I am the seventh daughter of a seventh daughter. It might also interest you to know that amongst that cast various of my clan, there has not been a single boy born for more than a hundred years. This means growing up was, for me, rather female-centric.

I'm thinking right about now that fifty percent of women reading this will see this as a utopia. "How lovely to be born into a real sisterhood!"

The other fifty percent are correct. It was absolutely vile.

The few men allowed into that existence tended to range from one extreme to the other. Either they were strong alpha males who immediately whisked their new partner away from the family cauldron (with or without fisticuffs), or they were quiet pliable types who were easily controlled and took a nice background seat to do as they were told.

A third type also existed.

They drank.

That group included my father. There might have been a few fisticuffs there as well, although I was too young to properly notice and he died when I was six.

My first real experience of my male peers was during my early years at school. The local village primary school was a decent enough co-ed, with a mix of pupils, though most of them seemed only slightly better adjusted than my own family.

Having such a rich selection of females at home to observe, I was quick to spot familiar character traits in my female classmates. There was the class princess – all pretty dresses and patent leather shoes. The class flirt – playing 'kiss chase' with the boys in the playground, aged six. See also, the sporty one – with a left foot better than half of the local under-9 boys' football team, and the posh/rich one – "my dad's just bought a new insert latest gadget/car/holiday home".

I avoided all of them.

That's not to say I spent all of my time with the boys at school, either. I wasn't brave enough to run with the equivalent sets of male personalities, though I became quite proficient at identifying their types too. The Alpha Male whose father was something big in the local area and, therefore, ran the playground like his own personal business. His "enforcers" who, in the face of their own inadequacies, adopted the "be a bully or be bullied" approach to friendship. The sporty male, who was only interested in you if you possessed a leather football (positive reaction) or happened to accidentally stand in the way of the fake goal during his shining moment as he lined up for an equaliser (definitely not positive).

My position in the classroom hierarchy was rather grey. I had a few friends, male and female, but like me they were outsiders and none of us were particularly close.

When I look back on those times, I realise now that many of that small group were "talented" in some way, but we rarely spoke about it, because it was as polarising as the colour of your skin or your family's faith (if you had one). You might have thought that children with talent were lauded and popular amongst their peers, like in the richer areas of the country. Instead in the poorer section we were held at arms' length and pitied.

Your lot in life was still based on your family's wealth, whether you were talented or not.

If you were wealthy and not talented, throughout your life you could afford to pay for gadgets or sensitives to warn you, and (if necessary) the best agencies to protect you.

If you were wealthy and talented, your parents sent you to expensive schools where you learned to be useful in safely-controlled environments – that usually involved very little contact with actual Visitors.

Middle Class kids with particularly strong talents were scooped up from schools on a scholarship programme and placed in the regional offices of agencies such as Fittes' and Rottwell; Agencies which were well-equipped with decent training, and good employment benefits.

If you were poor and not talented, often the need for money outweighed the self-preservation aspect. For example, where companies required workers to complete night shifts the pay was significantly higher, which was attractive when you were struggling to pay the bills. But you were at the mercy of the company when it came to health and safety. A good company would employ sensitives to guard the site, and night buses to ferry you home. Most companies, however, did the minimum the law required.

If you were poor and talented, like me, you got hoiked out of school at 13 and placed with some local agency for training. The Child Agent Protection act (2000) prohibited children under the age of 13 from being signed up with an agency full-time, but some agencies found a way around this with a junior cadet programme. In that respect I was lucky, Jacobs did have some scruples, and he refused to have a junior cadet programme. This was probably because he was too lazy to set one up of course, but as the only agency in the area, it meant my mother had to wait until I was 13 before she could start earning money from me fighting ghosts.

Depending on the quality of their training and the strength of their talent, in the regions of the UK, the average life expectancy for an agent ranged from six months to three years. That impacted the way people viewed us poor, talented children. No one wanted to make friends with people who attracted ghosts and were likely to die before they turned 17.

I started people-watching in primary school, learning to understand the people who didn't want to know me. I was well-versed in the basics of character assessment when I joined Jacobs. Providing social commentary on our peers and elders was one of the ways Norrie and I initially bonded.

It was Norrie who helped me navigate the tricky territory of being a young pubescent female working alongside equally pubescent teenaged boys. It turns out rapiers are good for rousting more than just ghosts! There were some nice guys amongst my team at Jacobs, though. Norrie steered me away from the worst of the bunch, allowed me to interact with the more respectful lads, like Paul. But, by the time they started to properly notice me, I was developing my skills as an agent, and starting to love the job. I was not interested in them or "romance".

