Chapter Text
The British tabloid press, while often ensnared by matters of celebrity, ghost hunting, and reality television, had no fervent love for British monarchy. In different circumstances, perhaps they would have, but fifteen years into the growth of the Problem, most of them had fucked right off to Canada, and they were now a misty memory in country’s cultural conciousness. I knew who the Queen was, of course, and I knew vaguely of the history of English royalty; but if I had to pick the old girl out of a line-up of expensively-dressed geriatrics, I’d be hard-pressed to do it. Most of the rest of them I hardly knew by name. So it was a surprise when, following the death of Marissa Fittes and the management of portals to the other side, the Queen herself returned to England.
“To live out the rest of her days at home,” Lockwood reported over the top of one of his gossip rags one morning. His cup of tea was balanced on his knee, and he held the magazine loosely in the other hand as he paged through, completely disregarding the table in front of him.
George took a large bite of his toast, and I grunted acknowledgement. But not half a minute later, Lockwood announced far more pressing news.
“Oh, Cara’s engaged.”
George looked up. “Cara? Oh, our Cara?”
Lockwood made an affirmative noise.
As every agent in England knew, there were very few movies in which ghost-hunting was accurately depicted. Not from England, where the Problem constrained the production of such things; America, while possessing the budget and the night-time hours to do so, was too far removed to truly understand it. So for the most part, agents stories’ were done with inaccurate terminology and practices, and with largely questionable accents. One of the few exceptions to this rule was Jackets, which had been running for six seasons and showed no sign of stopping. It wasn’t perfect—the actors were all a little too old, and there weren’t nearly enough deaths—but the creators had clearly done their homework, and half the agents in England had a proprietary sort of love for it. Those of Lockwood and Co. were no exception.
“Page six,” Lockwood said, reading over the article. “They really should’ve put her further up on it. Ooh, they’ve been dating for nearly two years.”
“Who is it?” I asked. “That one guest-star from the episode with the bees?”
“No, he’s actually a proper film star.” I didn’t really know any of those; I shrugged. Lockwood brought the magazine closer to his face, squinting at it down his nose. “Hmm. It’s… one of the princes. The Canadian ones.”
George and I made simultaneous noises of disregard. “She can do better than one of them,” George said. I nodded.
Lockwood took a sip of tea and shrugged, a long elegant motion of his shoulders. “No accounting for taste. They met in Toronto, reportedly.”
“Ew,” I said, with feeling.
These pieces of news had further impact in two ways. The first piece required a full clearing out of Kensington Palace, which took 25 operatives from various agencies working over the course of two weeks. Lockwood and Co. sent George, who’d volunteered, and Quill, who went to make sure he wouldn’t steal any heirlooms of national significance.
The second piece of news impacted Lockwood and Co. in particular on one rainy day in February. We were in the basement; I was practicing with the rapier, while George had corralled Lockwood into signing forms. The arrival of Holly with the mail was enough of a distraction that I abandoned Joe and Esmerelda to wander over to the desk.
“Fanmail!” Lockwood was saying, an envelope opened in his hands, and turned to me beaming. “I should frame this, Luce—read it.”
“I’m not stroking your ego,” I told him, and he opened his mouth to respond; but Holly, at her desk next to mine, stilled. “Lockwood,” she said slowly, staring down at the envelope in her hands. “You might want to open this one.”
As she passed it over, I caught a glimpse. It was thick, heavy cardstock with no postage sign—someone had delivered it to our letterbox themselves—and careful, elaborate calligraphy across the front. I couldn’t exactly read what it said, but there were four lines, and I thought it likely a name for each one. It was, in all regards, a commanding envelope; the fanmail was dropped forgotten on the desk. Lockwood sliced open the envelope. The paper he took out was just as heavy, and on reading the first line, Lockwood’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline, and stayed there for the remainder of the letter. When he finished, he dropped it on his desk, and, contemplatively, said, “Holly?”
“Yes?”
“Is there anything on our calendar for the third weekend in May?”
Holly flipped through the calendar on her desk—rather fruitlessly, as we planned nothing that far in advance. “No. Oh, well, George is getting his wisdom teeth removed two weeks before.”
“Reschedule that,” Lockwood said decisively. “And for that Saturday, at 2, pencil us all in for the wedding of the Prince of England, would you?”
