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I felt comfortable in his presence, and he in mine; it was clear to both of us, I think, that we found greater peace and pleasure in each other than in anyone else.
So, the way Lockwood gazed at me, the flashes of vulnerability in his eyes, the looks we shared, quietly, when the others’ backs were turned—on what, exactly, was that intimacy based? On us, pure and simple? On who we truly were? Or on the aftershocks of one overwhelming event, on the experience we’d shared?
I reached out in the dark and touched his hand.
my cuddly Source here”—with this it sort of surged back lovingly around the brown skull at the center of the jar,
“Once a plump, bespectacled pyromaniac,” Sir Rupert said, “always a plump, bespectacled pyromaniac—that’s my philosophy.
“I’ve seen internment camps that look jollier than this.”
Which, given that he was still as abrasive as a pair of steel-wool underpants, showed how insufferable he’d once been.
She knew who I cared about.
Know what? That made me mad. How dare he go with her?
And it had tried to take Lockwood from me.
I like to think it was the sound of my name that brought him back.
Take it from me, that’s a hard thing to get right when you’re crying.
They had weak connections to life.
You can’t let any old ghost woman go around fingering my jar.
As ever, his mustache drooped as if shouldering the sorrows of the world.
a patina of dust
“We’re annoying that way,” Lockwood said, grinning.
“Hey, fish-face, find your own human!”
“One day,” Lockwood said, “I’m clearly going to have to kill him. Not now, but sometime soon.”
George. George. George.
Then he left the chair and walked around the table and put his arms about me and pulled me to him.
he’d just get sepsis.
If we stumbled, we had a long way to fall.
I’d never punched an old lady before; I didn’t have any problem doing so now.
watching the window and the dying of the light.
He hopped down the steps and came toward me across the grass, dark and thin and lit to shining by the dying sun. It was like he was going to ignite. Quite unexpectedly, the sight made me want to cry. All my fears for him, and for all of us, suddenly hit me as if from nowhere.
He considered me, his eyes soft and serious. “You’re upset.”
It was a symbol of his undying devotion.”
“No, exactly. Anyway, Luce…” Lockwood cleared his throat. “I was going to ask if you
Lockwood clenched his teeth. “Yeah, but it’s my bloody death trap,
“Next week. We’ll get a plumber in next week, Lucy. That’s what we’ll do.”
“But you needn’t have worried.” She smiled at me. “Funnily enough, Lockwood isn’t actually my type.”
You come with me.”
“Good old Esmeralda,” Lockwood said. “Fell in action. We should get upstairs.”
Even without looking, he knew that I would disobey him.
was full of love and gratitude to Lockwood and to all my friends—between us, we’d come through.
“See?” the skull said plaintively. “That’s what I want to do. It’s honest work. Why can’t I have any fun?”
daubing charcoal on your cheeks—I’m not specifying which ones
Think of that happening to your darling Anthony as you die.”
I understood all that as I sat against the wall, bloodied and defenseless, and I loved him for it. My heart sang.
So my heart sang, and my heart despaired, which was pretty much the usual combination for me whenever Lockwood was around.
“Don’t get mad! I have to say it! I know full well you won’t pay any notice.”
“Go, Lucy! Do what you’re told, for once!” His eyes met mine, dark and desperate. “Please! Save yourself for me.”
I had something small and round, wrapped in a piece of burned cloth, tucked beneath my arm.
Anthony Lockwood: “My Style”: see fashion pullout, center pages
Our first priorities had been a replacement table and a Thinking Cloth. With these in place, it was possible to function again. The house would be all right. Like us, it was taking time to heal.
