Lockwood & Co. Book Three: The Hollow Boy by Jonathan Stroud Read Free Book Online Page B

much matter. Secrets followed Lockwood about like the flapping of his coat, and it was nice to be close enough to feel them brush against me, too.
    So Lockwood’s proximity made me happy. George, it had to be said, had been more of an acquired taste, being scruffy, acerbic, and renowned around London for his casual approach to the
application of soap. But he was also intellectually honest, had boundless curiosity, and was a brilliant researcher whose insights kept us all alive. Plus—and this is the crucial
point—he was ferociously loyal to his friends, who happened to be Lockwood and me.
    And it was precisely because we
were
friends, because we trusted one another, that we were each free to explore the things closest to our hearts. George could happily research the
causes of the Problem. Lockwood could steadily build the reputation of the firm. Me? Before arriving at Portland Row, I’d been ignorant—even uneasy—about my ability to hear the
voices of the dead and (sometimes) communicate with them. But Lockwood & Co. gave me the opportunity to explore my psychic Talents at my own pace, and uncover what I could do. After the
pleasure I got from my companions, this new self-perception was the second reason why I was so content that grim November morning as the rain poured down outside.
    And the third? Well, for some months I’d been growing frustrated by Lockwood’s ultimate remoteness. All three of us certainly benefited from our shared experiences and mutual trust,
but as time went by the mysteries that surrounded him had begun to weigh heavily on me. This had been symbolized by his refusal to tell us anything about a particular room on the first floor of the
house, a room we had never been allowed to enter. I’d had a lot of theories about this strange, shut door, but it was clear to me it had something to do with his past—and probably with
the fate of his missing parents. The secret of the room had steadily become an invisible block between us, keeping us apart, and I’d despaired of ever understanding it—or ever
understanding him.
    Until one summer day, when Lockwood had unexpectedly relented. Without preamble he’d taken George and me up to the landing, opened the forbidden door, and shown us a little of the
truth.
    And do you know what? It turned out I’d been wrong.
    It wasn’t his parents’ room at all.
    It was his sister’s.
    His sister, Jessica Lockwood, who had died there six years before.

T o protect our clients’ sanity, and my own peace and quiet, the skull in the ghost-jar ordinarily resided in a remote corner of our basement
office, concealed beneath a tea cozy. Occasionally it was brought up to the living room and the lever in its lid opened, so that it could communicate eerie secrets of the dead—or exchange
childish insults with me, whichever it felt like doing. It so happened that it was sitting on the sideboard late that afternoon, when I came in to gather equipment for the evening.
    As arranged earlier, we were splitting forces. George had already departed for the Whitechapel public restrooms in search of the reported Shade. Lockwood was readying himself for his expedition
in search of the veiled woman. My visit had been canceled; I’d just been gearing up for the block of apartments when I’d had a call from my client, postponing the visit due to illness.
That meant I had a swift choice: stay at home and sort the laundry or accompany Lockwood instead. You can guess which one I picked.
    I gathered my rapier from where I’d chucked it the night before, and also a few scattered salt-bombs that had been dumped beside the sofa. As I made for the door, a hoarse voice spoke from
the shadows.
“Lucy! Lucy…”
    “What now?” With the onset of evening, dim flecks were swirling in the glass. The hunched mass of the battered skull faded from view. The flecks congealed to form a malicious face,
glowing green and soft in the darkness.
    “Going out?”
the ghost said