It took Lockwood to change all that.

Why am I talking about me and boys?

Because the lunchtime after the Hospital case, George and I met for lunch.

Just the two of us.

George Karim.

"Georgie."

Or on occasion: "FFS! George Karim, will you please put some bloody clothes on!" (That's usually from Lockwood, but I am in total agreement).

George is, without question, the first platonic male friend who I can honestly say I love like a brother. There is a saying, "You can choose your friends, but you can't choose your family."

I disagree.

I have chosen George and he has chosen me. We are family. Whilst it wasn't the smoothest of beginnings for us, we know now exactly what we mean to each other, and God help anyone who comes between us!

It's nice to be wanted, although George probably has similar thoughts about doughnuts.

George does not follow any of the categories of males (or females) that I've just talked about. He is simply George. Quirky, stubborn, loyal, intelligent like you wouldn't believe…in short, he is perfect. I wouldn't change him for the world. Though it would be nicer if he changed his socks and his bedlinen a little more frequently.

He describes himself as a weirdo. I think he's the most grounded of the lot of us.

I can't remember exactly which of us suggested we met for lunch that day. We didn't do it very often, but it wasn't the first time.

The first time I remember very well. It was after George took us to the British Archives to research Annabel's ghost. As I recall, Lockwood paid for that meal, even though he didn't come with us, but it was a turning point for Lockwood and Co. We only ate pizza, and we sat in the street, but George and I finally talked to each other, properly, and it turned out, we were more in sync than either of us had previously credited.

In the years that followed, we had reprised that meal a few times. Not often, but just often enough that it became something special between us. We used it to reconnect when things had been challenging, when we both needed some time away from Lockwood. As we happily acknowledged to each other, you can have too much of a good thing.

It was a winning formula, that first pizza together, so we never changed it. Same venue, same takeaway pizza. Although we did occasionally go and sit somewhere more salubrious than the street when the opportunity arose.

That lunchtime after the hospital case, I waited outside of the archives as planned, leaning up against the iron railings, watching the stream of agency researchers returning from their lunch breaks. George and I preferred to eat later as it made our conversations less likely to be overheard, and the queue at the pizza place was almost non-existent.

I was on time, for once, having left Portland Row early with Lockwood who was off to Piccadilly for supplies. He knew where I was going, of course. George and I never hid it from him. Any surprise that the arrangement provoked was long gone and Lockwood understood we weren't excluding him. After the Bickerstaff case, I think he was just glad I handled the whole George / pastoral support thing. It was more than that, of course, but that was how Lockwood filed it away in his brain.

'You're early!" George exclaimed from behind me as he skipped down the small flight of stairs. "Who are you, and what did you do with Lucy Carlyle?"

I snorted. "You're late. It's 1.34, George. Did your watch stop?"

With a slight element of panic, George glanced at his watch in horror.

I chuckled. "Gotcha!" I called.

It was actually 1.20.

"You're right! I am early. Blame our illustrious boss." I pushed away from the wall I was resting on and we started walking towards the pizza place.

George frowned. "Since when was Lockwood early for anything?" he asked, confused.

"HE wasn't. He was half an hour later than planned, but that meant it was close enough to my departure time we decided to travel together. How goes the research?"

My companion shifted his rucksack on his back and pushed his glasses up his nose. Then he glanced around to make sure we weren't being overhead.

"Pretty good actually. Obviously, there are lots of varieties of demon documented. Almost as many demons as there are nations, societies, and belief systems. It's important not to look too much at the specifics. Every version has small differences, so if you initially focus too much on one viewpoint, you end up in rabbit holes that lead nowhere. In reality, the best thing to do is to start by looking at what all those belief systems and so on have in common."

"Because if everyone agrees, it's more likely to be factual." I suggested.

"Exactly! You build a picture of canon beliefs." He grinned at me. "Then the next step, which other researchers sometimes miss, is to take those canon beliefs and go back to each belief system to see which one is the closest to the canonical. When you find the most accurate, you can start to look at other aspects of that "faith" to see if you are missing anything."

"And that's working?" I opened a wrought iron gate which led out of the compound. George caught it as it swung shut and followed me.

