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

lavender. The wood itself was scarcely visible.
    “Hmm, I wonder which one it is,” I murmured.
    “She’s certainly not taking any chances,” Lockwood agreed. “Oh, lovely—she’s a hymn singer, too. Might’ve guessed.”
    Downstairs we’d heard the door close and footsteps in the kitchen, followed by a sudden snatch of shakily warbled song.
    “Not sure
that
does any good,” I said. I was checking my belt, loosening my rapier. “Or the crucifix. It’s pointless if it’s not iron or silver.”
    Lockwood had taken a thin chain out of his pack and was looping it at the ready across one arm. He stood so close that he brushed against me. “Gives comfort, though. Half the things my
parents brought back are the same. You know the bone-and-peacock-feather tambourine in the library? Balinese spirit-ward. Not an ounce of iron or silver on it….Right, are we ready?”
    I smiled at him. There was a horror behind that door. I would see it in seconds. Yet my heart sang in my breast, to be standing beside Lockwood in that house. All was as it should be in the
world.
    “Sure,” I said. “I’m looking forward to that nice hot tea.”
    I closed my eyes and counted to six, to get my eyes ready for the transition from light to dark. Then I opened the door and stepped through.
    Beyond the barrier of nails the air was cold, skin-bitingly so. It was as if someone had left a freezer door wide open. As Lockwood closed the door behind us, darkness swallowed us like
we’d been immersed in ink. It wasn’t just that the ceiling light was off—it was a more profound blackness. No light came in from the street outside.
    But there had been no curtains at the window; it had been a bare piece of glass.
    Something was blocking it, preventing light from coming through.
    Away in that cold, cold inky dark, a person was weeping—a horrible sound, desolate yet wheedling, as of one spiritually bereft. The noise echoed oddly, as if we were in a vast and empty
space.
    “Lockwood,” I whispered, “are you still there?”
    I felt a friendly prod. “Right beside you. Chilly! Should have put my gloves on.”
    “I hear crying.”
    “She’s at the window. In the pane. You see her?”
    “No.”
    “You don’t see her clawing hands?”
    “No! Well, don’t
describe
them to me….”
    “It’s a good thing I don’t have any imagination, or I’d be having nightmares tonight. She’s wearing a lacy gray gown, and a sort of ragged veil over her face. Some
kind of letter in one hand, spotted with something dark. Don’t know what
that’s
about—might be blood or tears. She’s clutching it to her chest with her long,
shriveled fingers….Listen, I’m laying out the chains. Best thing we can do is smash the window. Smash it and burn it in the furnaces….” His voice was calm; I heard the hasty clink
of iron.
    “Lockwood, wait.” Standing blind, with air blistering my face, I composed myself—opened my ears and mind to deeper things. The crying sound receded just a little; in among it I
heard a whisper, a tiny out-breath….
    “Safe…”
    “What is?” I asked. “What’s safe?”
    “Lucy,” Lockwood said, “you’re not seeing what I’m seeing. You shouldn’t be talking to this thing. It’s bad.” More chinking at my elbow; I could
sense him moving forward. The whispers cut out, resumed, cut out again.
    “Put the chains away,” I snapped. “I can’t hear.”
    “Safe, sa-afe…”
    “Lucy—
    “Quiet.”
    “I kept it safe.”
    “Where did you do that?” I said. “Where?”
    “There.”
As I turned to look, my Sight cleared. I caught the outline of the window in the corner of my eyes—and within it, darkness superimposed on darkness, a
long-haired shape, hunch-shouldered, bent arms raised above the head as if caught in the midst of some frenzied dance or rite. The fingers were grotesquely long; they seemed to spear toward me
across the room. I cried out. At my side I could feel Lockwood jumping forward,