and Lucy’s spotted a mystery gentlemen below us who only seems interested in those little paper parcels with the highly suspicious contents, some of which is staining the floor and young Leopold an intriguing colour.”

Lockwood’s eyes sparkled with the thrill of the chase, his hands sketching shapes and tallies in the air as he spoke. Whether it was their talk in the garden earlier, or Lockwood had finally accepted that they were a team, any fear of being shut out or sidelined Lucy had left evaporated as he nudged her shoulder with his.

“Wait and watch complete, I reckon. There’s enough alcohol here for Barnes to throw the book at the lot of them, to say nothing of whatever else they’re moving. So as far as I can see, we have two options. Plan A: we make a teeny tiny disruption and leg it, leaving Barnes to mop them up. Plan B: we hang about a bit longer and see if we can’t get hold of one of those promising-looking ledgers the Winkmans are keeping close, then scarper before we’re spotted. Lucy? What do you think?”

Her response died in her throat as she looked to Kipps. Something had shifted in his energy, the banked fire she’d seen building in him all day rising to a blazing inferno. He jerked his hand out, awkwardly grasping two of her fingers in a bone-crushing squeeze, and flashed her a blinding smile, the years falling off his careworn face in seconds so that, with a jolt, Lucy saw the dashing young soldier who had swept Jessica off her feet.

“Take care of yourself, Carlyle. You too, Anthony. Be the good for each other.”

He grinned, winked outrageously at Lockwood, and leapt to his feet before either of the other two could blink.

Lockwood and Lucy looked at each other for a moment of stunned silence, disbelief and shock warring for dominance. Their heads snapped left to follow as Quill stopped at the top of the iron staircase leading down to the warehouse floor. He looked younger than Lucy had ever seen him, carefree and alive, as he ripped them a textbook salute with his right arm while pulling his left back like a discus thrower. Upright and dauntless, Lieutenant Kipps bellowed his final order.

“Soldiers! Eyes RIGHT!”

Then the world exploded.

Brilliant white light filled the cavernous room, turning Lucy’s world electric red even through her screwed-up eyelids. She’d flung herself against Lockwood, shocked into movement by the muscle memory that came from surviving hundreds of nighttime bombardments at the pitiless Front, pressing the side of her face against his as they faced the bare brick wall. A second explosion rocked the gantry, sucking the air from her lungs and painting the world white once more. Belatedly, she remembered Kipps’ stilted movements in the taxi, and wondered if it was just phosphorus grenades he’d managed to strap round his waist while no-one was looking, or if there was a gatling gun or light aircraft in there too.

Chest heaving, Lockwood pulled them both to their feet, one hand to Lucy’s face as soon as they were upright. Screaming and crashing echoed from the turmoil unleashed below, unheeded by them both as they clutched at each other, gasping for air. Worry creased his eyes as he looked her over, and she nodded her breathless assurance that she was alright. Lockwood’s hand lingered on her cheek, brushing along her cheekbone, before he smiled, eyes dark and intense.

“Plan C it is, Luce.”

He patted his tattered coat, fishing things out of various unsavoury pockets as Lucy rolled her head to stretch her neck and straightened her spine.

“Just to clarify, Lockwood, Plan C would be-“

“The one where we set everything on fire and then run, yes. Ready?”

“Ready.”

Lucy felt herself smile as Lockwood looked at her, two small cylinders in one hand and the other fixing a wickedly sharp short rapier, sheen dulled with boot-black, to his belt. She pulled a small kitchen knife from her own coat and balanced on the balls of her feet, grateful for Lockwood’s pedantic obsession with form and footwork during their basement sparring. The barest pressure under her chin brought her to stillness, Lockwood’s thumb caressing her jaw with a feather-light touch.

“Lucy, listen to me. If you see an opportunity to get out, I want you to take it. No, don’t-“

Lockwood’s brow furrowed as Lucy made to argue, his hand never leaving her face.

“Please don’t argue with me, for once, we really don’t have time. Look, I don’t know what Kipps’ plan is and frankly, I’m not sure he does either. My plan is nice and simple: don’t get killed. What I care about, right now, is you. You getting out of this alive and unharmed. So please just do as I ask, Luce. Please. You see an out, you run. Please.”

Lucy could only nod, her injunction for him to do the same snatched from her lips as a heart-stopping explosion made them both duck, and then they were running for the stairs and into the fray.
Whatever Kipps’ plan was, it was working. Lucy was still blinking spots from her vision from his two phosphorus bombs, and she’d had enough notice and training to turn away and close her eyes. As she and Lockwood rounded the final steps and reached the ground, the well-managed order they’d watched from above seemed a world away from the chaos before them now. The phosphorus had stuck in incendiary splotches to the walls, providing a gentle, dwindling light, and to the floor, where the dust and whisps of hay were burning merrily. Of most concern to Lucy were the stacked crates and kegs bisecting the room, a section of which were completely ablaze, sending smoke plumes and showers of sparks into the air; concentric rings of smouldering shadows were, she assumed, the remains of the barrel of whatever spirit had exploded moments earlier and interrupted her and Lockwood once more.

A figure lay groaning on the ground close to the crates, trickles of blood matting the side of his face and pooling on the floor. Lucy recognised the stoop-shouldered man taking orders from Julius, and she looked around to find the other half of his team kneeling by one of the open doors, rocking back and forth with the heels of his hands pressed into his eyes. Of Julius himself, she could see no trace, but she didn’t dare think he’d been taken down by Kipps’ initial assault. Leopold’s squealing could be heard over the men’s shouting away to her left, and she thought she could see Adelaide’s imposing frame looming through the smoke towards the river wall.

Lucy and Lockwood stood at the bottom of the staircase for no more than a few seconds, taking in the scene before them. Adjusting her grip on the knife, Lucy looked to Lockwood, tall and assured next to her. Despite the screaming, the imminent danger, and the worrying number of fires springing up around the highly combustible barrels of illegal booze, she felt as safe and sure as she ever did with him at her side. Reaching for his hand, she gestured to the tumult.

“Which plan are we on now?”

He laughed, squeezed her hand and waved his blade in a sweeping gesture across the room.

“At this point, Luce, I think plans would get in the way of the fun, don’t you?”

She rolled her eyes. They’d set fire to the main warehouse of a murderous thug who had orchestrated Jessica’s murder, seized control of west London’s underground trade routes, and who’d personally ordered their deaths. ‘Fun’ wasn’t exactly the word she’d use.

“It’d stop us accidentally stabbing or crushing the other, though, wouldn’t it? I’ll be really cross with you if you set me on fire unintentionally. You go left and I go right, how about that for a plan?”