"Yes, I think it is. I'm a little way off being able to share it with you guys, but there's definite progress." He paused. "We're almost here. Let's grab our pizzas and go and sit on one of those benches."

We did as George suggested, and settled ourselves on an old wooden bench in a small park of the type which was typical in central London.

We had a pizza box each, and two smallish bottles of fizzy drink.

George waited until the pizzas were laid out, and we both had access to drinks.

He picked up a pizza slice, bit into it and, less worried about eating with his mouth full than me, he began to speak.

"Soooo… talking of our revered leader, how is Lockwood?" He asked around his pepperoni and mushroom pizza. "Popped any zits lately?" He wiggled his eyebrows in a disturbing manner.

"George!" I objected. "That's just so…"

"…relevant a question?" He teased, gently.

I snorted. "We are nowhere near that point yet. What about you? How's your acne problem?" I gave him an enquiring look. He shrugged.

"Not getting resolved anytime soon." He said matter-of-factly. Then he blushed. "I was wrong though. Turns out Flo does go in for hand holding." He looked at me shyly. "Please don't tell Lockwood I said that."

I smiled and decided not to tell him that we had watched them both from the window in my bedroom. "It's fine, George. Your secret is safe with me. I'm really pleased that you and Flo have found each other. You both deserve a bit of happiness."

George looked away into the distance. "She's just…she gets me. Don't get me wrong, I like our dynamic too, but Flo…it's on a whole new level." He coughed. "For obvious reasons. I mean…things are different for you and I."

"She's definitely unique." I commented, acknowledging his point, but still unable to reconcile hand-holding with Flo Bones. George nodded.

"Yes, and I get that she's a bit intimidating when you first meet her, but she's so vulnerable really. When you get to know her." I nodded. I couldn't ever see a time where I was close enough to Flo to understand the workings of her mind.

We chewed our pizza slices for a bit. "Lockwood tells me she's been through hell and back. He gave me the potted highlights of… you know."

George nodded. "What happened to her team…" He sighed. "I hope you don't mind, but I told her a bit about your team back home, yesterday. She empathises with you now. I think she feels a bit bad about ragging on you when you first met. I mean you will always be very different characters, but you have something in common, at least. Shared trauma."

Yes. We'd both been the sole survivors of disastrous cases, and we'd both been vulnerable in different ways. Flo had chosen her own path. She was a relic hunter after all. A very opinionated one. I'd stayed on the side of the law, however.

I frowned. Actually, I'd run away from home, lied to Lockwood in my job interview, broken every basic rule of ghost-hunting and burned down a house on my first job. Not to mention I had lied to DEPRAC so many times my tongue should turn black and fall out.

Maybe I didn't exactly have the moral high ground either!

I picked up a stray piece of mushroom and popped it in my mouth.

"When something like that happens, you don't want to talk about it. You turn in on yourself. With me, my outlet was anger and the need to get away. It was different for Flo. She had none of that, only herself."

"And Lockwood. She thinks the world of him, you know. If anyone could have fixed her in that moment, it would have been him. But she needed to work it out herself. We've talked about it, and she says her recovery was only possible because she knew she had Lockwood as a safety net. He gave her a key to Portland Row, told her to come whenever she needed help. It was enough for her to have confidence in herself again." George paused. "I probably shouldn't tell you this, but I think you should know. Flo has been extremely honest with me. If Lockwood had ever shown the slightest inclination towards wanting them to date, Flo would have reciprocated in a heartbeat. But (and this is why you need to know), he never did. Lockwood has always treated her like a sister – as though it was Jessica in that position. Flo thinks he knew how she felt about him, but he knew they were both too damaged, so kept it all excruciatingly polite, made a point of avoiding situations where there could be misunderstandings. She had watched him around other girls, seen the charm wagon rolled out sure enough, but no follow up with any of them. Lockwood never paid serious attention to any of the girls he came across." George paused. "She's right, by the way, I've been around long enough for my observations to agree with Flo.

"She'd almost started to believe that he just wasn't interested in girls full stop." He bit into his pizza. "I agree with her on that too. And then he met you. You were…different."

There was nothing I could say to that.

George was thoughtful. "Much as I love what Flo and I have, happy though I am about you and Lockwood, we're moving to a period of change, Luce. I don't like change."

I smiled softly. "Neither do I, but there is change and then there is change.' I put my slice of pizza down and brushed my hands on my leggings. I reached out and put my hand on his.

