Lockwood & Co.: The Screaming Staircase

. . Oh.’
    ‘Well, George is always moving that jar of his about . . .’ Lockwood noticed my expression. ‘Lucy?’
    ‘Oh. Oh no.’
    ‘What is it? Have you taken something?’
    I gazed at him. ‘Yes,’ I said in a very small voice. ‘Yes, I think I have.’
    George and Lockwood both turned towards me, their backs to the wardrobe and the mess of scattered clothes. As they began to speak, pale radiance flared across the wall. A figure rose from the floor behind them. I saw thin, thin arms and legs, a dress with orange sunflowers, long blonde tresses dissolving into whirling snakes of mist, a contorted face of cold, hard rage . . . I gave a cry. Both boys wheeled round, just as sharp-nailed fingers reached out for their necks. George swung his sword, embedded it in the corner of my wardrobe. Lockwood thrust frantically with the mobile. There was an impact pulse as the iron struck; the ghost-girl vanished. A wave of cold air blasted across the room, pressing my nightie tight against my legs.
    The attic room was dark once more.
    Somebody coughed. George tugged at the rapier hilt, trying to get it free.
    ‘Lucy . . .’ Lockwood’s voice was dangerously quiet. ‘Didn’t that look like—’
    ‘Yes. It was. I’m so, so sorry.’
    George gave a heave; the blade came free. He steppedawkwardly to the side and, as he did so, there was a sharp crack beneath his boot. He frowned, bent down, picked up something from amongst the scattered clothes beside the chair. ‘Ow!’ he said. ‘It’s freezing!’
    Lockwood took the torch and trained the light upon the object dangling from George’s fingers. A pendant, slightly squashed, glinting as it spun on a delicate golden chain.
    Lockwood and George stared at it. They stared at me. George unhooked the silver-glass box from his belt and stowed the necklace inside. He shut it with a crisp and final click.
    Slowly Lockwood raised the torch until I was transfixed by a silent, accusatory beam of light.
    ‘Er, yes,’ I said. ‘The girl’s necklace . . . Um, you know, I was going to mention that to you.’ Standing there in my rumpled nightie, in my bandaged, dishevelled state, I did my best to smile at them as prettily as I could.

12

    The following day dawned bright and clear. Pale November sunshine flowed through the kitchen window and extended cheerily over the usual breakfast clutter. Cornflake packets glowed, bowls and glasses sparkled; every scattered crumb and blob of jam was picked out perfectly in the morning light. The air was warm, and heavy with the scent of good strong tea, of toast, fried eggs and bacon.
    I wasn’t enjoying myself at all.
    ‘ Why , Lucy?’ Lockwood demanded. ‘I just don’t understand! You know an agent has to report any artefact she finds. Particularly one so intimately connected with a Visitor. They must be properly contained.’
    ‘I know that.’
    ‘They’ve got to be put in iron or silver-glass until they can be studied or destroyed.’
    ‘I know.’
    ‘But you just shoved it in your pocket, and didn’t tell me or George!’
    ‘Yes. I said I’m sorry! I’ve never done that sort of thing before.’
    ‘So why did you do it now ?’
    I took a deep breath. My head was lowered; for some minutes, while my reprimand proceeded, I’d been grimly doodling on the thinking cloth. It was a picture of a girl; a thin girl wearing an old-style summer dress. Her hair whipped around her head, and her eyes were vast and blank. I pressed the pen down hard, probably scoring the table below.
    ‘I don’t know,’ I muttered. ‘It all happened so fast. Maybe it was because of the fire – maybe I just wanted to save something of her, so she wouldn’t be completely lost . . .’ I sketched a big black sunflower in the middle of the dress. ‘In all honesty I hardly remember taking it at all. And afterwards . . . I just forgot.’
    ‘Better not mention this to Barnes,’ George remarked. ‘He’d be livid if he knew you’d absent-mindedly carried a dangerous Visitor around London without precautions. It’d give him yet another reason to close this agency down.’
    Out of the corner of my eye I watched him complacentlyspread another dollop of lemon curd on his toasted bun. Oh, he was in fine fettle that morning, George, chipper as a ferret. I reckoned he was enjoying my discomfort big time.
    ‘You forgot?’ Lockwood said. ‘That’s it? That’s your excuse?’
    Defiance flared; I raised my head, brushed my hair back. ‘Yeah,’ I