Needless to say, there was a bit of an uproar.
“Cara?” George was saying. “Cara’s wedding? We’re invited?” “They’re having it in England?” Holly asked, horrified, and I could do nothing but say, “A wedding?”
“Oh, settle down,” Lockwood said, and passed George the invitation. “Clearly this is another move in the monarchy’s attempt to reestablish power. And we’re invited because we’re the nation’s preeminent ghost hunters, not to mention the fact that we saved the world.”
The envelope had passed over to Holly, and upon reading it she gave a sort of squeal. “Oh, cocktail dress! I bet it’ll be a garden party. It’s the perfect event to try and regain political control and public appeal.”
We stared at her. “…Yes, I suppose it is,” Lockwood said, but not noticing our reaction, or even the amount of sweat that covered me, Holly dropped the invitation and turned to clutch my hand with both of hers. Her eyes were shining like the surface of a deep lake. “Lucy,” she said, and blinked those long lashes in a mesmeric manner that left me unable to look away, “do you want to go hat shopping? With me, I mean.” And she blinked once more. I was helpless to it.
“Um,” I said dumbly, “okay?”
She smiled beamingly, and quickly turned away again, already planning out the affair in intimate detail. “Obviously you’ll walk in with Lockwood, since you’re more of a height— don’t buy yourself a tie until we’ve figured out dress colors,” she shot at him. “We don’t want to clash.”
“God forbid,” George muttered.
“And I will get you in a proper suit, George—I’ve seen photos from the Fittes Ball, and frankly you were a disaster. Oh, Lucy, what is your shoe situation? I only ever see you in work shoes, you know.”
“Um, we might need to buy new ones,” I told her, thinking of the pile of sneakers and boots lying next to my wardrobe, and the singular pair of slippers I owned.
”Well!” Lockwood said, and clapped his hands together once. “I suppose I should send back our RSVP, and Holly, I’m authorizing two hours a week for vision boarding—for all of us. Luce, if you’d like to help her, you’re more than welcome. George, you’re banned.”
I didn’t notice until later that night that he’d neatly slid out from his form signing duties. And it took me three more days to notice the other piece of mail we’d received hanging in a plain white frame on the upstairs hallway wall.
And then it was the third week of May. Not that suddenly, of course—we worked cases all over London, and a few others outside of it. Lockwood and Co. was constantly busy even as the Problem shrank, for we weren’t just busy with ghosts. George, Kipps, and I were deep in DEPRAC’s business, me helping with the ghost gate beneath Fittes House and George in their research department. Kipps was mostly the intermediary—the man of legalese, powering through paperwork in the same manner that he’d had when he forced us into setting up retirement accounts. Holly was still organizing the entire agency, setting up the cases and speaking to the press. And every now and then, Lockwood found himself in Whitehall, battling it out with the non-DEPRAC governmental bureaucracy as they attempted to untangle the years of Marissa’s influence.
But through the magic of Holly’s scheduling, on Tuesday nights we were all free. We hunkered down in the kitchen and complained about our weeks; we went over the ones to come. George would cook, or we’d order takeout. And after we’d eaten and laughed, we’d go up to the library and sit in comfortable silence, reading or sketching, Kipps fiddling with his wood carvings or Holly making us watch a movie. (We attempted only once to play board games. This was deemed a failure, and no other attempts were made.) And most Tuesday nights, Kipps would stay over in the spare bedroom, and Holly would arrive early Wednesday morning with doughnuts, and we’d all wake early and refreshed and at ease with each other.
And this Tuesday, in the library, Lockwood sat us down and readied the game plan.
‘Alright, team,” he said, standing before us in front of the fire and pacing across the carpet. “Saturday, we’re all leaving here by 1—I’ve arranged with Jake to take two taxis. Holly, that means arrive by 10 for breakfast. Kipps, you’ll be here the night before?”
Kipps nodded. He’d shown up later that same February afternoon with a smirk and an invitation of his own, and Holly had incorporated him into her vision board planning.
“Excellent. George, I’ll be picking up our suits on Thursday. Holly, Luce—you’re all sorted?”
We were. In late March, Holly had arranged suit fittings for both Lockwood and George one afternoon, and had then proceeded to drag me to a boutique to try on many, many hats. I could only hope that other people would actually be wearing them the day of.
