Lockwood sagged blearily into a chair.
Or at least something bearing a passing resemblance to Anthony Lockwood did. But the puffy eyes - the disheveled dressing gown - the lank hair - how could this be our Lockwood, composed and elegant even when fighting Visitors? This morning his dark eyes did not shine; his brow was uncharacteristically bare.
Lockwood's debonair persona was practically our trademark and George and I shielded ourselves behind it almost instinctively. Talent, brains and bravery notwithstanding, it was Lockwood's ineffable charm that carried us through doors like Ms. Hickham-Holt's.
Lockwood's condition was more than puzzling, given his usual state of self-possession and the relatively easy night we'd had. George and I exchanged glances; I frowned quizzically. Lockwood started to speak, but his words deteriorated into a yawn.
Both George and I had woken earlier than usual, as a consequence of getting to bed well before midnight. The unseasonable weather was holding; we were promised a bright and sunny Saturday. When I came downstairs a sloppily but nevertheless fully dressed George informed me that he was making omelets, so I had agreed to head over to Afir's to pick up the donuts.
George was still sautéing mushrooms when I returned, and while I cleared off the table and swept the crumbs from the Thinking Cloth I told him about the two little girls I had just seen walking a Corgi down Portland Row. George moved on to chopping ham and I knew we were both mulling over last night's job, each in our own fashion - that is, George was probably contemplating the ramifications of the Corgi's presence on several leading theories explaining co-incident hauntings; I was thinking that we ought to get a dog.
By the time Lockwood stumbled downstairs, George and I were arguing mindlessly but heatedly about whether puppies or kittens were cuter.
We had broken it off in surprise when Lockwood slouched in, looking thoroughly knackered. Now he was seated, holding his face in his hands, making a vague scrubbing motion. "I couldn't sleep. Ridiculous weather. Nothing proper to wear."
"Lockwood, you do know you're still in your nightclothes?" I asked pointedly, still slightly shocked by his appearance but more than ready to worry him a little, like a spaniel who's finally caught a long-pursued squirrel. "If getting properly dressed was your aim, you haven't succeeded, at all."
"Yes, what are you moaning on about?" asked George, in a derisive tone, taking a bite of a jam-filled donut and dusting his other hand on his sweatpants.
"I have - I have hot pajamas," Lockwood mumbled.
George made a vastly entertaining noise somewhere between retching and hooting, which resulted in a formidable spray of donut bits lodging on the front of his shirt, where they must have felt right at home among other debris and detritus.
Now, I never giggle. It's a very undignified noise. Under these circumstances, however, I felt giggling was acceptable, perhaps even required. I giggled. Then I giggled again, with more intensity and noticeably less control.
"Sorry, what did you just say?" I managed to blurt out.
"Hot pajamas. My pajamas are hot. They make me hot," he flailed.
Lockwood was blushing.
The more he tried to explain, the harder George and I laughed.
"This weather is beastly and quite inappropriate and it seems I've grown so that my summer pajamas don't fit at all comfortably and so last night I attempted to wear the new autumn set but they're..." He tried to talk over us, trailed off. Lockwood's voice was unsure in a way I had not heard from him before
"I couldn't sleep," he repeated. "Barely slept a wink all night," he finished a little more firmly, attempting to regain a bit of his typical demeanor but somehow sounding instead like a proper matron.
George, too, seemed suddenly serious, wiping his mouth with the back of his left hand and pushing his glasses up on his nose with the other. "Why yes sir," he said, "please do tell us more about these hot pajamas that kept you up all night. Lucy, make a sketch. Satin? Silk? Leopard-print spandex?"
George's intent gaze and the scrunchy wriggling motions of his hands that accompanied his questions set me off again. I was laughing so hard I couldn't breathe, laughing so hard I had to hug myself to keep my sides from aching, laughing so hard I couldn't laugh any more. I laid my head down on the table and massaged my aching jaw.
And when I looked up Lockwood was gone.
