Lockwood & Co. Book Three: The Hollow Boy by Jonathan Stroud Page B

couldn’t believe our eyes.” He caught my gaze and threw up his hands. “Well, isn’t that good? One more
chore off our list. And she even got us a nice new vacuum cleaner! You were always moaning about lugging that old one up to the attic.”
    “
What?
She’s not been in my bedroom too?”
    “Anyway”—Lockwood suddenly became interested in his desk again; he reached out hurriedly for the topmost paper—“I’d better read this, I’m afraid. Some
new DEPRAC regulations just came in. Important stuff. Needs a rapid response, and Holly wants me to get it to the mailbox by five…” He looked at me full-on then, serious-eyed and quiet.
“I know it’s all a bit sudden, Lucy, but you need to give it a chance. Holly’s here to help us. You’re the agent; she’s the assistant. She’ll do what we ask, and
make life simpler for us. It’ll work out well.”
    I took a deep breath. “Guess it’ll have to.” After all, we
did
need some help. Things
could
be made simpler. Still…
    “Thanks, Lucy.” Lockwood
really
smiled, then. The sudden warmth of its radiance made my misgivings seem mean and needlessly hostile. “Trust me,” he said.
“It’ll be fine. Soon you and Holly will be getting on like a house on fire.”
    It certainly didn’t take our new admin long to make an impact. According to Lockwood, who seemed to know all her statistics, she was eighteen, but in raw competence and
efficiency she seemed a good deal older. She arrived at Portland Row each day on the dot of nine thirty, letting herself in with a key. By the time we slouched down for breakfast an hour or so
later, whatever debris had been left from the previous night’s 3 a.m. post-work snacking had been spirited away. Our work belts hung from their hooks beside the iron stairs; our chains had
been oiled, our bags restocked with appropriate levels of salt and iron filings. Our kitchen was spotless, the table set; a golden stack of hot buttered toast waited on the plate. Holly Munro
herself was never present when we got there; before we arrived, she always diplomatically removed herself to the office below. She thus allowed us time to wake and compose ourselves, and also
cleverly avoided the very real possibility of seeing George without his pants.
    The very first day had set the tone. We’d had several difficult cases the night before, and were in fragile shape. Coughing, scratching, we made our sorry way to the office to find Ms.
Munro dusting the suit of armor by Lockwood’s desk. She was full of perk and polish; a bunny rabbit sitting in a chive bed could not have been more chipper. She bounded forward. “Good
morning,” she said. “Made you all some tea.”
    There were three cups on the tray, and the tea in each was different. One was a milky brown, just how I like it. One was strong and teak-colored, which is Lockwood’s preferred taste, and
the last (George’s) had the strength and consistency of the wet earth you find in exhumed graves. In other words, they were perfect. We took them.
    Holly Munro held a piece of paper neatly inscribed with a short list. “It’s been a busy morning already. You’ve had five new requests so far.”
    Five! George groaned; I sighed. Lockwood ruffled his unkempt hair. “Go on, then,” he said. “Tell us the worst.”
    Our assistant smiled, pushing a stray twist of hair back behind a shell-like ear. “It’s really not too terrible. There’s an interesting-sounding Visitor in Bethnal Green,
something that seems to be half-buried in the sidewalk yet hobbles at great speed along the Roman Road, trailing a cloak of shadow.”
    “Following the ancient level of the street,” George grunted. “Another legionary. We’re getting more and more of those.”
    Ms. Munro nodded. “Then there’s a strange hammering in a butcher’s cellar; four orbs of yellow light revolving outside a house in Digwell; and two cobwebby ladies seen in
Victoria Park, who dissolve as witnesses