“The ceremony is 2 to 3, and then the reception begins at 4 at, Holly was right, the gardens. Jake will take us there, too, but there’s likely to be a line of press for everyone exiting the cathedral—even more than for coming in. Provided none of us fall asleep during the ceremony, we should look fine for photos. From there on, it’s a private event—and Kipps, they know about your shellfish situation, nothing to worry about there. The rest of the night is just mingling, meeting, dancing—having a good time. And then we’re home by 8. Yes, George?”
“How is it,” George asked from the couch, “that we’ve gotten months into preparations for this and no one’s mentioned dancing?”
Lockwood looked nonplussed. “It’s a wedding reception, George. Of course there’s dancing.”
Holly and Quill, too, looked unworried, but for once I was on George’s side. “I’ve hardly been to weddings,” I said. “Sorry, is this required?”
Lockwood looked over at me, brows knitting. “It’s—well, it’s hardly that serious, Luce.”
“I could teach you,” Holly whispered from my side, but Lockwood seized on it.
“Wait, we’ve got a—ah!” And from the cabinet he pulled out an old record player—his parents’, by the looks of it—and as he selected a record, Kipps stood from his armchair and offered Holly his hand.
“Sorry, you know how to dance?” George asked incredulously.
“Of course I know how to dance,” Kipps snipped, and he and Holly took position. Lockwood’s choice started playing, and he and Holly began to step carefully across the carpet. Lockwood moved a footstool out of the way, and a chair, and leaned against the back of a couch to watch. “I’ve been to every annual Fittes ball since I was eight.”
George sniffed. “Didn’t realize they made you dance at those. Just thought you sort of stood around and had raffles and ate croquettes.”
“Well, we did that too.” And he and Holly stepped back from each other, stretching like an accordion with hands clasped, and then stepped back in and returned to the careful pattern of steps.
After only a few more bars, Lockwood cut in. “I think I’ve got it. Holly?”
She left Kipps to join him. They were, as usual, an artful pair—Holly had to tilt her head back, hair tumbling down her shoulders, to look up at him, and his brow was furrowed in concentration for the first few steps. They tripped up, once; Lockwood exhaled through his teeth, and then didn’t make a mistake again.
Kipps offered me a hand. It was fairly disastrous—I was too tall for him, or rather he was too short, and we kept bumping into each other and falling over misplaced legs. Eventually, George sighed and took over, with Kipps giving snide pointers, and we stumbled through a box step together.
“Ugh,” George said as the song ended. “I’m not likely to dance at this thing.”
“Me neither,” I said, and we collapsed on the couch. But Holly, over her shoulder, teased,
“Not even if that one young guy from Jackets is there?”
“Yeah, Carlyle, what if Chase Kennedy’s invited?” Kipps egged, and when Lockwood spun Holly back out, she laughed and Quill took the hand that she extended out. Lockwood let her go and dropped down onto the sofa next to George. His arm stretched out over the back of it, and his fingertips fell lightly against my shoulder as we watched Kipps and Holly turn, one-two-three one-two-three.
“If he asks me,” I allowed, and Holly tipped her head back to laugh again, white teeth shining in the low light.
Friday night, I gave up on trying to sleep and went downstairs to get a glass of water. Holly had hung our dresses on my wardrobe, and mine taunted me from across the room as I lay in bed. I brushed my fingers against its sleek fabric as I made my way to the stairs, and leaning against the kitchen sink, I imagined myself in it tomorrow: tasteful makeup, done by Holly, a charming little hat, heels that I still barely knew how to walk in, and that pretty indigo dress. The image in my head didn’t quite look like Lucy Carlyle, even when I pictured her standing next to Lockwood and the rest. I wished desperately that it was a rapier sort of event.
On my way back upstairs, I noticed a light on in the library, and through the door could see Lockwood’s dark head bent over a book. He was in his pajamas, hair slightly messy. I pushed the door open slightly; when he looked over and saw me in the doorframe, he gestured me in and made room for me on the couch.
“I was just…” he said, and swallowed.
When I sat, I could see that it was a scrapbook in his lap, and he tilted it towards me. The page was open to a photograph of his mother and father on a church’s steps, his mother in a white dress and his father in a suit. The first thing I noticed was the enormous grin on his mother’s face; the second was the extent to which Lockwood looked like his father.