"Let's put it this way, I feel the same way about you whether you are in the house or out at the archives. That won't change. You are my chosen brother, George. It doesn't matter where in the world you are. If the change is just about location, it doesn't count." I looked out across the park. "But I think you are being premature. Yes, you and Flo, Lockwood and I are exploring new relationships, but that doesn't change our old ones. And 35, Portland Row is our home. It will always be our home, even if you decide to bugger off and live on a houseboat west of Runnymede. You, like Flo, will always have a key to our house because it is our house. Your room will always be your room and who knows, maybe one day you'll need Jessica's room for a cot."

George's eyes widened in panic. I laughed a deep belly laugh.

"I just thought I'd get that joke in first before you made it about me and Lockwood." I reassured him.

We ate in silence for a while, no doubt each pondering our conversation. When he had finished eating, George stood up, took our food waste, and walked to the nearest bin and deposited it. Then he returned to his seat, and I could almost hear the cogs turning in his mind.

"Lucy," he said eventually. "I…erm…don't really do hugs, as you know. But I think I would really like a hug right now." It was at that point I realised just how unsettled George really was.

Yes, I hugged him. Of course, I did. I was so humbled by the request, unexpected though it was. It brought a lump to my throat, because I would die for this man, yet we rarely ever touched.

It also brought a horrible sense of foreboding. Like the time, a few weeks ago, where George had challenged Sir Rupert Gale, rejoiced in the fact no one had been beaten up, and then promptly been beaten up himself.

Where these fears we had, the uncertainty about the future, where they a portent of challenges ahead?

I dreaded to think.

After we had pulled awkwardly apart, George had sat himself back on the bench. He sipped at his drink and leaned back on the seat.

"I take it Lockwood is behaving himself?" He asked casually. I wondered what he would say or do if I said no. Thankfully, I could answer honestly.

I chuckled. "Like the perfect…" I began.

"…gentleman." We chorused together.

George shook his head. "I can't believe you guys have taken so long to get around to dating."

I shrugged. "We've had other things on our mind since we met, don't forget."

George snorted. "No. You absolutely haven't. Honestly, Luce. Sometimes I've practically had to brain you guys with the ghost jar to get you to see cases, or that we were entering World War three. I'm not even sure that would have stopped you gazing into each other's eyes."

I frowned. "We weren't that bad." I objected.

"Yes, you really are. Why did it take you so long, anyway? It's been obvious to anyone who's seen you together for at least three years now."

I choked. "That's an exaggeration."

George gave me a pointed look.

I sighed. "Look, in my defence, Lockwood is bloody awful when it comes to talking about his feelings. I had no idea how he felt about me for absolutely ages."

George snorted. I carried on.

"Don't forget it took you repeatedly correcting him, every time he called me Miss Carlyle, for him to start using my first name."

We both grinned at the memory. In the early days of our partnership, George had pointedly answered Lockwood whenever he called me Miss Carlyle. It went something like this:

Lockwood: Miss Carlyle, would you mind passing me the orange juice?

George: Her name is Lucy.

OR:

Lockwood: That was the doorbell! Miss Carlyle, please would you do the honours.

George: Lucy, I'm afraid he's talking to you.

OR:

…Well, you get the message.

"George," I decided to change the subject slightly. "What do you think about this whole Jessica business? How do you think she's managed to hide herself for so long?"

His eyes lit up, finally presented with a scholarly question rather than a subject which required empathy. George swivelled round to face me.

"That is an interesting one." He commented. "It's not so much the whole, 'how did she hide herself from us?', so much as a 'how did she hide herself from Lockwood?' I mean, he doesn't need to be a listener to sense her. Their connection is enough. The fact that he didn't spot her. Let's think about it. Before you and I moved in, during that time her death glow was in the room, and he was visiting it regularly, but couldn't sense her. Why?"

I scratched at the side of my head. "That's probably down to the wards and protections he had in place in the room. All that iron, lavender etc. What I don't understand is how she survived us building the gate in her room."

"That is a good one. It implies that she wasn't in the room when we built the gate."

"Her death glow was."

"Ghosts aren't tied to their death glow. They are tied to their sources. We get rid of death glows as a precaution. We get rid of sources as a necessity. Where is Jessica's source?"

"Skull hinted that her source is still around. Even now. So, it wasn't destroyed in the gate. But that would mean that her source wasn't in the room, because we destroyed everything in that room."

