A/N: Can I just say thank you so much.
The past two months have been close to hell for me, what with all my tests, and the stress was almost overwhelming and I didn't feel like writing, at all. I realized, though, that I'd have to get back to this eventually, and so I checked my story stats and guess what I found?
164 reviews, 42 follows, 31 favorites and 9k views.
It's increased since then, and you have no idea how much motivation it gave me to write. Thanks you all, SO MUCH. You're all amazing people and I hope you're having a GREAT 2016 so far, and if you aren't, then I really hope it gets better! Aaaaah *insert heart emoji here*
20
Lockwood and George returned about two hours after my arrival at Portland Row. I became aware of their entry, sitting at the foot of the staircase, due to the turning of the key in the keyhole, the swift creak as the door swung open, and the loud slam that reverberated through the halls and sent ancient relics shuddering as the door banged behind them.
They did not look happy.
I half-stumbled through the hall, wondering what all the noise was about, when I saw a very, irritated Lockwood and disgruntled, disheveled George hanging their coats on the rack.
"How did it go?" I asked carefully.
"Bloody brilliant," Lockwood said. "No, while Kipps and his rubbish team are going off this night to actually search for the ghosts, we're going to be sitting and filing reports, and scanning the archives. And they're getting in on all the action. And at the end of the day, if they do find a Type Three, then guess who's going to be getting all the credit? Not us, I'll give you that!"
I bit my lip. "You didn't find anything?"
"Not at all. I don't know what they even expect us to find."
I did.
He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and when he opened them he looked a little less frustrated. "How about you, Luce? How was your day?"
I gave a wan smile. "Boring," I said. "I was sleeping most of the time."
That was untrue.
After I'd left Sykes' place, I'd walked down the street to collect my thoughts. I'd brushed over the memories of my conversations with Ernest- and Marissa Fittes. It was all so annoying. Why couldn't they have just come clean about who they were? And all that 'jeopardize the Finality' rubbish wasn't that good of an answer anymore. According to them, anything I did would jeopardize the Finality, and I'd already done countless things. The next time I saw them in my dreams, I was going to have a word with Marissa.
I had stopped in my place as I remembered the previous dream I'd had.
"Lucy!" Ernest cried, or at least, seemed to. "Tom Rotwell's descendant."
"What about him?"
"One of your cases! He was the ghost in one of your very, very recent cases! That thief who murdered the guy!"
"What?" Then it dawned on me. "Not the old couple? The Raw-Bones? The one whose Source was a bunch of notes and letters?"
"He's the descendant! His Source is the key!"
And I understood. I'd have to stop the papers from being incinerated- that is, if they weren't already.
"The Source isn't incinerated," the female Visitor said, guessing my thoughts. "It's scheduled for destruction tomorrow. That's why you've to get there first."
Tomorrow? ...Wait, 'tomorrow' had been days ago!
I had stood there dumbly for a second, then sprinted along the street, waving my hands about, finally managing to hail a taxi as the initial stages of panic began to settle in.
"The Fittes Headquarters, please!" I'd gasped as I dove into the backseat.
During the journey, I'd pondered more about Ernest's words. The descendant of Tom Rotwell? He had all the answers, to the Other Place, and the Finality?
I had felt a sickening lurch in my stomach as I wondered if I was too late.
The journey seemed to stretch on forever, and I found myself tapping my foot anxiously on the floor, wanting to get to the Headquarters as fast as I could and find out the truth- had it been incinerated? Or had it been pushed back among the vast numbers of Sources that the Headquarters collected every day, queued for destruction according to their different levels of danger?
When I finally reached, I was in such a hurry to speed through the doors that I nearly forgot to pay the cab driver. I'd then marched towards the enormous, pristine glass building resembling a modern-day castle before I remembered-
-Lockwood & Co. and Kipps' team were searching for Type Threes.
I bit my lip. That was a problem I had forgotten. How would I manage to avoid all of them? They'd be lurking around somewhere, on the streets, in the archives, in the artifacts room...
