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Norrie White wakes to an irrevocably changed world.
Two years have passed since that disastrous night at the mill. Most of her friends are dead. Jacobs (that cockhead) still has his agency.
Her parents died in a car crash six months ago.
“Lucy,” Norrie croaks to the nurses, “Lucy Carlyle, what happened to her?”
They all shush her kindly and tuck her back into bed, tell her to gather her strength as they carefully take her vitals and whisper to themselves when they think she can’t hear about what a dreadful miracle this is.
Here’s the thing nobody likes to think about when it comes to ghost lock: two percent of the people afflicted actually wake up. That’s why the cursed children are put on life support and so carefully cared for; there’s technically hope. They may someday wake. Nobody knows why or how or when, but two percent of the ghost lock cases have happy endings, however brief. It’s not an immediate death sentence like ghost touch.
Here’s the thing nobody likes to think about when it comes to the ghost locked children who wake: it is a death sentence. None of the rising sleepers live long after they wake. DEPRAC has studied them all extensively, of course, looked for patterns, studied charts, had the best doctors and agents in the world working to understand how, when and why. But there is no rhyme or reason to any of it. Sometimes, rarely, the ghost locked children wake. And sometime in the three months after they wake, they die.
It doesn’t matter how healthy and hale the kid is, one night within the three months they’ll go to sleep and just never wake up again.
Ghost touch is a better fate in the eyes of most. Death is a mercy not afforded to the cursed sleepers until they’ve lost all hope.
“Please,” Norrie begs the nurse on the third day after she’s woken, when she can stay awake longer than ten minutes at a time, “Please, my friend, Lucy, do you know anything--,”
“Here,” the nurse says quietly, placing a box in Norrie’s lap. “They sent you here with this. Nobody has opened it, it’s yours. Maybe you’ll find something about your friend in there.”
With shaking hands, Norrie opens the cardboard box.
Half of the box is photos and mementos, the life of the White family shrunken down to an area no larger than the width of Norrie’s hands. She takes her time perusing the keepsakes, wonders who was left to put them together for her. Baby pictures, birth announcements, her parents wedding photos, postcards from holidays of a life long gone. Norrie cries then, really cries, because her parents are dead and they’re never coming back.
No use mourning though. She’ll see them again soon enough.
With that resolve, Norrie moves on to the book of newspaper clippings. She recognizes the scrapbook, one her mother began putting together after she started working for Jacobs, a record of their successes, their close calls. Their adventures as a team.
It is a joy until it turns to sorrow, with the Wythburn Mill incident.
Her mother has kept every article from those weeks afterward, the funerals, the depositions, the investigations into the agency and the incident.
The complete lack of punishment for Jacobs, the biggest dickhead to ever walk the earth.
One thing stands out to Norrie most of all though:
Sole survivor, Lucy Carlyle.
Norrie continues reading the articles as long as she can manage, looking for more information on Lucy’s whereabouts, but there is nothing after the trial. Jacobs went back to work and Lucy….
Lucy….
God, she didn’t go back to Jacobs did she? She didn’t stay with her bitch of a mother, did she? Oh, God, God, what became of Lucy without Norrie? Norrie thinks of Lucy the first day they met, Lucy terrified out of her mind, hair long and straggly, face round with youth, braces on her crooked teeth, barely more than twelve and Norrie—Norrie panics.
For a long and terrible moment, Norrie panics, heart racing, palms sweating, vision blurring, and she knows a nurse is going to come soon and sedate her if she can’t pull herself fucking together, and that seems like such a waste of the time she has left, so Norrie White fucking pulls herself together.
Then she looks down and notices the cassettes.
Two dozen of them at least, tucked away in a box within the box. Norrie pulls out one at random, neatly labelled “#3” in the corner, and stares.
For my best friend is written across the top in Lucy Carlyle’s loopy, blessedly familiar scrawl.
***
Norrie borrows a Walkman from her new favorite nurse, Anna, and spends the next three days becoming acquainted with Lucy Carlyle’s new life. She learns about London and parties and the jobs she’s gone on. She learns about George Karim, his crazy experiments, his talent in the kitchen, his wild theories. She learns about 35 Portland Row, the large and creaky old house full of artifacts and warmth and mystery that has become home. She learns about Penelope Fittes and Quill Kipps, about Barnes and Godwin and Flo Bones and, of course, she learns about Lockwood.