Lockwood winked roguishly at her and tossed her one of the palm-sized cylinders. Lucy had dug many illicit and explosive treasures out of the mud when retrieving her injured soldiers, and she knew how plenty of the annual iron harvest made its way across the Channel; regardless of Quill’s heavier-duty offerings, she wasn’t at all surprised that Lockwood had managed to source smoke grenades. Pulling the pins out in tandem, she and Lockwood were already running down either side of the stacked crates as they threw the brassy cylinders, twin arc trajectories hitting opposite walls in perfect synchronicity. The remaining windows above the open doors shattered as Lockwood’s bomb exploded in a shower of scorching iron filings and billowing smoke, glass shards raining down on Julius and his team. Across the room, under the metal staircase, Lucy’s grenade hit the wall and spewed a thick grey cloud across the floor. From the corner of her eye, she just made out a figure emerging from the choking smoke, one arm held across his face as he ran to the steps and staggered up and out of the pandemonium.

Lucy didn’t have the luxury of following him, or even thinking about it too much, as the carnage before her required all her attention. Directly ahead of her, through the smoke from the burning barrels and their twin grenades, Quill was just visible by the river gate and open trapdoor. The two men unloading barrels from whatever boat had been unfortunate enough to dock at the wrong time had borne the brunt of his focussed rage. Two welly-booted feet poked helplessly out of the open trapdoor, waving forlornly as their owner presumably scrabbled for purchase on the slimy brick below. Kipps had his teammate equally compromised: with one hand bunched in the smuggler’s grimy overalls while he lolled drunkenly, Lucy watched in horrified admiration as Kipps flattened the man’s nose with his remorseless fist. Winkman’s burly stevedore crumpled like a paper doll in the rain, dropping in a heap to the floor as Kipps shook his stinging fingers loose. Catching sight of Lockwood and Lucy through the haze, Kipps ripped the bung from the nearest barrel and heaved it onto its side, kicking it to roll towards Lockwood, acrid-smelling liquid splashing across the dusty floor.

Lucy followed his lead and palmed her blackened knife. As she moved across the room, she took any and every opportunity to slash ropes, crack lids, slice paper wrappers, kicking and swiping at the crates and stacked barrels, causing as much disruption to the Winkmans’ systemic malice as she could. Glass shattered and liquid spilled, and a particularly well-aimed kick knocked a box of small bottles over, which skittered and rolled in every direction, ready to trip an unsuspecting foe.

Two men disarmed and incapacitated by Kipps at the river gate; two more prone and groaning on the floor. By her reckoning, there remained just one last team of coughing men and the Winkmans between her and a safe exit, and she found them crawling towards the open side doors, away from the billowing smoke and towards the police perimeter Lucy fervently hoped was right outside. She didn’t want to take any chances, and tried not to feel too bad as she freed a barrel of what smelled like strong beer from its restraining ropes and, grunting with exertion, hauled it onto its side. One final push sent it careening towards the unfortunate men, who scrambled faster out of its path, disappeared through the doors and into the waiting night.

At some point after the first wave of searing explosions, Adelaide had run to her husband by the stacked crates, where Lucy could hear him shouting vitriol and orders at the blinded, hacking men, and trying to stamp out some of the smaller fires. Wiping the soot and sweat from her eyes, Lucy took a moment to catch a scorching breath and seek her friends. Quill had disappeared back into the madness, but Lucy allowed herself the luxury of a few seconds of worrying about him before her frantic eyes found Lockwood.

Fleet of foot, blackened blade still somehow managing to flash and sparkle in the light of the now-innumerable fires, Lockwood had Julius backed up against a stack of boxes, rapier against bayonet. The older man was frantic in the firelight, thin hair wild and soot-stained, eyes narrowed in deadly focus on Lockwood’s studiously calm face. He lunged expertly, the bayonet darting and jabbing, probing Lockwood’s impeccable defences for a fatal opportunity, and his face contorted in snarling grimaces as the flames licked higher and his empire crumbled.

Bafflingly unruffled, given the chaotic circumstances, Lockwood stepped deftly forward and back, rapier winking like a minnow in a burbling stream, and red flowers bloomed on Julius’ forearm. Roaring in pain and frustration, Julius jerked his head towards his implacable wife as she stood frozen in the shadows. Lucy started forward to intercept her, but Adelaide was too fast, her austere skirts hoiked high and long legs swallowing up the space.

“Leopold! The river ledger!”

Her sharp orders cut through the grunts and clashes of the duelling men, the dull roar of the flames, and the plink of shattered glass and shifting shards. Snatching up the red ledger, lying broken-spined on the floor where Julius had presumably flung it as the phosphorus seared his eyes, Adelaide sprinted for the open door and out into the cool darkness. Lucy could almost envy her: getting arrested in the mizzling rain was sounding increasingly pleasant compared to the heat in the room, the air almost too thick to breathe, laced with the scent of boiling alcohol, burning straw, and the thicky spicy-sweet smell she now associated with opium resin.

Dreams of cold baths and clean clothes would have to wait, however, as Leopold came barrelling towards them out of the smoke like a miniature steam engine, red ledger in one hand and the other buried inside his torn jacket. Lockwood had Julius on the ropes once more, bleeding and desperate as a cornered animal, but his intense concentration on Julius’ vicious bayonet left Lockwood’s back exposed. Skidding through the wreckage of the central line of crates and cargo, Lucy hefted her knife in her hand and sprinted as fast as her aching legs would carry her.

Leaping over a pile of smouldering hay, Lucy almost had the jumped-up teenager within arm’s reach when time went thick and syrupy. Leopold had pulled something glinting and snub-nosed from his jacket pocket and his arm unfolded, a compass swinging to the true north of Lockwood’s muscular and unprotected back. No, not unprotected. None of their team were ever left unprotected.

Astringent air burnt Lucy’s throat as she filled her lungs and screamed a warning.

“Lockwood! Behind you!”

That flawless footwork. Lucy understood why they’d spent so long on seemingly minor details in the basement as she watched Lockwood shift his weight backwards, turning towards her with questioning eyes, and immediately feinting to the right to avoid Julius’ final opportunistic stab. The blade passed harmlessly through the air, where Lockwood’s body had been only seconds before, and Julius staggered forwards with a snarl. Leopold’s arm wavered as he followed Lockwood’s dancing movements through the haze, but Lucy could see well enough. With an practised flick of the wrist and the full force of all her rage and terror from this recon job gone fantastically awry, Lucy threw her trusty kitchen knife. She yelled in triumph as a red line welled and wept along Leopold’s wrist, droplets peppering the floor in crimson snowflakes. Dropping the ledger and revolver both, Leopold howled and clutched at his bleeding wrist. With a glance of pure loathing at Lucy, he staggered past the fighting men and out of the warehouse doors.

Panting with exertion and elation, Lucy stepped over the wrecked crates to retrieve her bloodied blade and scoop up the bloodstained river ledger into the inside pocket of her disgraceful overcoat. One of the small parcels lay on the floor nearby, its wrappings burning merrily, and the thickly scented smoke was making her head spin. She wasn’t sure, therefore, whether the vision of a vengeful warrior striding towards them with wings of flame and a burning halo was objectively true, but she was too busy to interrogate herself right now. If an avenging angel wanted to come help them get out of this mess alive, then she wasn’t going to turn them down. Julius was still attacking Lockwood with the viciousness of a last stand, and small explosions were regularly rocking the room as the boiling barrels succumbed to the laws of thermodynamics. More was on fire than wasn’t at this point, the spilled spirits and thick layer of dust on the floor providing ample fuel, and Lucy felt scorched and parched in equal measure.

