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There’s a piano in 35 Portland Row. A year after Fittes House falls, Lockwood decides someone should be playing it.
He took lessons when he was a small child, briefly—after about a year he expressed immense distaste in all things not agency related, so his parents gave in and let him quit. He remembers how to hold his hands, mostly, and how to play some major scales.
The first day he starts playing it again Lucy comes and sits down in the armchair on the other side of the room without saying anything. Lockwood doesn’t say anything back. He keeps fumbling his way through major scales, starting with C then D then E and so on. It’s a rhythm he used to know. It’s been over ten years since he had a lesson.
After he pauses again to curse his clumsy fingers Lucy says, “Having fun?”
Lockwood grins. “Loads.”
“I didn’t know you played.”
“I don’t, really.”
“Sound travels well in this house.”
“It’s not all that big, you know.”
“Makes me wonder what else George can hear, if the walls are this thin.”
Lockwood chokes on a laugh. Lucy is grinning, clearly pleased with herself. Lockwood rolls his eyes and turns back to the keys.
He tries to remember a song: anything, really, that would impress Lucy. Unfortunately the only thing Lockwood’s hands seem to remember is a childish tune. E-E-E, Da-da-Da-da-dee-Da…
“Cute,” says Lucy.
“Come here,” says Lockwood. “There’s- there’s another part to it.” He doesn’t hear her move immediately so he says again, “Come here!”
Lucy sits beside him, on his right. “You play this part,” he tells her. He plays the melody comically slow, and down an octave. Lucy copies him, fingers stumbling, in the proper octave, slowly but surely picking up the rhythm. The melody loops over and over, Lockwood and Lucy together.
“Lockwood,” she says haltingly when he stops playing alongside her. “I’m not very good at music.”
Lockwood grins, and shakes his head. “You’re doing fine now!”
Lucy makes it to the end of the phrase without problem, but misses the first note of the next and has to pause and start over. Lockwood doesn’t mind. He’s trying to remember where his hands go for the bottom part- which chords, how far his fingers spread, when to start with the melody.
“What are you doing,” Lucy says, focused on playing, and then Lockwood joins her when she begins the melody again, this time playing harmony. At first it throws Lucy off entirely and they pause. Lucy frowns at him. Lockwood smiles back. She makes a face that Lockwood knows well to mean that she’d kill him if she wasn’t so stubborn.
They start again, Lockwood playing his chords almost comically slow while she remembers the melody, but it’s only a few rounds before they’re up to tempo, Lucy looking less and less worried each time. She’s getting it. Lockwood’s getting it too, remembering little flourishes to add each time around, things to complement the melody in the lower notes.
Lucy is making a different face now, another Lockwood knows well: she’s incredibly focused and pleased with herself in equal amounts. He typically sees this in a haunted house, when Lucy’s got her rapier and Lockwood can see in piercing clarity that she’s winning against the Visitors. He isn’t sure what to do with the fact she looks the same here.
“Heart and Soul,” Lockwood says. Lucy looks up at him. Lockwood doesn’t mention it but he’s thrilled to notice she’s still playing the melody, without even looking at her hands. “The song. I think it’s called Heart and Soul.”
“You think?” Lucy asks.
Lockwood shrugs. “My mother taught it to me. I never saw sheet music for it, so I don’t really know where it’s from.”
Lucy’s expression softens; it always does when Lockwood says something about his parents, or about Jessica. The song ends, and instead of simply starting again like she has been Lucy takes his hand, stops him from playing the first chord. “Are you going to learn?” she asks him, seriously.
“I want to,” Lockwood says, even if he wasn’t sure about it until he said it out loud. “I’ll teach you as I learn, too.”
“Second-hand piano lessons,” Lucy says to herself. “As if he couldn’t be teaching me more interesting things to do with my hands.”
“Lucy,” Lockwood says, taken aback, and her calm expression breaks and she laughs, loud and open-mouthed. Lockwood isn’t taken aback enough to miss the chance to watch Lucy Carlyle laugh.
Lucy says, “I think it’s a good idea. I’m glad.” And even though Lockwood already knew that, something in him settles when she says so. He isn’t sure when Lucy’s opinions of him became that important, but it’s been that way for years now.
Lockwood plays the first three notes, E-E-E, down by his left hand. Lucy gives him a look, and then smiles, and then echoes him, E-E-E, up in the right octave. They play.
Lockwood smokes; it’s a filthy habit he picked up in the Black Winter but it makes him look mysterious, standing with a fag on the streets of London, cloaked in smoke and his long jacket.
When he said this to Lucy as justification for the pack she found in his pocket, she laughed at him and said he’s almost always standing with a fag on the streets of London, even without cigarettes. He choked on a laugh. It was a good night: Lucy didn’t smoke with him but she stepped outside with him while he did, and kissed him under the streetlight before they went back inside their celebration party. Celebrating the end of one world, and the beginning of another.
Lockwood’s eighteen. It’s one in the morning on a Friday night, a year after Fittes House—ghosts still haunt London, but they don’t feel particularly threatening tonight. Not with Lucy Carlyle by his side and his rapier on his hip.
They get done late down by Westminster. They call a cab from the house but it’ll be about fifteen minutes. Neither of them want to wait inside the formerly haunted house. It wasn’t a pleasant case.
Lockwood reaches in his coat pocket and pulls out a fag. As he puts it in his mouth Lucy reaches into his pants pocket and pulls out his lighter. Lockwood looks at her, eyes wide. Lucy leans in close and lights it. Almost unconsciously, Lockwood inhales.
Delicately, Lucy takes the cigarette out of his mouth after he’s had a drag and takes one herself. She blows the smoke directly into his face. He rolls his eyes, and she stuffs it back in his mouth. He thinks he could move, but then Lucy would stop standing so close to him, so it’s best if he just stays still and lets her do what she pleases.