She learns So Much about Anthony Lockwood.
(Lucy doesn’t quite come out and say it, but he must be fit. He must be so fucking fit, or Lucy Carlyle would not talk about the boy this much).
So, Norrie gives herself three days to listen, to gather her strength and eat her food, to remember how to use her fucking legs and be a fucking person. And on the fourth, she runs.
After her parents died, Norrie had been moved from her home to the ghost lock ward at the county hospital. It’s a gray and dreary place, with grief hanging in the air like a ghost’s miasma. After she woke up, Norrie was moved to her own room, but it’s still awful. The essence of grief does not leave.
The county hospital is not big, and is therefore not equipped to run the tests and make the observations DEPRAC surely wants, because Norrie overhears two of her doctors talking about moving her to London, and how Fittes and Rotwell were both interested in speaking with her and, well….
It’s funny, because growing up Lucy had always been the interesting one. She was the best Listener in the country, with above-average Touch as well. Norrie had some Sight, could Listen a bit, and was good enough with a rapier, but Lucy was the real Talent. Lucy was going to be somebody. Norrie just hoped Lucy would remember her, perhaps take her along for the ride when she finally made it big.
Now, Norrie’s the interesting one. Now Norrie’s the one whose name is being mentioned with the likes of Fittes and Rotwell. She’s done something extraordinary, they want to meet her, want to study her and Norrie—
Norrie just wants her friend, for what little time they have left together.
And so, armed with the contents of her box (now transferred to a messenger bag from the doctors’ break room), enough cash to get her to London (also from the messenger bag) and a new set of clothes from her least favorite doctor’s locker (coincidentally also the previous owner of the messenger bag), Norrie finds her way to the train station and books a ticket for London.
***
Norrie White rings the bell at 35 Portland Row and takes a long, deep breath.
“Hello, can I help you?” the bloke who answers the door asks. He’s obviously posh, dressed in a shirt and tie with dark floppy hair. And he’s tall, dear lord is he tall. And his voice—
“Are you Mr. Lockwood?” Norrie asks politely. She can’t help but smirk to herself when he nods.
Well, let’s just say Norrie was absolutely fucking right about Lockwood being fit.
“Are you here about a case, Miss--?”
“No, actually I was really hoping I could speak to Lucy Carlyle. Is she in? I’m a friend from home.”
Lockwood narrows his eyes at her; he doesn’t step aside to let her in.
Good. Norrie is glad that Lucy’s found protective friends.
“My name is Norrie White.”
Realization flashes in Lockwood’s dark eyes. “Oh, goodness. You were--,”
Norrie swallows thickly. “Yes. I woke up a week ago. And I’d really very much like to see Lucy. Please.”
He stands aside finally and ushers her into the foyer. Norrie can’t help but stare at the death glow smack dab in the middle of the hall.
“You can--?” Lockwood asks. Norrie nods silently.
“Happened about a year ago. Everything was thoroughly scrubbed by DEPRAC after.” Norrie nods again and lets herself be led into a sitting room off the hall.
It’s all exactly as she pictured, exactly as Lucy described in her long and rambling diary entries. The old masks and mosaics along the walls, the outdated but cozy furniture, even George’s comic books hiding beneath the sofa. Norrie sits on the edge of the sofa and watches as Lockwood takes a seat across from her.
“Why didn’t you call Lucy? She would have come to you in a heartbeat,” Lockwood asks earnestly, sitting forward in his seat. “You didn’t need to leave your family for this, and please excuse me, but you look entirely exhausted Miss White.”
“Call me Norrie. I’ve already been calling you Lockwood in my head, that’s what Lucy always calls you.” Lockwood cocks his head in question. “Lucy sent me recordings every few weeks, more of a diary really. But I had a chance to listen to them all since I woke up, I know what she’s been up to and all. That’s how I knew to come here.
“As for family,” Norrie takes a shuddering breath. “My parents had a car accident six months back. Don’t say sorry,” she immediately cuts Lockwood off. “It’s fine. It’s sad, but it’s fine. I’ll see them again soon enough. Lucy’s all I have now. I’d like to spend my time with her, if it’s all the same to you.”