Blinking the smoke from her eyes, the celestial visitor reconfigured itself into a singed and ragged Kipps, who grabbed her shoulders and peered into her streaming eyes.

“Lucy! Are you hurt? What’s happened up here, I heard shouting?”

Shaking her head made the room spin, and she screwed her eyes up tight, willing herself to stay present.

“I’m fine! I sliced Leopold, he ran and so did Adelaide. The men are all down, but Lockwood, he’s got Julius – look – ”

She gestured towards the grappling men. Julius had given up on the bayonet and had gone back to the tried-and-true methods beloved of street fighters everywhere, and was trying to get close enough to Lockwood to bite his ear off. Lockwood had the training and stamina, but Julius was a bear of a man and furious to boot, and Lucy gasped as Lockwood’s knee buckled and Julius’ hands tightened around his arms.

Lucy’s sleeve fluttered in the draught Kipps left. As he strode across the room, she imagined him patrolling his beloved Regent’s Park, striding proprietorially along the beds, stooping to pull up an errant weed. Casual as a Sunday amble, Kipps sauntered behind the grappling men and dipped in an elegant curtsey at Julius’ back. Lockwood staggered as the brawny man collapsed into him, screaming, his leg crumpling as Kipps straightened up and wiped the gore from the switchblade in his hand. It had all happened so fast, Lucy barely had time to register that they’d taken out the entire operation and lived to tell the tale before Kipps was hauling Winkman, groaning and limp, off Lockwood and over his shoulder.

“Give him here, Tony. He’s got a little rendezvous to keep with Inspector Barnes and I’d hate for him to be late.”

Lockwood grinned and helped Kipps heft Julius’s inert body into a firefighter’s carry. Their view wasn’t much improved, but at least they didn’t have to listen to the venomous expletives spewing from the racketeer’s filthy mouth.

An ear-splitting crash resounded through the room as a cluster of barrels exploded, showering them all with burning fragments and covering the open door with fiery debris. Lockwood pulled Lucy to his chest, wrapping his arms around her head as the sparks fell and the smoke plumed, blocking the doorway and their last safe exit.

Kipps’ was already shouldering his way through the burning wreckage as he yelled over his shoulder at the two younger agents, his voice carrying through the roaring and crashing of the burning warehouse that was rendering Lucy bewildered and breathless.

“Tony! The crates, barrels, they’re blowing - get Lucy and get out! Up, the stairs are directly behind you! Go, get on, go!”

He disappeared into the smoke as another crate erupted, spewing timbers and shards of glass across their path. Coughing and disoriented, Lucy and Lockwood lurched backwards and staggered towards the stairs, hands clasped and heads bowed. Blisters erupted on Lucy’s finger pads as she touched the iron banister without thinking. Cursing and sucking her stinging fingers, she pulled Lockwood up the swaying gantry. The heat and smoke were intensifying with every step they climbed, and she thought with hysterical acceptance of the boarded window at the end of the corridor she’d dismissed as Plan U. Lockwood owed her a substantial raise and a week off, fully paid. And a spa visit. And a puppy.

Between their pounding feet, the reverberating explosions, and the metal warping and creaking in the heat, the stairs were shaking so much that Lucy was glad of the security of Lockwood’s iron grip on her hand, their arms and shoulders bumping against each other as they ran upwards. It also meant that she only had a few seconds’ notice, a prickle on the back of her neck and a gut feeling that there were more footsteps than there should be, to react when someone grabbed at the hem of her outflung overcoat. Thinking more of Jacob’s training than Lockwood’s finesse, she kicked back as hard as she could with her heavy-booted foot, wincing as she felt as well as heard the crunching impact on the someone’s chest. Lockwood had run ahead by only a step or two, and was right back at her side as she pulled them both around to see her assailant fall backwards, tumbling golden head over well-shod heels down the stairs, his fine-cut coat snagging on the rough metal and shedding tarnished silver buttons as he fell.

“Oh god! Oh my god, is he dead? Have I killed him? Oh shit, I haven’t – ”

The room span before her eyes; with all of the fighting and chaos of the last hour, she’d not – as far as she knew, and certainly not intentionally – actually killed any of the smugglers. Maimed, sure, and more than one would be waking up with a broken bone or two, but they’d all be waking up. Lucy had fought for too many men and boys in this world only to lose them to the next one, been too intimately acquainted with the threshold between death and living, to stomach the prospect of ushering someone over it herself.

Lockwood’s hand anchored itself against her cheek once more, pulling her eyes away from the smoke below and onto his. Firelight crackled in his eyes and despite the cut on his cheekbone, the soot and grime in his hair and face, Lucy thought he’d never looked more handsome, more vital, more like himself. The tug at her heart only intensified as he looked deep in her eyes, forcing her to stay in the blistering present with him.

“No, Luce, he’s fine – well, not fine maybe, but listen to him - no-one dead can swear that creatively. Come on, we’re nearly there.” He stroked her cheekbone with infinite gentleness and smiled roguishly at her, improbably suave in the middle of such chaos. “Race you to the top!”

Lucy couldn’t help but grin back, and one last push took them tumbling through the wooden door at the top of the gantry and into the blessedly cool corridor, cold night air making the carpet of smoke curl and twist around their ankles.

Breathing the clean air deep into their scorched lungs, they took a moment to slump against the brick wall, Lockwood’s hand still wrapped tightly around her own in solid reassurance of his continued presence, their continued survival. Lucy’s shaking shoulders snapped through Lockwood’s respite, concern writ in capital letters across his face, before her laughter called out his answering smile.
“Bloody hell, Lockwood. Plan C is definitely for emergency use only.”

“Adaptability in the field, Luce, that’s our calling card. A job well done, with only the smallest chance of us burning the place to the ground.”

They looked at each other in companionable exhaustion, the unspoken intimacy of two souls in alignment, while explosions boomed in the distance with increasing frequency. Lockwood gestured to the window at the end of the hall.

“Ladies first.”

“There’s not a hope in hell.”

“Come on, Luce. One tiny little run up, the smallest of hops, and we’re away. Flo and George are waiting for us on the river, they’ll have us scooped up before our socks get wet. There’s no way we’re getting out the front doors, Kipps has unfortunately seen to that, and I’d rather not deliver that ledger in your pocket there to Barnes before we’ve had the chance to rifle through it. Besides, you wanted more challenging cases, right? Isn’t that why you came to London? You can’t say I don’t provide ample opportunity for personal development.”

“I swear to god, Lockwood, you could talk the knickers off an angel. Fine! Fine. But we’re going together.”

