Read Online Lockwood & Co. Book Three: The Hollow Boy by Jonathan Stroud - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jonathan Stroud
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the bed. “One thing. Does she—?”
“No.”
“She’s never—?”
“No.”
“But the glow—”
“She’s never come back.” Lockwood tipped the lavender seeds into one of the vases on the sill and wiped his long, slim hands. “In the early days, you know, I almost hoped
she would. I’d come up here, when I was in the house, thinking I might see her standing at the window. I’d wait a long time, looking into the light, expecting to see her shape, or hear
her voice….” He smiled at me ruefully. “But there was never anything.”
He glanced over at the bed, his eyes still penned in behind the blank black glasses. “Anyway, that was early on. It wasn’t healthy, my just hanging out in here. And after a while,
when I’d had rather more experience with death-glows and what goes with them, I began to dread her return as well as want it. I couldn’t bear to think how she might appear to me. So
then I stopped coming in here much, and I set up the lavender to…to discourage surprises.”
“Iron would be stronger,” George said. He was like that, George; cutting, in his bespectacled way, to the nub of the issue quicker than everyone else. “I don’t see any
iron here—apart from on the door.”
I looked at Lockwood; his shoulders had gone tight, and for a moment I wondered whether he was going to get angry. “You’re right, of course,” he said. “But that’s
too much like dealing with an ordinary Visitor—and she’s
not
that, George, she’s
not
ordinary. She’s my sister. Even if she does come back, I
couldn’t use iron on her.”
Neither of us said anything.
“The funny thing is, she
loved
the smell of lavender,” Lockwood said, in a lighter voice. “You know that scrubby bush of it around the side of the house, out by the
trash bins? When I was a kid she used to sit with me and make lavender garlands for our hair.”
I looked at the vases with their plumes of faded purple. So they
were
a defense—but a welcome, too.
“Anyway, lavender’s good stuff,” George said. “Flo Bones swears by it.”
“Flo just swears in general,” I said.
We all laughed, but it wasn’t really a room for laughter. Nor for tears, oddly, or for anger, or for any emotion other than a sort of solemnity. It was a place of absence; we were in the
presence of something that had left. It was like coming to a valley where someone had once shouted, loud and joyously, and the echo of that shout had resounded between the hills and lasted a long
time. But now it had vanished, and you stood on the same spot, and it was not the same.
We didn’t go back to the room. It was a private place, and George and I left it alone. After that first seismic revelation, Lockwood didn’t bring up the subject of
his sister again, nor did he hunt out the photograph he had promised. He rarely mentioned his parents, either, though he did let slip that they had left him 35 Portland Row in their wills.
So—somehow, somewhere—they had died, too. But they and Jessica stayed in shadow, and the questions hovering around the silent bedroom largely remained.
I tried not to let it worry me, and instead be satisfied with what I had learned. Certainly I felt closer to Lockwood now. My knowledge of his past was a privilege. It made me feel warm and
special at times like this, speeding with him in the back of the taxi through the London dark. Who knew—perhaps one night, when we were working alone together, he might open up and tell me
more?
The cab braked suddenly; both Lockwood and I jerked forward in our seats. In front of us, moving figures filled the street.
The driver cursed. “Sorry, Mr. Lockwood. Way’s blocked. There are agents everywhere.”
“Not a problem.” Lockwood was already reaching for the door. “This is exactly what I want.” Before I could react, almost before the car had stopped, he was out and
halfway across the road.
O ur route to Whitechapel had taken us via the center of the city. We
“No.”
“She’s never—?”
“No.”
“But the glow—”
“She’s never come back.” Lockwood tipped the lavender seeds into one of the vases on the sill and wiped his long, slim hands. “In the early days, you know, I almost hoped
she would. I’d come up here, when I was in the house, thinking I might see her standing at the window. I’d wait a long time, looking into the light, expecting to see her shape, or hear
her voice….” He smiled at me ruefully. “But there was never anything.”
He glanced over at the bed, his eyes still penned in behind the blank black glasses. “Anyway, that was early on. It wasn’t healthy, my just hanging out in here. And after a while,
when I’d had rather more experience with death-glows and what goes with them, I began to dread her return as well as want it. I couldn’t bear to think how she might appear to me. So
then I stopped coming in here much, and I set up the lavender to…to discourage surprises.”
“Iron would be stronger,” George said. He was like that, George; cutting, in his bespectacled way, to the nub of the issue quicker than everyone else. “I don’t see any
iron here—apart from on the door.”
I looked at Lockwood; his shoulders had gone tight, and for a moment I wondered whether he was going to get angry. “You’re right, of course,” he said. “But that’s
too much like dealing with an ordinary Visitor—and she’s
not
that, George, she’s
not
ordinary. She’s my sister. Even if she does come back, I
couldn’t use iron on her.”
Neither of us said anything.
“The funny thing is, she
loved
the smell of lavender,” Lockwood said, in a lighter voice. “You know that scrubby bush of it around the side of the house, out by the
trash bins? When I was a kid she used to sit with me and make lavender garlands for our hair.”
I looked at the vases with their plumes of faded purple. So they
were
a defense—but a welcome, too.
“Anyway, lavender’s good stuff,” George said. “Flo Bones swears by it.”
“Flo just swears in general,” I said.
We all laughed, but it wasn’t really a room for laughter. Nor for tears, oddly, or for anger, or for any emotion other than a sort of solemnity. It was a place of absence; we were in the
presence of something that had left. It was like coming to a valley where someone had once shouted, loud and joyously, and the echo of that shout had resounded between the hills and lasted a long
time. But now it had vanished, and you stood on the same spot, and it was not the same.
We didn’t go back to the room. It was a private place, and George and I left it alone. After that first seismic revelation, Lockwood didn’t bring up the subject of
his sister again, nor did he hunt out the photograph he had promised. He rarely mentioned his parents, either, though he did let slip that they had left him 35 Portland Row in their wills.
So—somehow, somewhere—they had died, too. But they and Jessica stayed in shadow, and the questions hovering around the silent bedroom largely remained.
I tried not to let it worry me, and instead be satisfied with what I had learned. Certainly I felt closer to Lockwood now. My knowledge of his past was a privilege. It made me feel warm and
special at times like this, speeding with him in the back of the taxi through the London dark. Who knew—perhaps one night, when we were working alone together, he might open up and tell me
more?
The cab braked suddenly; both Lockwood and I jerked forward in our seats. In front of us, moving figures filled the street.
The driver cursed. “Sorry, Mr. Lockwood. Way’s blocked. There are agents everywhere.”
“Not a problem.” Lockwood was already reaching for the door. “This is exactly what I want.” Before I could react, almost before the car had stopped, he was out and
halfway across the road.
O ur route to Whitechapel had taken us via the center of the city. We
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