"It really takes a lot -especially in our line of work- for me to feel alive, but you do that for me, Vivienne."
When psychically gifted Vivienne Salvatore is forced to flee to London from her home up north, she stumbles upon a "prestigious" agency...
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It's safe to say George and Lucy weren't thrilled when Miss Salvatore and I finally returned home that morning (several hours later than we'd agreed), and saw the five fresh stitches on the side of her head, along with her blood-stained blouse.
At least I think it was five. I've tried to avoid looking at them because, each time I do, the moment replays in my mind: the sound of the book colliding with her head, the sound of her body crashing to the ground, then me calling her name as I desperately shake her awake, then the blood.
All as I remained completely unscathed.
Being an agent, I'm no stranger to blood. I've been sliced in training and nicked myself reaching hidden Sources countless times...But this was different.
The fact that it was her blood. She was hurt.
Not to mention that the whole ordeal was my fault. I chose the door, despite her guidance not to. I'm her boss; I should've been looking after her, not making decisions that get her knocked to the ground and bleeding from the head.
When we returned to Portland Row, I held the front door open for her, meaning she made it into the kitchen first. In those few moments, Lucy had seen her stitches, half-finished her mouthful of toast, and stormed her way to the front door, seeing as she was directly behind me when I turned around.
We'd caught her at the worst possible time: when she'd only just woken up, meaning she was under the effect of her usual morning grumpiness.
Everyone in the house had learnt it was best not to even talk to her for at least the first hour for the sake of keeping their head attached to their body.
By 'everyone', I really mean me and George, because the grumpiness never extended to Miss Salvatore. Not even once.
I figured it was just a girl thing.
Well, Lucy made sure to give me a good grilling. She followed me from the foyer to the kitchen, shouting the entire time. Lucy was small —shorter than me and George, but taller than Miss Salvatore— yet her voice and anger carried surprisingly well.
I'd learnt to tune it out. When Lucy started yelling in the mornings, she often said quite rude things in the heat of her anger which —for the sake of your own self-esteem and friendship— were best to ignore.