Lockwood cupped her cheek, eyes intent on hers once again. His perfect lips were shaping words Lucy would have given anything to hear when the rotting door behind them smashed against the wall, popping the moment like a soap bubble. Lucy scrabbled for the knife at her belt but Lockwood’s rapier was in his hand quicker than blinking, his left arm thrown out to shield her behind him as they wheeled to face their interloper.

They smelled him before they saw him – acrid, sweet-spicy, singed and bleeding, the blonde man rounded the corner. His finely tailored bottle-green jacket smoked gently, peppered with innumerable holes, and one side of his face was a livid, angry red. Lucy took no small pride in the perfect boot-print emblazoned in the centre of his gaping shirt, ripped buttons dangling precariously on silken threads. Up close, she could see the wax dripping from his fussy little moustache, the artfully pomaded hair in tufted disarray, the glint of his remaining monogrammed buttons. His vanity was more wounded than he was, and Lucy breathed a sigh of relief that was quickly stifled as he raised a service revolver towards them.

“Anthony Lockwood, I presume.”

The man’s voice was reedy and grating; even without the choking smoke, he’d never command a room. Lockwood made a sarcastic little bow, shifting slightly to better cover Lucy with his body.

“Congratulations, Mr Lockwood, you’ve caused quite the disturbance here. You should be proud of yourself; I didn’t think you had it in you to play with the big boys, you and your ramshackle little agency, but you really are creating quite a fuss. Still. All good things, eh? Now, if your girl there would hand over the ledger that I can see poking out of her pocket without screaming or doing anything silly, we can all be on our way.”

Lockwood reached behind him with his free hand and Lucy took it without thinking. She didn’t need to think; it was natural as breathing. Side by side, facing down every obstacle with just the right amount of recklessness. Fingers of pressure dug meaningfully into her palm and nudged her hand slightly upwards, towards the pontificating man’s head, to his dishevelled cloud of hair, spotlit by a flickering electric light. Lucy squeezed back in understanding and slowly, achingly slowly, inched her free hand towards her belt loop.

Lockwood flourished his rapier theatrically, eyes never leaving the man or his gun.

“You have me at a disadvantage, I’m afraid. Anthony J. Lockwood, at your service. Whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?”

The man sneered, smoothing his rumpled hair back with a grazed and bleeding hand, and offered his own sardonic half-bow, his revolver trained immovably on Lockwood.

“One last request, hmm? How gentlemanly. Well, I’m not ill-bred enough to refuse the wishes of a dying man. Sir Rupert Gale, at you and yours. Now, stop waving that silly little sword about and hand over that ledger.”

“You wound me, Sir Rupert. This is the finest Spanish steel money can buy. And a gentleman would never speak to a lady in such a way. Allow me to introduce Miss Carlyle. She’s quite the dab hand with a throwing knife, as poor young Leopold can attest.”

With one fluid movement, Lockwood stepped back and turned towards the window, giving Lucy a clear line of sight to the preening popinjay. The hours of basement practice settled on her shoulders like a warm winter coat as she smiled beatifically at Sir Rupert and flicked her knife. She’d have liked to have stayed to watch its trajectory, seen it spin acrobatically through the air and ruffle his over-styled hair, shattering the aged glass of the light fixture and landing decisively in the shorting bulb. She’d have liked to have seen how the puffed-up dandy managed being showered with yet more hot glass and fiery sparks, to watch his face contort with rage and humiliation at being bested once again.

There wasn’t time to enjoy her handiwork, however, as she and Lockwood were already running towards the window before the knife had found its mark. Hand in immutable hand, they exploded through the rotting boards, splinters and dust ballooning around them as they ran into the soft embrace of the starlit night. Hand in hand they jumped, leaping out of the flames and into the waiting arms of the Thames. Hand in hand they fell, hitting the river with twin bone-jarring impacts. Hand in hand they surfaced, spluttering and shivering, laughing and alive, to the welcome sounds of Flo and George calling to them across the water and the hum of the outboard motor on Mathilda’s boat.

The scratchy woollen blanket scraped at Lucy’s numerous cuts and grazes, and her disgusting clothes hung heavy and cloying against her skin. Bruises bloomed across her body, and the smell of smoke clung to her hair, twining in with the riverweeds. She was exhausted, hungry, dehydrated, and any remaining shred of the Victorian respectability instilled in her by her disapproving mother had gone up in flames, along with the warehouse full of illegal alcohol she’d helped set on fire.

Bobbing gently on the tidal swell, George and Flo bickering with Mathilda in the tiny cockpit, she and Lockwood sat together on a small bench built into the side of the boat, watching the hive of activity around the warehouse. There would be conversation tomorrow, debriefings and explanations and clarifications, but right now, it was enough to feel the rise and fall of his chest, the reassuring pressure of his chin on her crown, the warmth of his leg pressed against hers. From this distance, the firelight cast a cosy glow on the bustling figures, torch beams dancing across the space and flashing blue lights ringed in a protective circle around the area. Lucy hoped Kipps had unwound enough to accept medical care from the ambulance she could see parked at the perimeter, between the numerous police vans. Barnes would have his cells full tonight, and new pips on his shoulders by the year’s end.

Vibrations fizzed beneath their feet as Mathilda did something to the motor, and the little boat began to chug closer to the riverbank. There were plenty of bottles and boxed floating on the swell around the burning building, and Lucy didn’t miss the satisfied look on Flo’s face as she and George joined them by the stern. Tidelines’ bar would be properly stocked once again by tomorrow.

They were out, safe and sound, and Jessica’s killers had been brought to justice. Lucy had used every trick in her patchwork combat training, and won. Flo’s business was no longer threatened, and George was humming happily over the ledger, bedraggled but legible thanks to Lucy’s greasy overcoat protecting it from the worst of the Thames. Lockwood hadn’t let go of her for a single second since Kipps had ordered them to leave the burning building. Tucked tight and cosy against his side, his arm wrapped unapologetically around her and their clasped hands resting on his lap, watching the police mop up the remnants of their most recent successful investigation, Lucy couldn’t remember ever being so happy.

Chapter Text

Lockwood loved his house. He loved the creaky stair, how you could – with less practice than you’d think – work out who was coming down by the tenor of their footsteps. He loved the snug comfort of the library, well-worn armchairs moulding themselves around familiar bodies and beloved books falling open at favoured pages, their cracked spines a story in themselves. He loved the ramshackle determination of the basement office, where business and pleasure overlapped in easy intimacy. He loved the gentle presence of his parents and sister, each knickknack chosen with care by them a calling-card across the years. He loved how his new family had poured new life into its old bones, mapped out new routes and snugs across the landscape of his childhood home.

