We thought it was over. How naive of us.
Finally, we could venture out at dusk, only a few wisps of mist and other light to be seen. No more outbreaks of deadly proportions. No more silent spectors stalking the streets at twilight. Ghosts were now slowly fading back into the past where they belonged.
Our rapiers lay unused in the umbrella stand, spiders spinning webs in their ornate handles and our kit bags sat disgruntled in the corner gathering dust. The casebook sat neglected in the office, the last case dating back three months before. (It had been a small shade, nothing of any major excitement) . the office itself, was rarely entered, used mainly for storage now.
Lockwood had started working on transferring agencies into law or research fields. George had begun work on his first volume of research on The Problem, set to be published in the spring. Holly and Kipps had stopped coming into work as agents, stopping by only in the afternoons to play cards and have a cup of tea. I spent most nights at home, managing to get normal hours of sleep as I was no longer chasing visitors all over London. It had been two years since we closed the gate to the Other Side. We thought a new leaf had been turned over. We thought it was over.
Then Barnes called.
I remember that day vividly. No amount of concentration could ever dispel it from my mind. We were sitting in chairs in the library, tea and cake on the table, books or magazines occupying our time. The warm summer sunshine trickling through the window, setting the glass in George's spectacles and the smooth wood varnish on the furniture sparkling. George was working on his writing, Holly was peacefully reading and Lockwood lay curled on the couch. I listened to Kipps snore in the corner.
I closed my eyes, sighing happily. Anthony was -despite his best efforts and because of mine- still alive. The Problem was melting away like snow come spring's warm sun. A comfortable warmth blanketed us.
Then the phone rang, which disturbed the atmosphere greatly. Lockwood groaned, extracting himself from the thick red blanket we had curled under and stumbled into the hall. I slowly, groggily sat up right, my hair a thick brown curtain over my eyes.
We hardly had any clients now, the only interviews we had these days were with reporters on our thoughts about the Problem. "Wouldn't we miss working?' "What would the agencies do now?" "What if the problem returned?"
I had let Lockwood take these questions. The truth was, yes, I would miss the tang of steel on ectoplasm. No, I didn't know what we would do. I felt like a part of me, the only piece I was happy with, the thing that made me confident in my own skin, had been ripped away.
Who was I if not, Lucy Carlyle, psychic agent and speaker to type-three ghosts? I was adrift at sea, a little ship tossed on the waves.
Pushing my hair out of my face, I sighed. I needed a cup of tea. No sooner had the tea been poured and adequate amounts of sugar and cream been added did Anthony return, a hardened expression chiseled onto his face. His face was lined, it had been for as long as I had known, prematurely aged from years of hard work and burdens placed on his shoulders early. And now, he looked as if another weight had been placed on his back.
"Lucy?" he said.
"Yes?"
"We need to go to France."
Kipps snorted, sitting up abruptly. George dropped his pen, sending it clattering across the hardwood. Holly looked up from her book, her eyes wide with shock.
Me? I took a sip of my tea.
"Really? How nice?" I looked up at him. "And why do we need to go to France?"
With Lockwood, you have to act unconcerned when he makes very surprising declarations like that. It annoys him and lowers the melodrama during the rest of the conversation.
Lockwood sat down beside me on the sofa. "That was Barnes on the phone. The Problem, it's moved. "
I placed my hands around the teacup, savoring the warmth ebbing from it.
"Let me finish my tea before we go," I said. "I doubt the French know how to make a proper cup."