Free Lockwood & Co: The Screaming Staircase by Jonathan Stroud Page B

magic number, you know.’
    I nodded slowly. ‘I see. What happened to your last assistant?’
    ‘Poor Robin? Oh, he . . . moved on.’
    ‘To another job?’
    ‘Perhaps “passed on” would be more accurate. Or, indeed, “passed over”. Ah – good! Tea!’
    The hall door opened and the plump boy’s posterior backed through it, closely followed by the rest of him. He turned in a stately manner and advanced, carrying a tray with three steaming mugs and a plate of biscuits. Whatever he had been doing in the kitchen all this while, he looked more dishevelled than before: his shirt was untucked, and his mop of hair now covered his eyes. He placed the tray on the table beside the shrouded object, and glanced at me dubiously. ‘Still here?’ he said. ‘Thought you’d have scarpered by now.’
    ‘Haven’t done the test yet, George,’ Lockwood said easily. ‘You’re just in time.’
    ‘Good.’ He took the largest mug and retreated to the sofa.
    There was a polite interlude during which mugs were distributed, and sugar offered and declined. ‘Come on, take a biscuit,’ Lockwood said. He pushed the plate my way. ‘Please. George’ll only eat them all, else.’
    ‘OK.’
    I took a biscuit. Lockwood had a large bite of his and brushed his hands clean.
    ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Just a few tests, Ms Carlyle. Nothing to worry about at all. Are you ready?’
    ‘Sure.’ I could feel George’s little eyes fixed upon me, and even Lockwood’s casual tones could not disguise a certain eagerness. But they were dealing with someone who’d survived the Wythburn Mill alone. I wasn’t going to fret about this.
    Lockwood nodded. ‘We might as well start here, then.’ He stretched out a languid hand to the spotted handkerchief and, after a ceremonial pause, flicked it away.
    Sitting on the table was a stocky cylinder of clear, thick glass, sealed at the top with a red plastic plug. There were small handles near the top to grip it with: it reminded me of the big glass demijohns in which my father used to brew his beer. Instead of stale and brownish liquid, however, it contained a greasy yellow smoke – not quite stationary, very slowly shifting. Sitting in its heart was something large and dark.
    ‘What do you think this is?’ Lockwood asked.
    I bent forward, scanning the apparatus. On closer inspection the plug had several safety flanges and double seals. There was a little symbol embossed on the side of the glass: a radiant sun that doubled as an eye.
    ‘It’s silver-glass,’ I said. ‘Made by the Sunrise Corporation.’
    Lockwood nodded, gently smiling. I bent closer. With the nail of my middle finger I tapped the side of the glass; at once the smoke awoke, rippling outwards from the point of impact, becoming thicker, more granular, as it did so. As it separated, it revealed the object in the jar: a human skull, brown and stained, clamped to the bottom of the glass.
    The ripples of smoke contorted, twisted; they took on the horrid semblance of a face, with blankly rolling eyes andgaping mouth. For a moment the features were superimposed upon the skull beneath. I jerked back from the glass. The face devolved into stream-like ribbons of smoke that swirled about the cylinder, and presently became still.
    I cleared my throat. ‘Well, it’s a ghost-jar,’ I said. ‘The skull’s the Source, and that ghost is tied to it. Can’t tell what sort. A Phantasm or a Spectre, maybe.’
    So saying, I sat back in a posture of nonchalant unconcern, as if Visitors in jars were something I dealt with every day of the week. In truth, I’d never seen one and the apparition had shocked me. But not unduly so: after the previous girl’s scream I’d expected something . Plus I’d heard of containers like this before.
    Lockwood’s smile had momentarily frozen, as if uncertain whether to express surprise, pleasure or disappointment. In the end, pleasure won the day. ‘Yes, that’s right,’ he said. ‘Well done.’ He put the