Most of all, he loved how the kitchen drew them all together, the beating heart at the centre of their house. Freezing, stiff with exertion and exhaustion, they’d all retreated like homing pigeons into its waiting arms late last night – well, more like the early hours of the morning, now he came to think of it. Holly and George tired but buoyed by success; Kipps a singed and silent spent force; he and Lucy frozen to their bones after their tandem dunking in the Thames. Flo had dropped them off on dry land to reconvene with Holly and promptly melted into the night with Mathilda; Lockwood knew better than to ask where they were headed, and politely refrained from commenting on George’s lingering looks and sullen silence once she’d left. Barnes’ begrudging thanks and stern promise of a swift debriefing visit carried in their ears all the way home, piled into taxis like bedraggled kittens once they’d escaped the medics, Lucy’s fingers chilled but resolute in his. He only let go of her once Holly had managed to prise them apart in the hallway to attend to their various minor cuts and burns, and her absence pressed against him as a physical ache. Hot tea, lukewarm showers and numbed sleep took everyone through the rest of the night and well into the following day, where they made their way in dribs and drabs back to the warm and lively kitchen.

Breakfast at noon, as was the Lockwood & Co. way: toast and endless tea, convivial and unassuming. Holly sat with her hair wrapped, scolding Kipps good-naturedly as he grumbled about the many small dressings peppering his shoulders and arms. George pouring over the liberated ledger, crinkled and warped by its dousing in the Thames but largely still legible, or so he fervently hoped. Skull winding around everyone’s feet, chirping and mewling for scraps and strokes. Lucy in her periwinkle jumper and sleep-tousled hair, soft-edged and radiant in the pale winter light. He could feel his heart reaching out from his chest, greedy-fingered, following the ley-lines radiating outwards from her, drawing him in.

Kipps batted Holly away ineffectually and caught Lockwood’s eye. The older man looked tired, but whatever hidden fury that had been driving him through the late-night park patrols over the last few years had dissipated: something lost had been found, yesterday’s ferocious warrior settled back into quiet sleep now the battle had been won.

“Thank god you’re here, Tony, Holly can look after you for a bit instead of covering every inch of me in gauze. Let a man drink his tea in peace, Hol, have a heart.”

Holly chucked his chin affectionately, surreptitiously affixing a final dressing to his jaw as she did so. Lockwood wondered how many wounded men she’d patched up with breezy efficiency over the years, how many stoic soldiers still pined quietly for their smiling nurse of steel. He sent a silent prayer of gratitude to whoever was listening that Viv had come along to immerse Holly in all the love and care she gave to others, and struggled to offer to herself.

“Give over, Quill, you’ll be glad enough when they start itching – burns are a devil to heal and I’ll not have your pretty face scarred because you’re too much of a baby to sit still for ten minutes. There, all done, see? You’re looking better, Lockwood, did you sleep well? There’s tea in the pot, and I’ll do some more toast, that on the table’ll be stone cold by now.”

Lockwood let it all wash over him, the kindness of his friends and the comfort of their presence. Lucy was still smiling gently at him and he felt the warmth of it down to his toes. He pulled out his chair and sat.

“Budge up, George, I can’t think about all these papers on an empty stomach.”

George pushed his glasses up his nose, blinking owlishly, as Lockwood pushed the spread of loose papers back towards the ledger. The spidery writing and twisting columns made his head spin just to look at them.

“It’s fascinating, Lockwood, really fascinating. See here, this incoming- ”

Kipps threw a toast crust at him, smudging his glasses with jam, and Lockwood and Lucy collapsed in giggles like the naughty schoolchildren they never got to be. Holly shot them a disapproving glare as she set down a groaning toast-rack, and Lockwood covered his laugh with an ill-disguised cough, not helped the conspiratorial grin Lucy shot him across the crowded table. He busied himself with the butterknife, trying to ignore the heat he could feel stealing across his cheeks. One look shouldn’t have him blushing like a greenhorn, it really was too ridiculous.

Hurriedly swallowing his toast and trying to regain a measure of composure, he rapped his mug with a teaspoon twice, and the amicable bickering subsided.

“First things first, everyone. Last night didn’t exactly go according to plan, but I couldn’t be happier with the results.”

“You’re telling me.” Lucy’s scoff would rattle the windowpanes. “I don’t remember fourth-floor windows being mentioned at any stage of the plan. Or drainpipes.”

“Nor were setting the place on fire or breaking an aristocrat’s ribs, granted, but adaptability in the field is what makes us so effective.” Ignoring the puzzled looks everyone except Lucy was shooting his way, Lockwood set his mug down and pushed back his cuffs. Enumerating their successes on his fingers, he tried (and failed) not to wonder why Lucy’s eyes had grown dark and wide as he rolled up his sleeves. “One: Flo sent us to investigate and liberate her supply lines, which I think we can safely say we did. Two: we dealt a major blow to Winkman’s network, one which should take them a while to recover from. Three: Winkman himself, as well as most of his men, are currently enjoying His Majesty’s hospitality.”

Holly nodded excitedly, eyes shining, as she took a genteel sip of tea.

“Inspector Barnes was delighted, you could tell by the way his moustache kept quivering. All those terrified sooty men running out of the burning building, straight into the arms of his waiting officers, spilling all their secrets – the bobbies couldn’t write fast enough to get it all down. And then Kipps emerging from the flames with Winkman himself, trussed up like a Christmas turkey, dropped directly into the Inspector’s lap! Incriminating ledger in one hand and an upstart crime boss in the other! He should be bringing you medals later on, never mind a debriefing."

She turned her beaming smile on Kipps, who looked supremely uncomfortable under their collective scrutiny; folding his arms and rolling his eyes skywards, he spoke to somewhere over Holly’s shoulder.

“I’ll settle for the sight of him in a nice cosy prison cell, thanks, where he can’t ruin any more lives. Besides, I’m not stupid. There were multiple running lines in that warehouse, down the river and over land, and we all smelled what was in those little parcels. Adelaide and Leopold vanished in the confusion, and she was just as involved as her husband, if not more. We’ve pulled up the weeds, sure, but their roots run deep.”

The sombre, portentous effect Lockwood suspected Kipps was going for to make himself look mysterious and important was spoiled slightly when a well-aimed retaliatory toast crust hit him square between the eyes. Heedless of Kipps’ spluttering and the others’ raucous laughter, George turned a page over in the water-spotted ledger, his face a picture of studied innocence.

“Kipps makes a decent point, though he’d not make a living on the stage. The Winkman’s weren’t running this scheme by themselves. This ledger is very instructive indeed; I’ve copied out a few of the relevant pages before Barnes takes it off us, and see if you can’t puzzle it through with me.”

Inconspicuously moving the plate of leftover toast out of Kipps’ reach, George spread some papers across the table. Lockwood was glad to see the spidery columns translated into George’s fastidiously legible handwriting; he didn’t feel up to deciphering the water-blurred copperplate himself.

“Here, in the credit column, across the last six or seven months, there are regular payments from an RG – fairly sizeable amounts too, almost half of their total income.”

George pushed his glasses up his nose, looking up hopefully at the scrape of Lucy’s chair as she leant forward.