I inhaled sharply. This was no time to think about that. I'd have to get the Source back now, or I never would. I'd just have to go with the flow, and try to remain as inconspicuous as possible. I didn't look like myself at all, actually, with disheveled hair and a rumpled shirt and leggings, lacking my rapier and skirt. No, I looked like an ordinary passerby. That would help.
I sped inside, quickly scanning and rescanning the lobby to see if anyone I knew was present. Nobody. I walked over to the receptionist.
"Can I see the list for the schedule of the incineration of Sources?" I asked, stumbling over my words in a hurry to get the papers and get out of there. To my intense annoyance, I notice that it was the same grouchy woman we'd met earlier- Lauren.
"No," she said sourly. "Do you have a license?"
"No, but-"
"Have you been given special orders by Madam Penelope Fittes?"
"No, but-"
"Are you with DEPRAC?"
"No!" I nearly yelled, almost slamming the desk in frustration. "I'm with an agency!"
She surveyed me with a reproachful glance, taking in my shabby state. "I see," she said, not sounding impressed at all.
"I'm Lucy Carlyle," I said. "Penelope Fittes has allowed Lockwood & Co. to come as they please. I need to see the schedule."
She sighed, perhaps remembering our first encounter. She hesitantly pulled out a thick wad of sheets from a drawer, handing the file to me with great reluctance, as though I'd suddenly rip it into shreds and flee.
I quickly flipped open to the latest few entries, my eyes darting down the page as I searched for any keywords related to chest of yellowed papers. I grew more confident as I didn't see it in the previous pages, meaning it hadn't already been destroyed. When I reached the last page, I felt relieved.
Raw Bones. Source: Bundle of papers and envelopes. Not sure which is Source. Destruction: 2 p.m. Being held in Room 12.
I'd been saved by the delay of its elimination. Its time had been shifted to tomorrow.
I nearly threw the file down, feeling much better, and grinning at the half-disgusted, half-confused receptionist. "Thanks!" I said, then added, "This meeting never happened. It's confidential, only between the two of us." I doubted that she'd comply to my request, but who could she tell? Lockwood? Her dislike for him equaled her dislike for me. She had nobody to report to. I took off at top speed, rushing towards the elevator. I slid in and pressed the button reading Furnaces. I waited for the doors to close, and they began to, but to my horror, two people entered the lift just in time.
Namely, Kipps and Godwin.
Panic coursed through me as they neared, and I instantly dropped to the ground, pretending that I'd dropped something, and searched the floor for it. I waited for the, "What the bloody hell are you doing here?" signifying my discovery, but it didn't come. It had worked. They hadn't recognized me.
I straightened, turning my face and brushing my hair all over my cheeks to avoid further detection. I was still panicking. It was a tiny elevator and just the three of us were in it. Not to mention, it was slow.
Kipps and Godwin, I noticed, were snarking about our team. I was tempted to strangle them both then and there, but what was the point? I let out a slow, silent exhale as the elevator reached the floor they were supposed to stop at- Extensive Research- and they walked out without a backwards glance.
The elevator continued its descent towards the furnaces. Once I reached, I exited, noticing the sudden increase in temperature from the heat of the furnace somewhere in the hall. I walked the corridors, reading the different labels above rooms. Room 1, 2, 3... I didn't stop until I found Room 12, and making sure no one was watching, I darted in.
It was huge. That was the downside.
I spent at least fifteen minutes in there, searching the shelves with my eyes. I whipped around in panic at the slightest of sounds, extremely worried that somebody would enter, see me, and raise the alarm. My heart hammered in my chest, and I made a mental note to try and calm down or I'd have a stroke from all the time my blood pressure raised. Not now, though. Now, I was alert, not an inch of the cabinets going unnoticed by my keen eyes. When I finally did find the Source, I noted that it was held in a chest, trapped within the glass division of one of the cases. My hand inched towards the glass, dragged the panel sideways-
-And the security alarm went off.
