Chapter 10: "It hit me, later, what the strange tone in Lockwod's voice had been. Disappointment."

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The realization weighed in me like a stone.

I stood on the pavement; hands jammed in pockets, watching the bright yellow cab wriggle its way through London traffic before disappearing down a side street.

I had taken things a little too far.

If I ever were to make things plain to George, I had planned to do it meticulously. Cleverly. In a way that would make his jaw drop and his mind explode from my astounding wit.

Not like this. Not like how I had done.

Especially not with Lockwood there.

Dammit.

I hadn't really meant the part about George leaving. Sure, George Cubbins could be a pain in the backside sometimes—always—but . . . it wasn't enough to make me want him gone forever.

I watched cars cruise by with a sense of absence. The two of them would never forgive me, would they? After what I'd said, I couldn't blame them. But then what would happen? Maybe . . . maybe I had to start searching for other job options. I'd pack up my things in a little duffel, say good-bye to my room . . . maybe to the boys if they cared enough to send me off . . . scrape the beautiful emblazoned Lockwood & Co symbol from my rapier—

I pressed my eyelids together forcefully and stopped the beginnings of a warm tear.

Overreacting. Calm down. They wouldn't send me packing. We were friends, no matter what. I was sorry for how I had been acting the whole week, but I'd been trying out theories in my mind, trying to solve Matthew's case, and I'd been too busy with the past to truly appreciate Lockwood and George. Just last night, George had made a superb cake, vanilla with caramel frosting, and he'd called it the 'Carl-amel'. I hadn't had a bite.

A gentle hand on my arm startled me. "Lucy?"

Meredith Watson. I'd forgotten about her, and right now I could care less about her. I didn't turn around.

"It's cold out here. I saw your friends . . . how should I put this . . . leave? Are you all right?"

All right? With Matthew pressing in on my mind, George and Lockwood as well, and the case pursuing the boy's death soon to be dropped, I felt wrung out. Stretched. Strained. So no, Meredith Watson, I'm far from all right.

"Lucy Carlily?" Her clarinet of a voice asked again.

"Carlyle." Chin up now, don't go boo-hooing on a stranger. I straightened my shoulders before turning around. "And I'm fine."

"You don't look fine." Meredith Watson looked back at me in concern as her wooly red scarf whipped back and forth in the wind.

I heaved a sigh and decided to trust this woman for a moment, if only to expect a truthful answer for a question. "My face is all scarlet and blotchy, isn't it?"

"Well . . . yes."

"Figures." I scrubbed away at my face, cursing under my breath.

"Look, that's just going to make it worse." Meredith shivered. "Why won't you come over to my place and we'll make soup or something?"

I lowered my hands. The prospect of a warm haven and soup was calling to me, and I was still feeling in a tearful state. Plus, Meredith's eyes were a protective gray, an understanding gray. I could talk at her all I wanted, and did I need someone to talk to.

Reason before needs, however. Sometimes I really hate my conscience.

Meredith's eyes found my suspicious ones. She smiled brightly. "Tomato soup and a conversation. How does that sound?"

And that's how I ended up following Meredith Watson home.

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"Is it warm enough? Do you like it?" Meredith hovered around me like a mother bird, the pot of soup still in her hand. A bit sloshed out onto the table and she took a moment to dab ferociously at the drops. It only ended up smeared into the pale wood, and she gave up before returning to the kitchen. "So? Lucy?"

"It's fine. Thank you." I sat stiffly in my chair, now doubting my decision. What had I been thinking to come home with a total stranger? Lockwood was always reprimanding me for my impulsiveness; I slumped down and glowered at the table. It stung a bit to know that he was right.

We were in Meredith's dining room, seated around a small circular table with a bowl of fruit and a jug of cider in the center. The lights above buzzed droningly. An open window off to the side let in both the light and waves of cold.

My hands were still freezing as they cradled the bowl; I cupped them around the edge, soaking in the heat, and watched Meredith Watson sit primly across from me. Another spoonful of soup later and we were staring at each other over our bowls, steam wafting into our faces.