“That’ll be Sir Rupert Gale, who followed me and Lockwood up the stairs. He wasn’t very happy with us, was he, Lockwood? Very annoyed that we’d gate-crashed his little sideline in drug dealing.”

Her smile lit up her whole face, shining through the careful mask of professional distance she’d maintained for all those early days of their acquaintance. Lockwood loved these flashes of unfettered emotion, loved that she didn’t feel the need to hide herself as much anymore. His returning grin felt a little more wolfish than usual as he thought back to how fearlessly she’d worked last night, how quickly and decisively she’d responded to Gale’s unwelcome grasp at her hem.

“At the gate-crashing, yes, and possibly also at the bit where you kicked his breastbone in two and punted him down the stairs. Masterfully done, I might add, and entirely justified. He’s a slimy git, and I dread to think how much opium he’s funnelled onto our streets since the summer.”

Lucy blushed as Kipps joshed her shoulder admiringly, George and Holly crowing in disbelief and approval.

“I knew she had a fighting streak in her! Didn’t I say, Tony, when you brought her in? Stop winding her up or she’ll have your guts for garters? Brilliant, Lucy, absolutely brilliant. If we come across any more posh knobheads with criminal tendencies, I’ll know where to send them.”

“Shut up, Kipps, it was just reflexes and those heavy boots, he got back up again eventually. I’d have aimed lower down if I’d thought about it.”

Ignoring Kipps and Holly spluttering on either side of her, Lucy turned back to George, roses blooming in her cheeks.

“Go on then, George, what else is in there?”

George flourished a sheet from the bottom of his pile.

“Lots for Barnes to chase up, I’m sure, all these initials and payouts. But look here, up here – ignore the jam stain. This is the first page in this ledger, dated to spring this year. Not many entries coming in, they must have just been setting up, but there are a few big payments in that first month.”

Lockwood pulled the open ledger towards him, comparing the cramped figures with George’s neat transcription. Only a handful of entries, he was right, small invoices and expenses, interspersed with six substantial regular payments from the same source. The original ink had run badly in the water, blotting the reference, and George had jotted a few possible initials. Lockwood peered at the columns. An M, and then what could be a P or F, maybe an R? He pushed the papers back with a sigh. George took his glasses off and began polishing them furiously on the tablecloth.

“Yes, you see the issue. Someone funded this. Someone put up the money for the Winkmans to get nicely established, presumably in exchange for a cut of the profits, but at a safe remove. Sir Rupert’s the same – we can speculate that he’s the RG in these accounts, but it’s not enough for Barnes to throw the book at him. Whoever this M-something person or business is, we’re not getting any closer to them than this.”

Replacing his glasses with a huff, George folded his arms petulantly.

Any soothing remarks from the others were drowned by the clanging of the doorbell.

By the time George had stomped down the hallway and returned with the Inspector, he seemed to have shaken off the worst of his irritation. Kipps had scooped up a purring Skull and quietly withdrawn to the library, not wanting to explain his presence to the police officer, and the others had been hard at work. Crumbs had been cleared, the teapot refilled, and Barnes was seated at the cleanest bit of the Thinking Cloth they could collectively manage. He set his limp hat on the table and shrugged off his coat, which looked to have seen better days. Taking the proffered cup from Lucy with something bordering on reverence, Barnes drank deeply and sighed. The gullies in his face ran deep, his greying skin and slumped shoulders speaking to a long night of hard work and no sleep. Lockwood almost felt sorry for the man, except that Lucy had sat back down at his side and brushed her knee against his, so he found it hard to be sorry for anyone when he was suddenly so unaccountably cheerful.

Setting his cup down with a satisfied sigh, Inspector Barnes wiped his moustache and sat back.

“So, Mr Lockwood. I’ll not take up too much of your time, as I’m as little loth to stay as you are to hear me, I’m sure. My cells are full and I’ve pulled in as many clerks as I can, and then some, for which I have you and your marvellous Miss Carlyle to thank, I suppose.”

Lockwood felt Lucy tense at his side – three months of outstanding work and she still couldn’t cope with a compliment. Holly, sat back slightly from the table, caught his eye and stepped in smoothly.
“A team effort, Inspector, and one in which everyone played their vital part. I’m glad we’ve been of assistance to you and your men.”

Barnes harrumphed.

“Yes, well. I’m not one for taking orders from an outside source, as a rule, but I can’t deny your work. If either of you are ever wanting a position in the force, drop me a line, we could use recruits as talented as you. We’ve been looking at Julius Winkman for some time now, but he’s slippery as an eel and has powerful friends to boot. He’ll not be wriggling out of this one, though. No judge in the land would disagree with the amount that we can throw at him, thanks to you all.”

George started forward before Lockwood could stop him.

“Yes, Inspector, and that’s what I wanted to ask you. We think we can point you in the right direction of some of the backstage players, starting with Sir Rupert Gale, if you’d just look here- ”

Barnes stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the linoleum tiles, and slammed George’s open ledger shut. Leaning over the table, his voice was low and brooked no argument.

“I’ll stop you there, lad. See now, Mr Lockwood, I’ve time enough for you, you and your team; you do good work, and I’m choosing not to enquire too closely into your ways and means. But understand this. Winkman’s friends are powerful, far more powerful than me, and I will not see you bring your employees to harm. I don’t think I quite caught what your man here was saying, and I’ll thank him not to repeat it so’s I might have to hear. Baseless accusations against peers, especially peers with friends in parliament and who sits on the board of some of the largest businesses in the country, peers who have the ear of half the cabinet and gad about with Lady Fittes and Lord Rotwell, such accusations must not be thrown about without serious thought.”

Scooping up the ledger, Barnes looked away pointedly as George silently collected the loose sheets of transcript and folded them defiantly to his chest. He replaced his smudged coat and battered cap, and touched the brim respectfully towards Lucy and Holly.

“I’m grateful, as I said. You all make for a formidable team. With that said, stick to cleaning up the shallows and stay out of the deep waters. I’d hate to see anything happen to you. Any of you. I’ll see myself out.”

Incredulous silence reigned until the front door slammed shut, at which they all let out their collective breath. Kipps materialised in the doorway, Skull winding around his ankles, and everyone shifted or stood, working the tension from their bodies. A little wriggle wasn’t enough for George, it seemed.

“Unbelievable.” The loose sheets were slammed onto the table, George’s hands pressed white-hard into them. “Unbelievable! So he’s not even going to look at Gale? Or the mysterious M-thingy? Why would he take the ledgers if he’s not going to do anything with them?!”

He rose and grabbed a bag from the countertop, stuffing papers and files haphazardly into its dark recess. Lockwood moved, standing to catch George’s arm and prevent any more papers getting crushed into illegibility.

“I know it’s frustrating, George, but consider. We were hired by Flo to investigate and, if possible, unblock her supply lines, and we have done. As far as our original remit goes, it’s case closed. Everything else we’ve found is intriguing, yes, and certainly food for thought, but let’s deal with what’s in front of us.”

