𝐇𝐨𝐦𝐞┃ Anthony Lockwood┃2┃

Chapter Fifteen - Unrest

They sat together, three of them, in the kitchen at Portland Row. A blue haze hung around the room. Dawn's pre-light had arrived.

"He'll be all right..." Nola said. "Won't he?" Ghostbuster was curled up by her feet, happily licking his paws, oblivious to the house's chaos.

George was staring at the remains of his hot chocolate, as if he could read the future in its frothy dregs. "Yes, of course he will. Fine."

"It's just a bang to the head, right? Knocked him out for a bit, made him woozy... But he's okay now." Nola was now nervously gnawing on the end of her nails.

"Yes."

"Well" – Holly Munro smiled – "that's what we hope. If it's concussion, we'll know in the next few days. Whether he's cracked his skull or not, or if there's bleeding on the brain." She mixed her fruit salad and cherry yoghurt with a spoon.

A day before, Nola would have bristled at her prim and proper manner and would have most likely snapped that her comment wasn't very helpful. But, she didn't have the energy or the will to sustain that grievance then. Lockwood's condition was Nola's fault. And Holly Munro had pulled her up when she was about to fall.

"He's awake and he wants breakfast." George said. "Got to be a good sign."

Holly nodded. "I've replaced his bandages, and I think the bleeding has almost stopped. Sweet tea, food, and lots of bed-rest. That's all we can do." She got up and put some toast on.

"Fat chance of keeping him in bed." George said. "I've already caught him sneaking down to the phone, wanting to ring Wintergarden."

Holly Munro smilingly flicked the kettle on. "You're about to do that, aren't you, George?"

"Absolutely. I'll wait until nine, then give her the good news. Everything's in hand. Right, James?"

"Sure." She pushed her uneaten cereal away. Everything, so far as the Case of the Bloody Footprints was concerned, was in hand – in spite of (or because of) Nola. Lockwood, in his frantic leap to save her, had sliced his sword clean through the essence of the ghost. Flexing, warping, it had faded back across the attic landing. George, arriving moments after Lockwood, had seen it drift through the arch that led to the servants' rooms, and fold itself down into the floorboards of the passage beyond. With Nola saved, he'd hurried over and stabbed his penknife into the exact place. The next half an hour had been spent anxiously tending to Lockwood, unconscious following the impact of his fall. Only after he came round, and they had his head wound staunched, did George head for the passage alone, carrying a crowbar and a chain net. Hacking and cracking noises followed. When he returned, it was with a bundle tightly wrapped in silver. A battered tin box, filled with a Victorian woman's shawl.

In the kitchen, that silver bundle was dumped on kitchen table, between the mugs, the cereal boxes and the breadboard. There was plenty of breakfast on offer. George had eaten well. Even Holly was decorously hoovering up a range of healthy options. Nola hadn't had a thing.

"James." George said. "You'd better eat. Lockwood would kill me if he saw you weren't."

Nola nodded. "Yeah. I will." She hesitated. "But I don't think he would be bothered." She muttered the final sentence.

Holly was arranging plates and butter on a tray. "You mustn't be too down-hearted, James. If you hadn't exposed yourself to ghost-lock, the Visitor wouldn't have revealed the whereabouts of its Source. So really, our success is all down to you." She smiled over at Nola. "Looking at it one way."

A small hot cord knotted tightly in Nola's stomach. It had been there since she'd stuttered out her first round of apologies and thanks several hours before. "Thank you."