Lucy coughs. “Still disgusting,” she says. “And it doesn’t even get you high.”
“No,” says Lockwood around the fag. He smiles. She huffs. “I know. It’s stupid.”
“A little bit,” Lucy says. “A little stupid.”
“I’ll quit,” Lockwood says. “I should.”
Lucy shrugs. “It’s up to you,” she says. “I still think it’s kinda hot.”
Lockwood groans. “Don’t say that,” he pleads. “Luce. We’ve still got a cab ride.”
Lucy grins, devious. “Say what?”
“That,” he begs. “Lucy. Come on.”
Lucy shakes her head. “Boys,” she says, and then steps on his toes with the side of her foot. He kicks at her. She winks at him. He tosses the cigarette on the ground, only half of it smoked, and Lucy grids the burning end out with her shoe. Then she gets on her tip-toes and kisses him.
Lockwood’s mind is perfectly, blissfully clear. It always is when Lucy kisses him. Some part of his body takes over and kisses her back while he just floats. It’s a delightful feeling.
“Hey,” says Lucy. “I think- I think I want to try changing some things up a bit.”
Lockwood gives her an amused smile. “Okay?”
“In my clothes,” Lucy clarifies. “Like. I want to try something new, maybe.”
“Oh,” says Lockwood. “Yeah, okay.”
Lucy stares at him, her frame silhouetted by the sunrise streaming in between the curtains of their bedroom window. She’s taking notes for some case they wrapped up earlier that night, but Lockwood has been studying her carefully and noted that her writing devolved into nonsense doodles about five minutes ago.
She gives him a look of incredulity. “‘Okay?’ That’s it?”
“What?” says Lockwood. “Do you want me to say something?”
Lucy shrugs. “I don’t know. Maybe if you acted surprised it would help?”
Lockwood sits up very suddenly from their bed. “Oh my God! You want to change your wardrobe?”
Lucy rolls her eyes. “Never mind. That felt stupid.”
“I thought so too,” Lockwood agrees, and flops back against the pillows. “Do you want me to go to the shops with you?”
“You don’t know anything about clothes,” says Lucy dismissively. “Holly will take me. Or maybe Kipps.”
“Kipps?” asks Lockwood, making a face. “Why on earth would you want to go shopping with Kipps?”
“I don’t know! “ Lucy exclaims. “I don’t know, it’s just- I just. I don’t know.”
Lockwood keeps making a face, and directs it towards her. Lucy only lasts a minute under it before she breaks and says “I want to dress more- masculine.”
“Oh,” says Lockwood, before he can even think about it. “Huh.”
“What?” Lucy asks defensively. “Do you- do you not want me to? Because- because it’s my decision what I wear, you know, it doesn’t matter if you like it-”
“Lucy,” says Lockwood, “breathe.”
Lucy breathes. They both do. It’s been a long night. “Sorry,” says Lucy.
“Don’t be,” Lockwood says. “It’s not- you don’t have to be sorry. Of course- of course you can wear whatever you want. I want you to like what you wear. I like it when you like what you wear.”
Lucy smiles a little. “Oh, do you?”
Lockwood rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah.”
“Because that’s how I should choose my wardrobe, based on what Anthony Lockwood wants-”
“You know that’s not what I meant-”
“And I should always listen to him because he’s the leader of the infamous Lockwood & Co.-”
“Surely just famous, by now, right?”
Lucy buries her face in her hands. “I don’t know,” she says. Not referring to, Lockwood assumes, the fame of their agency.
“It’s not a big deal,” Lockwood says. “You’re seventeen. That’s a normal time to want to- change things up, right?”
Lucy makes a miserable noise. “It’s not just that,” she says into her palms. “It’s- it’s more than that.”
Lockwood sits up a little, again. “Sure,” he says. “Do you- do you want to talk about it?”
“God, it’s late,” says Lucy, and looks out the window. “Fuck. Early. God.”
“Luce,” says Lockwood, and- carefully- puts his hand on top of hers. “Whatever it is, I won’t mind. I promise, okay? I won’t mind.”
She looks at him. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay,” says Lucy, and exhales. “I’m- I dunno. I don’t know if I, like, really like being a girl.” She pauses. “I’m not- I’m not a boy, and I like- I like some of my clothes, and I like being Lucy, and-”
“Sure,” says Lockwood, because he knows her, and she’ll just keep talking if he doesn’t say something. “Luce, I- well, I don’t get it, but- yeah. You know I love you no matter what.”
“Yeah?” says Lucy, voice thick. “Yeah. I know.”
Lockwood doesn’t really know what she’s talking about- but he does get being uncomfortable, he does, he gets not always feeling at home in your skin, and he loves Lucy, no matter what she is. Who she is. “I love you,” he says again. “I- whatever’s going on, I got your back, right? In the field, and here.”
“Okay,” says Lucy, eyes shining.
“It’s late,” Lockwood says. “You’re right. It’s early. I think- I think sleep, and then tomorrow we can go shopping? For clothes?”
Lucy gives him a little smile. “Today, you mean,” she says. “It’s morning.”
“It is not yet near day,” Lockwood recites. “It was the nightingale, and not the lark, that pierced the fearful hollow of thine ear.”
“You know I don’t know what you’re quoting,” Lucy tells him, and casually wipes at her eyes. Lockwood doesn’t mention it. “You’re right, though. It may be morning but we should sleep.”
Lockwood nods and slides back until he’s horizontal again, and Lucy rests her head on his chest, and he runs his fingers through her hair. It’s longer now, longer than he’s ever seen it, the ends still choppy from her last at-home hair-cut.
“I love you, too,” Lucy says. Lockwood leans and kisses her head.