“What’s in front of us,” George huffed sulkily, “is too many bloody loose ends. Adelaide and Leopold have gone to ground, Sir Rupert probably hates us now, someone’s funding all of this and we don’t know who, and now it seems that the police are knowingly turning a blind eye.”

Lockwood shook his arm gently.

“Absolutely, George, but you’re missing the obvious.” He grinned conspiratorially. “Our case is closed. As a respectable and dependable agency, a representative really ought to let Miss Bonnard know as soon as possible, that she might assuage her worries and return to business as usual.”

George sniffed.

“Suppose someone ought to tell her. It’d be poor practice not to, really.”

Kipps stared incredulously from the doorway.

“She fished you out of the bloody river! How would she not know what’s going on?”

Holly nudged Lucy’s elbow, but she was already rising from her seat. Her auburn hair brushed his ginger stubble in their hurried whispered conference, after which Kipps straightened up and cleared his throat.

“By which I meant, obviously, that it’s your duty as a registered private investigator to explain the final outcome of each case to the client, in the interest of transparency and rigour. Hop to it, George, you don’t want to let the agency fall into disrepute.”

George took his glasses off for a quick polish, pushing them back up his nose with self-conscious restraint.

“She should know to keep an eye out for anyone selling opium, as well. Alright, if you insist.”

Any studied appearance of reluctance was undone by him practically running out of the house, heedless of the knowing looks shared affectionately behind his back. Lockwood couldn’t help but smile for his friend – friends, really. Life was short, but all the sweeter in the sharing of it.

Too busy refilling Lucy’s mug and settling her back at the seat closest to the warm stove, he missed the quick look of understanding between Kipps and Holly. Holly moved first, darting to drop a fond kiss on Lucy’s cheek and squeeze her arm.

“I’ve got to run, Luce, Viv is planning some huge Christmas dance now that the champagne is flowing again. I love that girl to death, but she cannot plan to save her life; spare a thought for me.” Any barb was softened by the brightness shining from Holly’s sparkling eyes, and Lockwood felt a sudden pang of envy. Their relationship couldn’t be easy, situated as they were, but they had each other, and they both knew it. “She’s asked for your help with the music choices, next time you’re in Tidelines, so brace yourself for a whirlwind of indecision. Must dash! Get some rest and don’t do anything foolish!”

Lockwood stood as she left the room, ever the gentleman, and was immediately accosted by a yowling Skull. Laughing, Lucy leant to scoop him up, cooing and chatting as she moved to the cupboards to find a tin for his lunch. Lockwood didn’t know why he kept him around, mangy old thing, as he’d so clearly been replaced in the fickle feline’s affections. His grumpiness was hard to maintain at the sight of Lucy knelt on the floor to show Skull each tin in turn, keeping up a full conversation of mews and words between them as they worked their way through George’s stockpile of sardines and corned beef.

A quiet presence at his shoulder made Lockwood jump, and he tore himself away in irritation. Kipps’ knowing smirk was a much less engrossing prospect than Lucy playing with the chirruping cat. Before he could get too introspective about why, he found himself engulfed in a sudden bearhug. He’d barely registered the improbable reality of being hugged by Kipps, a man who barely unbent enough to sit in a chair, before it was over, Kipps stepping back awkwardly and clearing his throat.

“I’ll head out too, Anthony, give you some space. Thanks, though. For everything. I’ll sleep sounder tonight knowing that bastard’s behind bars.”

Surprised by the depth of fellow feeling in his chest, Lockwood grasped Kipps’ arm and shot him a cheeky smile.

“Come on, you sentimental prat. I’ll walk you out.”

Kipps paused by the umbrella stand, tracing patterns on the carpet runner with one foot. Conscious of sound carrying down the hallway, Lockwood lowered his voice.

“Listen, Kipps. I know George is incapable of letting sleeping dogs lie, and I see where he’s coming from, but we need to take some time to let this sink in. We found the man who caused Jess’s death, and Barnes won’t let him slip away now. We got him. We need to slow down.” Seeing fires flicker in Kipps’ eyes, he held up a mollifying hand. “I’m not insinuating anything! I’ve not asked questions about your work, and I’ll keep on not asking. We’ll keep our ears and eyes open, and lord knows I’ll be first in line to push that Sir Rupert down another flight of stairs if the opportunity arises, but we need to find some peace. Jess needs peace. Revenge will eat you up if you let it, and I- um. I don’t want to lose you too.”

Lockwood stopped abruptly, excruciatingly aware that even though Kipps was essentially a brother to him, that they’d only survived losing Jess in the knowledge that their own hurt was reflected in the other, that they’d literally walked through fire for each other only last night, theirs wasn’t really a relationship where you said stuff like that aloud.

It was true, though. Lucy may have cracked his guarded heart wide open, but she wasn’t the only one in there. Having felt so alone for so much of his life, Lockwood was suddenly struck by the force of feeling for his friends, his family. He wasn’t alone, and hadn’t been for a very long time.

Kipps rolled his eyes but grinned companionably, punching Lockwood lightly in the shoulder.

“Getting soft in your old age, I see. Don’t worry. I’ve got beds to weed and lavender to plant, I’m not going anywhere. Winkman’s getting some justice and though it’ll not bring her back, it makes it a bit less heavy to carry.” He quirked an eyebrow. “Besides, between George and Flo, and you and Lucy, there’ll be entertainment enough for me for a good long while yet. Get back to her, Tony, and get out of your head.”

Kipps strode off with a laugh and a swirl of frosty air, the front door slamming shut in Lockwood’s dumb-struck face. A thousand thoughts whirled like the new-falling snow outside, roaring in his ears and spinning his mind, until he shook his head and, for once, paid attention to Kipps. Get out of your head. The permission was welcome, to switch off the thinking and just do what he felt like: and what he felt like, now and pretty much all the time, was to be with Lucy.

He found her in the library, curled up on the sofa with a sleeping Skull at her feet, face turned towards the tall windows as the snow fell, a picture postcard of peace and contentment. Skull huffed as Lockwood sat, clearly resenting the intrusion of his old master now he’d pledged allegiance to a new mistress, and Lucy scratched his ears absent-mindedly. Even marked by too many sleepless nights, her storm-blue eyes remained one of the most beautiful things Lockwood had ever seen; he thought, idly, that he could spend a very happy afternoon (day) (lifetime) learning every swirl, every humour. The tiny crinkles at each side when their eyes met, the faintest tinge of pink across her cheeks as self-consciousness reared its head.

“Don’t laugh, but I love the snow. It must have followed me south, I thought London winters were just grey and miserable.”

“Why would I laugh? I love it too. I could watch it fall for hours.”

Heat lanced through Lockwood as Lucy relaxed, her shoulder brushing against his with a feather-light touch.

“I can’t believe it’s December already. These last three months have flown by, and this certainly isn’t how I’d imagined spending my first winter in the city.”

