Jonathan Stroud - The Creeping Shadow

For once, just for once, it would be nice to work with true companions again.

“Okay,” I said offhandedly. “You should know that my fees have gone up. There’s a going rate for freelancers, but I charge ten percent more. And I don’t take orders from anybody. I come in as an independent consultant, and that includes strategy and risk evaluation. Everything we do has to be agreed upon beforehand. If you’re happy with those terms, and if you think George and Holly will be, too, then I don’t see a problem with your proposal.” I held out my hand. “For one or two nights only. I’m in.”

Lockwood’s eyes sparkled. “Lucy,” he said, “thank you. I knew you wouldn’t let us down.”

For the first time, the old grin extended its way fully across his face. Its radiance bathed me; that was something else that hadn’t changed at all.

“S o…Lockwood.”

“What?”

“Don’t try to deny it. I saw you with him. What was all that about?”

It was morning the following day, and I was up early, getting ready in front of the mirror. I’d been awake half the night thinking about Lockwood—about his request, and the answer I’d given him. It was a bit annoying not being able to sleep, but it was a change being kept up by moral conundrums rather than Wraiths and Specters. Doubts, like ghosts, gain strength in darkness; even with the dawn I wasn’t sure I’d done the right thing. To suppress my misgivings, I busied myself trying on dressier clothes than I normally wore. Fittes House, where I was headed, was a prestigious location. It would be best to look the part.

“I can see you’ve agreed to something stupid,” the skull said. “You’ve been standing there for hours. Normally you spend about thirty seconds getting dressed, and that includes your token ‘wash.’” The voice grew thoughtful. “What could it be? Not a date, surely—the boy’s got eyes.”

I glared over my shoulder. Ever since I’d retrieved my towel, the ghost had been mouthing urgently at me through the glass. At first I’d ignored it. The skull had no love for Lockwood; its contributions wouldn’t have been helpful. But in the end, I’d gotten bored with the silence of my room. Some people had a radio to listen to; me, I had a phantom in a jar.

“Of course it’s not a date!” I snapped. “Don’t be ridiculous.” I glared at my outfit. It had been a while since I’d worn it; I felt unsure. “This is a business meeting.”

The skull gave a long, slow whoop of derision. “Ugh! I don’t believe it! You’ve rejoined them, haven’t you? You’re back with those fools again!”

“I’m not ‘back’ with them,” I said. “I’m helping them out. It’s one time only.”

“One time? Ha! Give it five minutes, and you’ll be back sleeping in your cramped little attic at Lockwood’s, snuggling up with that Holly Munro. I bet she uses your room now.”

“Ack! That’s never going to happen.”

“Five minutes. Take it from me.”

“Holly Munro has her own place. She doesn’t sleep there, anyway.”

“What do you care whether she does or not?”

“I don’t.”

“You’ve got a good thing going here,” the skull said. “It’s called independence. Don’t throw it away. And, speaking of throwing things away—your dress. Too tight.”

“You think so? It looks all right to me.”

“You’re only looking at the front, love.”

An altercation ensued here. I won’t go into it. I was distracted, out of sorts; I was in a kind of heightened state, swept up by excitement, uncertainty, and irritation. Ever since I’d seen the hollow boy, the ghost that had worn Lockwood’s dead and bloodied face, I’d kept my vow to stay away from Lockwood. I didn’t want that future; I’d plotted a different trajectory for myself. Yet now, one single visit from him had pulled me—temporarily—off course. I was cross with myself; but the prospect of what I was doing also quickened my heart. One thing was for sure: I wasn’t in the mood for fashion advice from a stupid skull.

Even so, the end result was that I changed back into my usual skirt and leggings.

“You’re taking me along, of course,” the skull said, when I was putting on my rapier.

“No way.”

“If it’s a tough case, you’ll need me. You know you will.”

“It’s just an initial conversation. If we—if Lockwood and Co. is given this case, I’ll come back and get you. Maybe.”

There was a pause. “Whatever.” The skull spoke dismissively. “Doesn’t bother me. See if I care.”

“Fine.”

“I don’t need you, anyway. I can talk to other people.”

I snorted; I was still fed up with it. “Like who?”

“People.”

“You so don’t. Who else have you ever talked to? As a skull, I mean. There…see?” I said. “There’s nobody.”

“Actually, you’re wrong,” the skull said. “I spoke with Marissa Fittes once. So you’re not the only one, Miss Clever-Clogs.”

“Really?” I pulled up short. “I didn’t know that. When was this?”

“What, do I have a pocket watch in here? It was ages back. When I was first found, they fished me out of Lambeth sewers, cleaned me up, and took me to her. She asked me a few questions, then shut me in this bottle.”

“How did you get into the Lambeth sewers?”

The face screwed up in distaste. “Don’t ask. I came to a bad end.”

“Sounds like it.” I stared at the ghost. In many months of irritating, self-aggrandizing conversation, it had never revealed this information about its past. And Marissa Fittes had been the founder of the first psychic detection agency, the only agent that I’d heard of with a Talent similar to mine. She had been the grandmother of the current leader of the company—the woman I was meeting today—and was still a national heroine. It was actually no small deal. I finished with the mirror, looked for my jacket. “So what was she like, Marissa?”

A grimace from the jar. “Formidable. A powerful, ironhearted psychic who’d have swallowed your precious Lockwood and Company for breakfast, like a shark gulping a minnow. No offense to you idiots, I’m sure.”

“So she really could talk with spirits.”

“Oh, yeah. She did lots of stuff. You’re a babe in arms, honey, compared to her. What a lot of questions you have today,” the skull went on. “Tell you what, I might answer some more if you hang around a bit and don’t go scuttling after Lockwood.”

“Tempting,” I said, “and you put it so nicely. But you’ll have to talk to yourself this morning. I’ve got to go.”

As it turned out, I wasn’t on time, anyway. There’d been a Specter on the Northern Line the night before, and salting parties were working in the tunnels. The Tube was delayed. I arrived at Charing Cross five minutes late. Cursing, perspiring, I ran up the Strand to Fittes House, where my way was blocked by the usual crowds of the desperate and ghost-haunted, all come to petition the company for help. A further five minutes was lost as I pushed my way to the front of the line. Once there, I had to talk my way past the surly doorman. It was like a set of obstacles in a fairy tale; by now I was fifteen minutes late. Even then I somehow caught my coat in the revolving doors and had to go around twice before I fought myself free.