“I was just… going through some old memories.”
I swallowed, too. “Do you know much about their wedding?”
“No. Not much. They were married at St. Marylebone—I could probably ask to see the church records for it. And they had the reception here. They were studying for their PhDs, at the time, so they didn’t exactly have much money. Or many people, for that matter.”
He flipped the page to show the photographs from said reception. It was strange to see our home—our kitchen, our back garden—through the faded film of some stranger’s camera, some twenty-five years out of date. But Lockwood touched the plastic over the pictures lightly with his fingertips and named a few of the guests. “That was my uncle Jonathan—my mother’s brother, though he was much older than her. And Cecily Armstrong, she’s at a university in America now. She wrote, after Jessica, and offered to have me come over and live with her. But —“ he flipped another page “—there he is. Nigel Sykes. He knew my parents. Never told me, actually.”
Nigel Sykes was a wiry sort of man with a somber face and his arm around another guest. On his other side, with a small smile on his lips and a drink in his hand, was Anthony’s father. Lockwood stared down at the photograph, and lightly, I touched his wrist.
“Are you alright?” I asked softly. He looked back up at me and smiled, and the faint lines around his eyes creased.
“Yes. Yes, I am. And—thank you. For listening.”
“Of course.” And, lightly, “It’s what I do.”
He shut the scrapbook but still held it. I tucked my legs up on the sofa and watched him carefully—I didn’t want to leave, but I didn’t have anything to say. So it was almost a relief when he asked,
“Why were you up?”
I shrugged. “Nerves, I suppose.”
“Because you might meet Chase Kennedy?” His smile was teasing, but not entirely easily.
I scoffed. “Hardly. He barely knows how to hold a rapier.”
“But he’s not a half-bad actor,” remarked Lockwood.
“That’s not the same as being a good one. No. …It’s just—I don’t know why they’d invite us.”
“We’re famous, Lucy,” he said, eyes bright, and laughed when I cringed instinctively. He dropped his hand onto my knee, and said, very genuinely, “It’s a power-play. It’s not about us, it’s about what we represent. The nation’s young heroes witnessing the beautiful ceremony and taking advantage of the buffet legitimizes the whole thing.”
“Yeah, I don’t think it’ll be very legitimate for me to trip and get gravy down my dress.”
“Luce,” Lockwood said. “You’re not that bad at dancing.”
It wasn’t so much the dancing as it was the shoes, but his response did not inspire confidence, and he read it on my face.
“No, you’re really not,” he protested. “I’ll prove it. C’mon, get up.” And, striding over to the record player, he flipped a switch and dropped the needle down. A few quiet chords slipped out; not anything I recognized, but it was pretty.
“I’m not good at this,” I protested.
He grinned. “I am,” he countered, and, taking both my hands, pulled me up from the couch. The basic steps I knew; Lockwood led, and I followed. It wasn’t a waltz, just four steps in repeat, but still I tripped. Lockwood held me steady.
“Easy now,” he cautioned. I was looking down at our feet, but I could hear his smile. His hand, at my waist, was tight and reassuring.
We stabilized. The four steps were easy, once I got the hang of it. Lockwood quickened us, then slowed, then quickened again until I was laughing at the briskness, socks shuffling against the carpet.
“Alright, Luce,” said Lockwood, still grinning. “Wanna try a spin?”
We did—he twirled me under one arm, pushing one shoulder in direction before stopping me again. Just as smoothly, he pulled me back and stepped forward, and we danced another four counts before he let go of my hip again.
“Now mirror me and extend out—spin in front —“ My back was to his front, and he took my other hand from where it curled near my shoulder. It was all at maybe half speed, but I felt breathless doing it. “Sway a little? Good. And hands up, over the head—keep them together, Luce, crossed, and turn to me —“
His eyes were creased at the corners, cheeks flushed with joy and with the movement, hair slightly messy. One side of his pajama collar was sticking upright. “You’re not bad at this at all,” he said, holding my hands in the living room of Portland Row, rotating me slowly around the axle of himself. “We’ll make waltzers of ourselves yet.”
“You like this,” I told him, accusatory, but I was smiling, too. In one swift movement, he let go of me and returned us to normal, bending down his head a little to look at me.