George was thoughtful. "We have a period of time where Jessica's source was located in her room, because that is the only explanation for why Lockwood couldn't sense her. But at some point, her source was removed from that room, and still exists. And for some reason, Lockwood still can't sense it. I don't believe for one minute it's talent related. Of course, any other ghost would appear and ghost touch him, but we are talking Jessica. She wouldn't hurt him, and whatever her purpose is, it requires her to stay quiet."

"What have we removed from the room? The cloaks?" I asked. "Surely I would have sensed it?"

"Also, the personal items from Lockwood's parents. I don't mean the souvenirs. I mean their photographs – their personal belongings. Perhaps it's in there." George added.

"Lockwood has most of them in his room now." I pointed out. "Surely, he'd sense something if one of those items were the source. There aren't too many wards in his room. More than there were, but not really enough to stop a brother with talent sensing his sister."

"In which case, that only leaves two items which could be the source." George informed me. He reached out and pointedly lifted the chains which hung around my neck. One of silver and the sapphire necklace. Both had deep connections to Lockwood's family. Both, he had removed from Jessica's bedroom to give to me.

I blinked. "You think one of those is…" I led. My heart sank. I loved those necklaces. I could not destroy them, which would be the only sensible course if they contained Jessica's source. Then I had a thought. "It can't be the silver one." I reminded him. "Ghosts hate the touch of silver."

George was still holding the necklaces. He didn't reply for a minute.

He dropped the chains back into place and looked forward.

"Ghosts don't have a choice in what item becomes their source. It's an automatic process based on the physical object they are most attached to. I presume, that would be one of these necklaces." He squeezed his eyes tight as if deep in thought. Then he released them suddenly.

"But contact is painful for them." I persisted. "Sooo painful."

"Maybe that's why Jessica is quiet. Maybe she's held at bay by the silver necklace."

I shuddered. "What a horrible thought!" I exclaimed. "It must be absolute torture for her." I frowned. "In more ways than one."

George nodded. "Exactly! Regardless of which it is, Lockwood has accidentally gifted you his sister's source. It's hanging round your neck."

He grinned at me. "You might want to remember that next time you two lean in for a kiss."

My eyes widened, and an image of Lockwood and I saying goodnight the previous evening filled my mind. George noticed.

"Possibly a good idea for us to talk to Lockwood about this?" He suggested. "It will be difficult for him, but you don't want to upset Jessica any further."

I swallowed hard. "What do you suggest we do?" I asked.

"Remember Annabel Ward?" He removed his glasses and wiped them on his t-shirt. "Maybe a crack-of-dawn experiment is in order."

I left George to finish up his research for the day and headed towards Piccadilly. Lockwood had suggested we travel home together after his errands, and we were meeting outside Satchells at 2.30pm. George and I debated how to approach this sticky subject with him and came to the conclusion that it should be me who told him.

Or rather, that was what George told me to do.

"Seriously, Luce. He won't want to hear it from anyone other than you. You are his partner, after all."

I'd pulled a face at that. "Yes, and I'd still like to be his partner after he finds out." I pointed out.

George chuckled. "You'll find a way to break it gently. Dazzle him with your feminine wiles."

"I don't have any feminine wiles." I protested.

"Lockwood would disagree."

For once, it was me that was late to meet Lockwood. He was lounging up against a wall, several shopping bags at his feet. I raised an eyebrow. Alongside Satchells carriers, some of them were from clothing stores I knew were located in the nearby Burlington Arcade. I just hoped he'd budgeted for whatever pricey garment he had felt was essential to his wardrobe.

He saw my look and smiled. "I get a heavy discount, Lucy." He reassured me. "Ever since that photo shoot the other day where I was asked where I bought my suits from. Fancy a cup of tea? I'm parched."

I nodded enthusiastically. One thing I was sure of, I didn't want to go back to Portland Row until I'd got this little secret off my chest. Amongst other things, Holly and Kipps were probably there. I loved those guys, but this was too personal.

We went to the tearoom of a nearby hotel. It was posh, swanky even, and it was very busy as London tea rooms often are. I steered us away from a prominent table towards one tucked away in the corner. Our bags stowed carefully away under the tablecloth.

Lockwood gave me a funny look but accepted my choice without comment.

Until we'd sat down, and the waiter had been and gone.

Lockwood leaned towards me and said in low voice.

