Haunted: A Lockwood & Co Story

Chapter Thirteen: Unrest

They sat together, three of them, in the kitchen at Portland Row. A blue haze hung around the room; dawn's pre-light was here.

"He'll be alright," Charlotte said. "Won't he?"

George was staring at the remains of his hot chocolate, as if he could read the future in its frothy dregs. "Yes, of course he will. Fine."

"It's just a bang to the head, right? Knocked him out for a bit, made him woozy... but he's okay now."

"Yes."

"Well"- Holly Munro smiled - "that's what we hope. If it's concussion, we'll know in the next few days. Whether he's cracked his skull or not, or if there's bleeding on the brain."

She mixed her fruit salad and cherry yoghurt with a spoon.

A day before Charlotte'd have bristled at her prim and proper manner; at the clear way she fixed her eyes on the light brunette girl. But Charlotte didn't have the energy or the will to sustain that grievance now. Lockwood's condition was her fault. And Holly Munro had pulled Charlotte up when she was about to fall.

"He's awake and wants breakfast, George said. "Got to be a good sign."
She nodded. "I've replaced his bandages, and I think the bleeding's almost stopped. Sweet tea, food, and lots of bed rest - that's all we can do." She got up, put toast on.

"Fat chance of keeping him in bed," George said. "I've already caught him sneaking down to the phone, wanting to ring Wintergarden."
Holly Munro smilingly flicked the kettle on. "You're about to do that, aren't you, George?"

"Absolutely. I'll wait until nine, then give her the good news. Everything's in hand. Right, Charlotte?"

"Sure." Charlotte pushed her uneaten toastie away.

Everything, so far as the Case of the Bloody Footprints was concerned, was in hand - in spite of (or because of) Charlotte. Lockwood, in his frantic leap to save her, had sliced his sword clean through the essence of the ghost. Flexing, warping, it had faded back across the attic landing. George, arriving moments after Lockwood, had seen it drift through the arch that led to the servants' rooms, and fold itself down into the floorboards of the passage beyond. With Charlotte saved, he'd hurried over and stabbed his penknife in the exact place.

The next half-hour had been spent anxiously tending to Lockwood, unconscious following the impact of his fall. Only after he came round, and they had his head wound staunched, did George head for the passage alone, carrying a crowbar and a chain net. Hacking and cracking noises followed. When he returned, it was with a bundle tightly wrapped in silver: a battered tin box, filled with a Victorian woman's shawl.

Right now, that silver bundle was dumped on the kitchen table, between the mugs, the cereal boxes and the breadboard. There was plenty of breakfast on offer. George had eaten well. Even Holly was decorously hoovering up a ranger of healthy options. Charlotte hadn't eaten a thing.

"Charlotte," George said softly. "You'd better eat."

She nodded. "Yeah. I will."

Holly was arranging plates and butter on a tray. "You mustn't be too down-hearted, Charlotte. If you hadn't exposed yourself to ghost-lock, the Visitor wouldn't have revealed the whereabouts of its Source. So really, our success is all down to you." She smiled over at the silent girl. "Looking at it one way."

A small hot cord knotted tightly in Charlotte's stomach; it had been there since she'd stuttered out her first round of apologies and thanks several hours before. "Thank you." She said. "You're very kind."

George was gazing at Charlotte. "What exactly did you experience, Lottie?" He said. "What made you put the rapier down?"
What indeed. Looking back on it, Charlotte found it hard to accept juts how easily she'd been manipulated by the ghost with the bloody hands. But she wasn't about to say anything in front of Holly. She wasn't even sure she wanted to talk to George.