“Maybe,” he admitted, and then moved one hand around to support my back to dip me. When I came back up, my hair fell out of place, ending up mostly in my eyes, and he let out a short, delighted burst of laughter as I shook it back into place.
“Oh, come on!” I said, and, a glint in his eye, he said,
“I’m going to put both my hands on your hips and lift you—jump when I count down, alright?”
“Lockwood —“ I warned, but he had shifted his other hand, still moving us, and had begun counting down. He was going to lift me, regardless of my feelings on the matter—I braced myself on his shoulders and jumped.
It wasn’t a very high jump, nor a very high lift, but it was a successful one. I returned to the ground unharmed and, feeling overly proud of myself, immediately tripped, tangling Lockwood’s legs with my own and falling backwards. Somehow, we missed the couch—I hit the carpet with an oof , and Lockwood caught himself on both hands above me.
For a soft, still moment, I met his gaze. The levity had dropped out, replaced with a split second of concern followed swiftly by something unreadable. His weight wasn’t on top of me, but I could feel how he held himself on the knee that was pressed next to my leg, and he was close enough that I could faintly feel his breathing.
“See?” I said softly. “Not a good dancer.”
Lockwood breathed out, eyes fixed on my face. “Not a bad one,” he said.
I swallowed. “We should probably get to bed if we want to be up before 9 tomorrow.”
“Yeah,” he agreed in a whisper, and slowly, he got up off me and helped me sit up. The record player still quietly spun its music. We sat there on the carpet of the library for I don’t know how long, and I watched Lockwood’s hands, knotted in his lap; his throat, and the two freckles there on the edge of his Adam’s apple; his ear, the shell of it, the lobe; his—
“Oh, it’s you two,” Kipps said, swinging the door open. “I thought someone had left the light on. And the… record player. …Am I interrupting something?”
I got to my feet, Lockwood shortly following, and attempted to stop my cheeks from blushing. I mostly failed. “You didn’t interrupt anything. We were just, um—”
“Going through a scrapbook,” Lockwood said. “My parents. We don’t need to talk about it,” he added quickly, and Kipps gave him a flummoxed look.
“Um. Okay. Well I’ll—I’ll be getting to bed, then. Sorry for—uh. Good night.”
He turned and left, and the moment—whatever moment it had been—was broken. Lockwood turned off the record player, and I shelved away the scrapbook, and when I left he followed me back up the stairs.
“Lucy,” he said, pausing me before I left his landing. I was extremely aware of the guest bedroom, where Kipps was presumably lying, still awake and able to hear us through the door. But I paused anyway.
“Yeah?”
He started to say something but stopped himself. “Just—good night. Sleep well.”
“Good night, Lockwood,” I said, and went to bed.
Event of the Year? Royal Wedding Reviewed, read The Gazette that Sunday morning. The front-page picture of the happy couple featured an extremely blurry George about three guests deep, but it was a George nonetheless, and on page five, among many other photos of guests, there was one of all five of us, taken from the church steps as we left.
Lockwood and Co.: Lockwood, in a suit that looked like all his other ones and an indigo tie that matched my dress. George, in a neat suit, hair combed, but glasses still slightly askew. Kipps, looking extremely pleased with himself in ugly cufflinks. Holly, only slightly less beautiful than the bride in a deep sea foam green, which she had said didn’t suit her but absolutely did. And me, clutching both George’s and Lockwood’s arms for dear life as I almost broke my neck navigating heels on stairs.
We cleaned up well. And it was a good party, too. The other women there had been wearing hats.
“It was a great party,” said Lockwood, grinning at me as if he’d read my mind.
“Excellent catering,” George remarked.
“No croquettes,” countered Kipps.
“Good music,” decided Holly. She’d ended up dancing with Chase Kennedy, and had, in fact, gotten his number. ‘In case you’re ever in Los Angeles,’ he’d said, flashing a smile whiter than Lockwood’s. She hadn’t seemed enthusiastic, but hadn’t turned him down, either.
“It was… alright,” I said, and took a bite of my toast. Across the table, Lockwood grinned at me once more, and turned his attention back to the paper.
“Well,” he said, almost off-handedly, “It’ll be good practice for your sister’s wedding, I suppose,” and I choked on my bite of toast.
“Her what?”