The Screaming Staircase

  I shuddered. “Don’t.”

  “Come on. If we follow the tunnel for long enough, we’ll find a way out.” He adjusted the hood of his cape. “Better keep these on until we’re well away from here.”

  We got slowly, stiffly to our feet. “Who would have thought Portland Row had such treasures in it?” I said. “We owe your parents, Lockwood. They’ve kept us safe.”

  He didn’t answer. It wasn’t a place for conversation. With that, we set our backs to death and darkness. Walking side by side, we followed the train track slowly up toward the light.

  Lockwood was satisfied with the result of our subterranean expedition, or at least as satisfied as it was possible to be given that we’d failed to retrieve the skull and had both nearly died. The fact that it had taken us nearly two hours to locate a safe way out of the Underground system and had almost been squashed by a moving train outside of Stockwell didn’t bother him much either.

  “Look at it this way,” he said the following morning, when we were sitting with George and Holly in the basement office of Lockwood & Co. “The positives of last night massively outweigh the negatives. First, we went in search of an important psychic artifact and discovered that we actually owned two others.” He glanced up at the suit of armor that stood beside his desk. The spirit-capes hung from it, glittering, resplendent, and slowly drying. They’d got a bit sooty in the Tube tunnels, and we’d had to dab them clean. “That’s a major result,” he went on. “Okay, maybe we won’t want to wear them too much in public. People might think we were in some kind of novelty show. But those capes could really help us out in dangerous situations. Right, George?”

  There was nothing George loved more than mysterious psychic artifacts; he’d hardly been able to keep his hands off the capes all morning. “Yep, they’re amazing objects,” he said. “Obviously the silver links in the lining help keep the ghosts at bay, but it’s possible the feathers do something, too. Could be their natural oil, or some special coating the witch doctors used…I’ll have to experiment. And, Lockwood”—his eyes gleamed—“we should really check to see what else is hidden away upstairs in that room.”

  “Maybe someday,” Lockwood said. “When we’ve got time.”

  George grunted. “I know what that means. But you can’t keep ignoring those boxes—can he, Luce?”

  “I guess not.” My reaction had been more muted than the others’. I was happy about the capes, of course, but that didn’t resolve my disappointment about the whispering skull. I’d been so close to retrieving it. I’d actually had it in my hand. Once the adrenaline of our escape had faded, I’d been left feeling pretty empty inside.

  Lockwood knew what I was thinking, of course. “You mustn’t be too upset, Lucy,” he said. “We don’t know that the skull’s lost for good. There’s still hope—and that brings me to the really big result of the night…namely the sinister Mr. Johnson of the Rotwell Institute. You recognizing him there was huge. If you were still a member of Lockwood and Company, I’d give you a raise. As it is—”

  “You’ll give me one?” George suggested.

  “No. But I will go so far as to say it’s the most significant bit of work anyone’s done since the Chelsea Outbreak. You’re an amazing agent, Lucy.”

  Well, you can guess that made me feel a bit better. While I was digesting it, Lockwood got up and walked around the front of his desk; he leaned back against it, tall and slim and full of life and purpose. I had a sudden sense that everything was possible, that fortune and our assembled Talents would favor us. I could feel my despondency lifting. It was the Lockwood effect.