"Sometimes, Luce, I haven't got the foggiest idea what you are thinking. It winds me up, no end, because it's normally when I've done something and I'm trying to gauge whether you are annoyed by it." He took a deep breath and lifted my hand from the table. "And other times, your entire heart shines out from your eyes, and I know exactly where your thoughts are. Like now."

He paused. "You're going to say something. It's something BIG you are scared you will hurt me." He kissed my fingers. "Am I right, love?"

I closed my eyes and when I opened them, I raised my other hand to sandwich his fingers instead.

"Anthony…" I began.

"Oh God!" He exclaimed. "It's worse than I thought! Please tell me you and George aren't eloping!" He laughed softly so he didn't disturb the next table.

I saw the laughter didn't go to his eyes.

"Anthony…" I repeated. "George and I…"

His eyes widened. I couldn't help it, I laughed.

"You great oaf! Of course, I'm not going to say that. Seriously? Me and George? I know my hygiene levels aren't quite at your OCD standards, but this is George we're talking about."

He did that nervous little glance thing that makes him seem vulnerable. I used to think it was put on, but now I know he doesn't realise he's doing it.

"Kipps?" he said weakly.

I coughed and gave him a pointed look.

"Anthony…" for the third, and hopefully, final time. "George and I have been talking…about Jessica…and..."

The waiter arrived with a pot of tea and a platter of cake. Even as I smiled and nodded my thanks, I wondered if I'd ever finish the bloody sentence.

Lockwood had flinched at his sister's name, then played "mum" and poured the tea. I put cakes on plates and slid one towards him.

"Jessica?" he prompted lightly enough. I wasn't fooled.

I nodded. "About her source." Unconsciously I had raised my hand to my necklaces.

Lockwood saw the movement, flicked his eyes upwards met my gaze. "Ah."

"Yes."

He sipped his tea and eyed me thoughtfully.

"And you think that Jessica's source is my mother's sapphire?" He suggested in a massive leap of cognitive processing.

I gaped at him in astonishment. I realised he had been thinking about this privately himself for a while. He'd made the same connections as us and had realised the implications.

Well, most of them. The hardest part was still to come.

"Possibly." I said in a leading way.

Lockwood shrugged. "It has to be. It's the only thing."

He still hadn't got my meaning. I felt cold all of a sudden.

I shook my head. "Not the only thing. You gave me two necklaces, remember?" If I helped him come to the same conclusion it wouldn't feel like I'd been the one to break it to him.

Lockwood shook his head. "But the other necklace is silver." He reminded me.

"I know." I said simply. He looked confused and I took a deep breath.

"George says that doesn't preclude it from being a source." I expanded.

"But ghosts avoid silver, you know that. It's extremely painful for their plasma." I could almost see the thought process behind Lockwood's eyes. A dull pain settled in my heart.

I took another breath. My body felt heavy with the weight of the idea I was planting in his mind. "Ghosts don't have a choice about their sources. According to George."

"But that would mean that Jessica is tied – wrapped up – in silver." Lockwood finally got it. He sounded horrified. "That would be…"

"Excruciating. I know."

He looked sick at the thought, and I realised this was a sea change moment for him.

Lockwood had no love for ghosts, so he hadn't been bothered about how silver containment affects the average Visitor. Until now, I suspected, in his mind at least becoming a ghost was a character flaw and you deserved what you got.

Wrapping ghosts in silver was the entire premise of silver glass. Lockwood (and every other agent) regularly confined spectral Visitors in protective vessels or silver nets, taking advantage of exactly that reaction to silver.

In theory the cases went to the furnaces quickly, but until I objected, Lockwood had also had an extensive "trophy" case, with a selection of sources and their attached ghouls imprisoned in silver. To please me, he had agreed not to collect any more, but the old ones had remained until we had used Lockwood's remaining "trophies" to help build the gate in Jessica's room.

Lockwood had previously refused to see Jessica as a ghost. She had left calmly, he believed. Jessica had gone on to join his parents in "a better place".

Now he knew she was a ghost – and possibly a Type Three, putting a spectre in a silver glass jar had new meaning for him.

"She's been imprisoned in silver for almost a decade!" He hissed. "Oh my god!"

I reached over and took his hand again. The distress on his face pulled at my heart.

"This is all conjecture." I told him. "We don't know for certain. But" I paused. "We need to find out. And if the silver necklace is Jessica's source, we need to free her from it."

Through a strangled voice, Lockwood gasped, "Does George have an idea how to do that?"

I nodded. "Yes, actually, he does."