Free Lockwood & Co.: The Creeping Shadow by Jonathan Stroud Page A

it later.”
    With that he did a kind of wave of the arm that led my gaze to Holly.
    And there she was. Charming Holly, as pretty and perfect as ever.
She
hadn’t changed much during these last few months; she hadn’t suddenly become saggy or bedraggled or noticeably flawed or anything. In fact, because of the importance of the meeting, she’d dolled herself up even more than usual. She wore the kind of dress you need to be poured into; the sort I would have ripped as soon as I tried wriggling it over my shoulders. It was a dress that would have gotten stuck halfway down my midriff, with my arms trapped and my head covered, and left me bouncing blindly off the walls for hours, half naked, trying to struggle free.
That
sort of dress. For completists, who want the details, it was blue.
    Unlike with George and Lockwood, where the four months seemed to have lasted a lifetime, it didn’t feel as if I’d been away from Holly very long at all. Partly this was because I saw her photos in the papers so much. Also because throughout the winter there’d been a sort of Holly-shaped hole in my brain, into which I used to throw dark thoughts. I probably spent too much time there, like a moody Inuk fishing at an ice hole, sitting on the edge, staring in.
    “Hello, Holly,” I said. “How’s it going?”
    “It’s going
so
well, Lucy. It’s lovely to see you again.”
    “Yeah. You, too. You look good.”
    “So do you. Freelancing obviously suits you. I’d love to hear all about how you’ve been getting on. I’ve heard great things. I think you’re doing
so
well.”
    Once upon a time it would have annoyed me, the record number of fibs crammed into that single scrap of dialogue. I was sure Holly had about the same amount of interest in my freelance work as she had in my choice of toothpaste (less, actually—given the way her perfect teeth gleamed so brightly every time she smiled). And everything else was a lie, too, since I clearly
didn’t
look good at all. As always happens when I’m running for a meeting, I only started properly sweating once I’d arrived and was with others. Right now I felt hot, flushed, and disordered, both inside and out.
    But, to be honest, it wasn’t my place to get cross with Holly anymore, so I decided to take her niceties at face value.
    “Great,” I said. “Thanks. I wish I’d gotten more dolled up, though. I didn’t think to wear a dress.”
    “You could try wearing that one,” George said, tapping the pillar, where the gory nightgown worn by the Cumberland Place heiress on the night of her brutal murder dangled on its metal frame.
    Lockwood laughed. Holly laughed. Taking my cue, I laughed, too. George didn’t utter so much as a titter. I searched his face for clues. Nothing.
    Our laughter ended rather raggedly. We stood in silence. “You’d think someone would hurry up and see us,” Lockwood said.
    “So there’s no word yet on what Ms. Fittes wants?” I asked after a pause.
    “Not yet.”
    “Have you done any work for her before?”
    “Well, we’re not really working
for
her now,” Lockwood explained. “As I said, it’s more she’s looking out for us, sending occasional jobs our way.”
    “Right.”
    “How much are you charging?” George asked suddenly. “With this freelance lark?” He was staring blankly down the hall between the columns.
    “Me?” I hesitated, remembering that I still hadn’t sent my invoice to Farnaby for the last job. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t get paid. “Does it matter?”
    “No. Except I’m not sure I could survive on my own with what Lockwood gives me, so I guess you’ve had to raise your fees.”
    “A bit, I guess. I do okay.”
    “So what do you charge?”
    I opened my mouth, and closed it. I could see Lockwood frowning; it was hard to know what to say. Fortunately, George’s line of questioning was interrupted that moment by an attendant who reported that Penelope Fittes was ready to receive us.
    Two great psychic detection