“Oh?” Lockwood tried for affronted, but his face betrayed him and any severity was undone by the smile he felt lift his cheeks. “I hope the disappointment isn’t too great to bear.”

The way her face scrunched up in a parody of deep thought filled Lockwood’s heart with light, flooding his chest with need for this indomitable woman at his side. The insistent press of fingernail into palm kept him grounded and separate, his last scraps of professional restraint stretched taut against the great unknown of Lucy’s wants and needs. He’d soon as deliver himself to Adelaide as do anything to cause Lucy distress.

Eyes sparkling like sunlight on the sea met his once more.

“I’ll try to survive it, I’m sure. This place isn’t Scotland Yard, to be sure, but I’ll have to make do.”

Another infinitesimal shift closer, another fleeting, searing touch. Another invisible thread tying him to her. The sparkles in her eyes dimmed, seas calming, pulling him into their fathomless depths.

“I am grateful, Lockwood. You took a chance on me in the beginning and I didn’t make it easy for you. Not that you made it easy on yourself either, all imperious and reckless and posh and- well. That’s not the point. The point is, I’ve been able to push myself here, take on challenges I’d never have gotten at a regional division, and I’ve learned so much about what I’m capable of. You’ve not been the boss I imagined, but I think this was exactly what I needed.”

Shadows gathered in Lockwood’s mind. He was her boss, she was right. Just her boss, and what a privilege that was. And she was right again – he’d thrown challenge after challenge at her, and she’d soared above each of them with ingenuity and confidence. He’d watched as Holly and Viv had broken through her defences, their friendship now as sure as the ground beneath their feet. He’d seen her charm servants and the beau monde, wear rags and riches with equal grace, and all without ever losing sight of who she was. She’d slotted in with George like the sister he’d so quietly, desperately wanted, and could hold her own with Flo such as would make a docker blush. Even Kipps had taken to her, and he spent most of his time with compost heaps and ducks.

She was the best thing to have walked through his front door in his whole life. She was the best investigative agent he’d ever come across, and if it was his lot to nurture her talents and then let her go, then so be it. Far better than to never have met her at all. To have loved and lost, and all that.

Straightening his back and replacing just a little of the lost distance between them, the sofa cushion tilted and Skull loudly yowled his displeasure. Lockwood banished the storm clouds in his chest and smiled as naturally as he could manage at Lucy, feeling his face twist slightly.

“Alright, alright, you win. George has a stash of tinned salmon under the sink, how’s that for a peace offering?”

Scooping up the purring monster, Lockwood left Lucy on the sofa. In his studied haste to leave, he missed the way her brows knitted together, the crashing waves in her eyes, the iron determination in her pressed lips. He’d have recognised the way she was rising to a challenge, her hardening resolve of untangling a problem. He’d have resigned himself to not arguing with her, seeing the futility of pushing back against her implacable, infuriating tenacity. He’d have seen all this, if he’d have just turned around.

Daylight waned and snow fell. George didn’t return, and Lockwood was glad for him; Flo would keep him safe and warm in her subterranean kingdom, two odd bods fitting neatly into the other’s complementary strangeness. Holly and Viv had lodgings somewhere nearby, and Lockwood was glad for them; two hearts in harmony, a symphony in their shared lives. Kipps had promised to go home and rest; Lockwood was glad for him, to have found a measure of peace after so many long years of heartbreak. Skull had eaten his fill of fish and snored gently on the crash-mats in the corner of the basement office where Lockwood was sat, staring at his pile of meticulously completed paperwork; he was glad for him, to be safe and full and content. He tried to be glad for himself, to have so rich a life, to have had the pleasure of knowing Lucy, to make himself alright with what he wanted to say to her. Whatever happened next, they’d had this time together, and if that was it, then it would have to be enough.

Lucy hadn’t left the library. She’d acquired a thick blanket and mug of tea, a cheap detective novel abandoned by her side, wrapped up in comfort to watch the snow. She didn’t move as he walked across the room to lean against the window frame, the clean white streetscape a soothing balm to his overworking mind. He felt her gaze on his face, but kept his eyes resolutely turned away; he couldn’t afford to drown in her eyes, not now. Three breaths, he bargained, and then he’d begin.

One.
Two.
Three.

“I’ve just finished up the case-notes from yesterday. It’s certainly the thickest entry in the book so far, and a real testament to how well we work as a team, and individually.”

In his periphery, he saw Lucy shift, chin in hand and pushing her blanket aside. The snow fell thick and fast.

“You were right, before. You’ve come on immeasurably since joining us, and I couldn’t be prouder to work with you. I fully believe in this agency, and I know we can achieve enormous things together." Swallowing hard, Lockwood folded his arms around the tightness in his chest. “But I know this isn’t exactly what you had in mind when you came to London. Given everything you’ve done so far, Luce, I don’t want you to feel trapped here. You’ll always have a home with m- with us, but when you’re getting offers from better-resourced agencies, the Met even, like Barnes offered, where you can really push yourself, we’d underst-“

An insistent finger pressed against his lips, stopping what had started as a practiced speech but accidentally become babble, and a gentle hand swept his cheekbone, cradling his cheek. Lucy had flitted silently to the window, eyes blazing, and stood close before him. He could feel the heat from her body through his thin shirt, a whisper of space between them. She stood on tiptoe and pulled his forehead to hers, noses brushing. The trace of her finger across his lower lip sent sparks arcing down his spine.

“You are a huge idiot.”

Her breath ghosted across the minute distance between them, and he couldn’t bear the separation a moment longer. Not when her waist was so perfectly rounded against his hand, soft and strong beneath his fingers. Not when his arm fitted just so around her back, an anchor against the buffeting world. Not when her body curved so intimately against his, pressing close enough to feel the vitality of each other’s breathing.

“The biggest, most colossal, supremely idiotic idiot in all of history. I’m not going anywhere, Lockwood. I love it here. I don’t want to leave Lockwood and Co. I don’t want to leave you. I’m not quite sure how it happened, exactly, but I think you might be my home.”

Tilting forward, Lucy – fearless, headstrong, magnificent – closed the last remaining scrap of space between them. Her lips were soft and warm on his, sweet and sure, and Lockwood felt his greedy heart reach out through his ribcage and into hers, each countless invisible thread binding them together now completed and indissoluble. He kissed her back, eliciting a tiny gasp which sent lightening down to his very core, and pulled her closer, not a breath between them, to lose himself in the feel of her.

Time passed and snow fell. Lockwood pulled back enough to take in the bewitching sight of Lucy’s cherry-red lips and flushed cheeks. Her eyes shone. He never wanted to look away.

“I don’t know what comes next, Luce, but I know this. I want to find out with you.”

She smiled widely, one hand resting so naturally over his heart that he could burst.

“Of course. Because you’re my idiot.”

He curled his long fingers around hers, pressing their clasped hands against his chest.

“Because I’m your idiot.”