"You looked deathly cold out there." Meredith smiled awkwardly. "The wind?"

"Yeah."

"More soup?"

"No thanks."

An awkward pause.

"So . . ." She leaned forward and cupped her chin in her hand. "How are you liking your job, Lucy . . . Carlynn?"

"Er . . . it's Carlyle," I said immediately, trying to keep from gritting my teeth. "And I love it, I guess."

"You guess."

"It can be a pain sometimes, even literally, but . . ." I sighed. "The agency is my life."

"The agency. And the two boys you were bickering with outside are in it with you?" She patted her lips with a soft napkin.

I gripped my spoon harder and stared into my soup. "Yes. Yes, they are."

"Now, forgive me if I am a bit forward, but . . . what were you fighting about?" Her gray eyes examined me with quizzical interest; something glinted within, and I shivered momentarily.

"We . . ." How was I supposed to explain that we were arguing over her? "It was case business."

"Case business." She raised her eyebrows. I shrugged. "And . . . how is the case going with my cousin's son? You saw his ghost back at her house. I read it in the paper."

Another shrug, this time a bit more stiffly.

"And Lockwood and Co. had Carla put under suspicion for his death, am I right?" Meredith leaned over her soup, gray eyes hard.

I swallowed.

"Am I right?"

No going back now. "Yes," I said, equally as waspishly, "but we had our reasons." I pushed back from the table, the legs of the chair screeching over the glossy kitchen floor. "Thank you for having me. I'll be going n—"

"Listen." Meredith took my hands in hers. They were hot and clammy from making soup, calloused and worn as well. "It wasn't my cousin, Lucy. She would never. Understand? Never. The two of them were the sweetest pair you could imagine."

I said nothing.

"There." Meredith Watson let me go and crossed her arms. We surveyed each other. Then she broke out into a strained sort of smile. "Now, aside from these uncomfortable topics"—we both chuckled awkwardly—"How is life in general?"

What kind of question was that?

"Life is all right. Could be better."

"Anything . . . romantic?"

I goggled at her.

"Romantic?"

"You know . . . boys. You're old enough," Meredith said thoughtfully. "I've always been an old maid."

"Boys—no!" I was probably flushing bright red. "I . . . no." A brief vision of Lockwood flashed through my mind, delicately picking a leaf out of my hair, his face bent close to my shoulder; I bent close to my soup and purposefully slurped at it loudly.

"You're blushing. Come on, tell."

"I won't." I didn't even bother to deny it this time, which surprised even me. Could it be . . .? No. Not Lockwood. Someone else, not a colleague, not him—

"What about that tall, skinny boy in your agency? What was his name again?" Meredith teased. "Anthony Lockwood? The fearless leader types, then; do you like them?"

"I-gosh, no . . . I mean . . . er . . ."

And so the morning passed this way. I didn't bother mentioning the excellent change in conversation.

Once the clock had crawled towards late noon, we were sitting on the couch beside the open window, sunshine crawling along the carpet.

"Tell me, what is it like, your agency?"

"My agency? The people in it, you mean?"

"Yes."

I paused. Thought. What were they like?

"Lockwood is the leader. George is the cranky researcher. And I'm . . . me."

It was pitiful, but it felt wrong to try to describe it to her. She just didn't know. Didn't know how it felt to trust your back to these people as you entered a haunted building. Didn't know how we had sat around various kitchen tables over the years, chatting as lantern light flickered. Didn't know how we each mentally counted down the days together, waiting anxiously, with dread in our hearts, for the day that our Talents would leave us and Lockwood & Co. would be no more. It was something different. It was a bond.

A bond. It couldn't be easily broken. And if it were, it could be healed.

I stood up abruptly. "I'm sorry, but I've got to go. There're . . . things I've need to do."

Meredith didn't blink an eye. She showed me to the door. "Good bye, Lucy Carleen."

I didn't bother correcting her this time.

Once outside, standing forlornly on the curb, I somehow managed to hail a cab. A grizzled man turned around in the driver's seat. "Where to, missy?"

"35 Portland Row, please." I turned my head to look out the window. "Home."