the boardinghouse, the veiled Specter in the bedroom window—were desperate for connection.
And I could provide that, however imperfectly.
What I needed was for Lockwood to let me experiment some more. He would be resistant—naturally so, because of what had happened to his sister—but I felt I would bring him around. At
this thought, my mood lifted. The bulb of sadness that I’d been nurturing since visiting my mother shrank deep inside and was forgotten. I would talk to Lockwood and George about my ideas
when I got home. I needed to share them with my friends.
Back in London, I asked the cab to stop by Arif’s store at the end of Portland Row and bought a selection of iced buns. It was past eleven; Lockwood and George would be
just about ready for a snack by now. I was back a day early. Since they wouldn’t be expecting me, I could make my arrival an extra-nice surprise.
But there was a surprise waiting for
me
when I entered the house. It made me stop in amazement, keys held frozen in my hand. The hall had been vacuumed, the coat-rack tidied; the
rapiers, umbrellas, and walking sticks arranged in size order in their pot. Even the crystal skull lantern on the key table had been dusted and polished so it shone.
I couldn’t believe it. They’d actually done it. They’d tidied! They’d tidied up for me.
I put my bag down softly and tiptoed into the kitchen.
They were in the basement by the sounds of it, and they were in a
very
good mood. I could hear their bubbling laughter even from the kitchen. It made me smile to hear them. Perfect. The
buns would go down well.
I didn’t hurry. I made some tea, put the buns on our second-best plate (I couldn’t find the best one), arranged them so Lockwood’s favorites—the ones with almond icing
that he rarely allowed himself—were on top, and set everything neatly on the tray.
I opened the door with a foot, nudged it wider with my hip, and pattered lightly down the iron stairs.
Happiness bloomed inside me.
This
was what it was all about. Portland Row was home. My real family was here.
I ducked through the arch into the office and stopped, still smiling. There they were, Lockwood and George, bent forward attentively on either side of my desk. They were laughing heartily.
Between them, sitting in my chair, was a shapely, dark-skinned girl.
She had black hair worn long at the shoulder, a pretty, roundish face, and a kind of dark blue pinafore dress with a nice white top underneath it. She looked very new and fresh and shiny, like
someone had popped her out of a plastic case that morning. She sat straight-backed and elegant, and didn’t seem particularly discomposed by having George and Lockwood draped so close. On the
contrary, she was smiling too, and laughing a little bit. Mainly, though, she was listening to the boys laugh.
On the table were three mugs of tea and also our best plate, scattered with the remains of several almond buns.
I stood there, looking at the three of them, holding the tray.
The girl saw me first. “Hello.” She said this in a mildly inquiring sort of way.
George’s head jerked up; the fatuous grin on his face at once shrank into noncommittal blankness. Lockwood’s smile tightened; he gave an odd little skip, a sort of sidling sidestep
backward, then moved hastily toward me. “Lucy,
hello
. What a lovely surprise. You’re back early! How was your trip? Nice weather, I hope?”
I stared at him.
“So…” he said. “Good journey? Oh—more buns? How lovely.”
“There’s a girl,” I said. “A girl sitting in my chair.”
“Oh, don’t worry! That’s only till the new desk arrives.” He gave a light laugh. “Should be tomorrow, Wednesday at the very latest. Nothing to worry about….We
didn’t expect you back so soon, you see.”
“A new desk?”
“Yes, for Holly.” He cleared his throat, smoothed back his hair. “Well now, where are my manners? This is a time for introductions! Holly, this is Lucy
And I could provide that, however imperfectly.
What I needed was for Lockwood to let me experiment some more. He would be resistant—naturally so, because of what had happened to his sister—but I felt I would bring him around. At
this thought, my mood lifted. The bulb of sadness that I’d been nurturing since visiting my mother shrank deep inside and was forgotten. I would talk to Lockwood and George about my ideas
when I got home. I needed to share them with my friends.
Back in London, I asked the cab to stop by Arif’s store at the end of Portland Row and bought a selection of iced buns. It was past eleven; Lockwood and George would be
just about ready for a snack by now. I was back a day early. Since they wouldn’t be expecting me, I could make my arrival an extra-nice surprise.
But there was a surprise waiting for
me
when I entered the house. It made me stop in amazement, keys held frozen in my hand. The hall had been vacuumed, the coat-rack tidied; the
rapiers, umbrellas, and walking sticks arranged in size order in their pot. Even the crystal skull lantern on the key table had been dusted and polished so it shone.
I couldn’t believe it. They’d actually done it. They’d tidied! They’d tidied up for me.
I put my bag down softly and tiptoed into the kitchen.
They were in the basement by the sounds of it, and they were in a
very
good mood. I could hear their bubbling laughter even from the kitchen. It made me smile to hear them. Perfect. The
buns would go down well.
I didn’t hurry. I made some tea, put the buns on our second-best plate (I couldn’t find the best one), arranged them so Lockwood’s favorites—the ones with almond icing
that he rarely allowed himself—were on top, and set everything neatly on the tray.
I opened the door with a foot, nudged it wider with my hip, and pattered lightly down the iron stairs.
Happiness bloomed inside me.
This
was what it was all about. Portland Row was home. My real family was here.
I ducked through the arch into the office and stopped, still smiling. There they were, Lockwood and George, bent forward attentively on either side of my desk. They were laughing heartily.
Between them, sitting in my chair, was a shapely, dark-skinned girl.
She had black hair worn long at the shoulder, a pretty, roundish face, and a kind of dark blue pinafore dress with a nice white top underneath it. She looked very new and fresh and shiny, like
someone had popped her out of a plastic case that morning. She sat straight-backed and elegant, and didn’t seem particularly discomposed by having George and Lockwood draped so close. On the
contrary, she was smiling too, and laughing a little bit. Mainly, though, she was listening to the boys laugh.
On the table were three mugs of tea and also our best plate, scattered with the remains of several almond buns.
I stood there, looking at the three of them, holding the tray.
The girl saw me first. “Hello.” She said this in a mildly inquiring sort of way.
George’s head jerked up; the fatuous grin on his face at once shrank into noncommittal blankness. Lockwood’s smile tightened; he gave an odd little skip, a sort of sidling sidestep
backward, then moved hastily toward me. “Lucy,
hello
. What a lovely surprise. You’re back early! How was your trip? Nice weather, I hope?”
I stared at him.
“So…” he said. “Good journey? Oh—more buns? How lovely.”
“There’s a girl,” I said. “A girl sitting in my chair.”
“Oh, don’t worry! That’s only till the new desk arrives.” He gave a light laugh. “Should be tomorrow, Wednesday at the very latest. Nothing to worry about….We
didn’t expect you back so soon, you see.”
“A new desk?”
“Yes, for Holly.” He cleared his throat, smoothed back his hair. “Well now, where are my manners? This is a time for introductions! Holly, this is Lucy
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