I hadn't noticed the keycard scanner next to the shelves which I supposed disabled the alarm for a while, and so when I'd opened the case, the burglar alerts started shrieking like electrocuted cats. Cold fear seized me and I grabbed the chest without thinking, undoing the clasp with shaky fingers, seizing all the notes and letters and stuffing them into my boots. I sped out of the room faster than light. The elevator had stopped working; it was on lockdown because I'd triggered it. The stairs were free, though, so I bolted up them, three at a time. My heart nearly stopped as I spotted two Fittes guards running towards me.
They were about to yell out at me to stop, to interrogate me, when I quickly yelled, "I think I saw someone down there nicking something! I came to call you!"
They didn't hesitate, speeding straight past me and down the stairs. Thanking my lucky stars, and their impulsive, not well thought-out decision of not second-guessing me, I dashed up the next flight of stairs, reached the lobby, where officials were panicking and yelling. Guards barricaded the doors. I desperately searched the room, looking for some way I could get out- and found the fire exit. I could see that there were more guards rushing towards it to cover it as well.
Now or never.
I sprinted faster than I'd ever sprinted before, adrenalin coursing through my veins, towards the fire exit. I threw open the door and saw that there was a flight of stairs that led underground, the light diminishing as the steps spiraled downwards. I could hear alarmed yells behind me, possibly from the guards, and I ran even faster, my feet barely touching the steps as I sped down them. I finally reached the underground base and continued running at breakneck speed, not letting momentum catch me, till I could see a small dot of light ahead, signaling that I'd be coming back above ground into the open city.
There were footsteps behind me, and I could hear them getting closer. They were faster than I was, but I was getting close. I dashed up the slope and was met by blinding sunlight and the loud bustle of crowds around me. I was thankful, for once, that it was so packed. I pushed past people, not daring to look back, till I found myself on the side of the street, running along until I finally found a taxi and hailed it. Gasping for breath, I gave directions to Portland Row to the driver so that I could go home. I slammed the door shut and we drove off, but I was at peace of mind only after we'd turned three corners and the stitch in my side was occupying my attention more than the actual prospect of getting caught by bloodthirsty Fittes officials.
I'd done it.
I let out a deep, loud, shaky exhale and slunk down in my seat.
The cab driver glanced at me in the rear-view mirror with a half-cautious, half-questioning look, asking nervously, "Are you alright, miss?"
I was at home now, and I'd washed up, but that underlying sense of worry hadn't left me for one second. I kept expecting some authority to show up at our doorstep and burst in, claiming that they'd uncovered me as the culprit and cuff my hands and put me behind bars for life. I'd wondered, pathetically, what my mother's reaction would be to see me on television: Lucy Carlyle, age 16, sentenced to imprisonment for life for breaking into the Fittes Headquarters and stealing official documents. She'd probably come all the way to London just to throttle me.
Now that Lockwood and George were home, though, I felt much better, much more relaxed. I knew they'd never let Fittes take me without putting up a fight.
They had finished freshening up and were in considerably lighter moods now.
"Do you know," Lockwood said, "That at Fittes, somebody stole something? I don't know what it was, but the fool triggered the alarm, and the entire facility was on lockdown for two whole hours. Apparently the thief had bolted out the fire exit, and the guards hadn't been able to catch him."
"Really?" I feigned shock. "That's something!"
Lockwood grinned. "I know! They didn't even get close to catching the culprit! I heard that only some papers were stolen. They say that the burglar was a girl with short, dark hair. That's all they know- they don't even have any leads!"
I felt a bit relaxed on hearing that. Now I could rest, assured that I wouldn't be caught.
"That fellow must be daft, stealing from Fittes. If she's caught, she'll never be let out of jail. Why on earth didn't she disable the burglar alarm first? That's what any trained criminal would do." George had settled on the couch, munching a doughnut that he must've stolen from the kitchen.
"Well," I said, allowing myself to bask in just this one moment of vain pride, "she must've been really clever, to evade Fittes completely."
A/N: So how was it for a comeback?
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-Artemis