“I understand.” Lockwood’s voice is quiet, somber. He does understand. “Stay here as long as you like. Stay the whole time if that’s what you want.”
“Are you sure you understand what you’re offering?”
“I do,” Lockwood answers, solemn as the grave.
“Well then,” Norrie turns away, angrily wiping the wetness from the corners of her eyes. “Where is Lucy, anyway?”
“At the shops with George. They should be back--,”
The front door slams open, bickering voices carrying down the hall. Lockwood stands and holds up a hand to her, holding her in place. She watches him exit the sitting room quickly.
Something crashes in the foyer. Then Lucy crashes through the sitting room door.
***
The reunion is long and heart-wrenching and entirely too weepy for both their tastes, but Norrie and Lucy can’t seem to stop.
“I missed you so much,” Lucy cries, gasping between each word as she sobs into Norrie’s neck. “So much. Oh, God, oh God, Norrie, Norrie--,”
“Lucy, Luce, it’s okay—it’s okay, Jesus Christ, you have to breathe, Carlyle--,”
“It’s all my fault, I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry--,”
“It’s not your fault.” Norrie says firmly between her own hiccups and sobs. “It’s not, it’s not, never has been and never will be. Okay? Look at me, Lucy, this is important. Tell me that you know it’s not your fault.”
Lucy is quiet, head still tucked away in Norrie’s neck.
“Lucy--,”
“Fine. Fine, it’s not my fault.
“Look me in the eye and say it.”
Lucy sits up with a huff. Her hazel eyes are red and glossy from crying. “It wasn’t my fault.”
“Say it again.”
“Norrie!”
“Say it.”
Lucy huffs. “It wasn’t my fault.”
“Good. Now never forget it. I won’t be here to tell you forever, but you need to remember that always.”
Lucy gulps and tears fill her eyes again at the realization. The fact she had known but not yet comprehended when she saw Norrie awake in Lockwood’s sitting room.
“Are you frightened?”
“No,” Norrie tells her honestly. “No, I’m not. I don’t remember what it was like when I was asleep but I wasn’t—It didn’t hurt. They weren’t bad dreams, Lucy. And I’ll see my parents again.”
Lucy grabs her hand, rests her head against Norrie’s shoulder. “I’m sorry about your parents. They were good people. Only ones who even gave a damn about me after shit went down at the mill.”
“I’m sorry you dealt with all that alone,” Norrie whispers. She drags a hand through Lucy’s hair. “That wasn’t fair either.”
Lucy shrugs, then sits up and looks her in the eye. “I’m here. And so are you. And we’re going to make the most of this. We’re going to treat it like the gift that it is. Okay?”
“Okay,” Norrie agrees. “But first, I’m absolutely dying to know: have you snogged Lockwood yet?”
Lucy shoves a pillow in Norrie’s face and they both laugh and laugh until they’re crying again, and all seems right with the world.
***
Norrie stays at 35 Portland Row for the duration of her borrowed time. She joins Lucy, Lockwood and George on cases, meets the surprisingly fit Quill Kipps and the less-evil-than-expected Inspector Barnes. She hunts down sources and cleans chains, learns how to cook from George and how to properly fence from Lockwood. And she and Lucy go shopping on Saville Row and attend the fancy parties they’d always promised each other they would.
Norrie spends each night in Lucy’s sweet little loft, sharing a bed with the best friend she’ll ever know. Some days are sad; Lucy cries, Norrie cries. One particularly awful day even Lockwood cries, and the world feels a very terrible, awful place without much hope. But most days, most days are light. They’re happy and sunny, adventurous and free, and Norrie feels at peace with the knowledge that Lucy Carlyle is going to be okay.
Norrie learns that the world is not always kind, but people can be, and Lucy Carlyle has found some of the kindest ones. Lucy has always been one of the kindest ones. And she’s made Norrie’s final days a joy.
So, one night, two and a half months after Norrie woke up, Norrie rises from Lucy’s bed and creeps down the stairs. She enters the room on the landing, the forbidden door nobody particularly likes to talk about and watches for just a moment the death glow of Jessica Lockwood. Then, Norrie White rests her letter on the nightstand and lays down on the bed, dust rising as she settles onto the pink coverlet, and closes her eyes.
They never open again.
***