The Lockwood & Co. team trudged along the marina. George sagged, and his glasses were crooked over his pudgy nose, and his hair stuck out in all directions. In other words, not much different from normal. I, myself, had sweat in all sorts of unusual places, and there was mud covering my boots and leggings all the way up to my knees. Even Lockwood radiated a sense of weariness.

We'd had to deal with a low a level Shade which had been scaring some kids, but it had taken all night, and digging for the Source in the riverside mud was about as much fun as standing South of George when he bent over. Or perhaps as fun as having an evil skull communicate with you, and then clam up the minute there's an audience.

"I need a bath," George said, which raised the eyebrows of both Lockwood and me. It had been a long night.

A small tourist boat pulled in at the dock, releasing a stream of brightly colored Hawaiian shirts, sunglasses, and 'I ❤️ London' tees. It was an early summer day, and tourist season was just getting underway. But it always bewildered me as to why people would want to travel, what with Problem and all.

We veered toward the beginning of the buildings to avoid the flood of people in the marina. I looked back as the they spilled onto the dock. Two in particular made me pause. I nudged Lockwood. George walked into me and banged me on the rear with his heavy rucksack filled with ghost-hunting tools.

"Why are we stopping?" he said, cleaning his glasses on his shirt in his irritated way.

I pointed at two ladies. One was young, easily young enough to be a psychic agent, probably no older then twelve. She had big, rectangular glasses—not quite as thick-lensed as George's—that she wore high on the bridge of her nose, which was upturned and spattered with freckles, like splatters of mud. She wore baggy black cargo pants that bunched up at her ankles, giving an exhibition of her sho stature. The pockets bulged like they were full of grapefruits. Her top was an ultra-unflattering men's Hawaiian shirt covered in fluorescent flamingos, but it was obvious she had on a long-sleeve black shirt underneath that hugged her like seal-skin.

The other one was probably twenty, judging by her womanly build and the motherly way she kept checking to see if the younger one was still by her side. But her face was stuck in the awkward teen years. She had the same upturned nose, but instead of freckles, she was splotched red and purple with acne. Her wispy brown hair poofed out under the band of her shocking pink visor, looking like Albert Einstein struck by lightning. She wore a form-fitting 'I ❤️ London' tee, sporting an obnoxious rendition of Big Ben overtop a gauzy white peasant skirt. Strangely enough, as it buffeted around her legs, the skirt reminded me of a Cold Maiden standing by a dark, lonely roadside.

None of this may seem strange enough to catch my attention, but the thing that did was the fact they were carrying huge duffle-bags, much like ours, weighted down with much more than you would need for a short boat ride down the Thames. And they were following someone.

"Agents?" I said to Lockwood without looking at him.

"Maybe. Agent and adult supervisor? But I don't recognize them."

George poked his head between us. "It would be hard to recognize anyone in those get-ups. Who are they following?"

They were in stealthy pursuit of a woman in her thirties who was dressed smartly in slacks and a button-down blouse. But there was something rumpled in her appearance and the way she walked in a sort of drifting, aimless way. If it wasn't broad daylight, I would've mistaken her for a Visitor. I caught sight of the front of her blouse as she passed. The top buttons were misallaided, creating a pucker of fabric with an empty button-hole over her chest.

"Let's follow them," Lockwood said. As soon as the woman and her colorfully dressed stalkers passed and were at a safe distance, Lockwood strode off in brisk pursuit. Already, the weariness of our night's task had shed from him. George and I fell into step behind him.