PROBLEM - Anthony Lockwood

CHAPTER THIRTY SIX

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xxxvi

can we be friends again

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EIGHT FUCKING DAYS, that's how long it had been since Alice - or Adelaide, as they'd found out - had left.

She hadn't returned, she hadn't called, she hadn't written.

It was like she vanished.

"Even you can't defend her at this point," George declared, shooting Lucy a glance as he washed dishes. "She'd lied and lied and lied and now just dropped us."

Lucy shrugged, scribbling on the thinking cloth and drinking coffee. "I can't get the image of that guy's throat out of my head. Who would do something like that?"

"Hunters," George mused, "Perhaps he's an evil witch. Perhaps they're both evil and they've gone to do witchy things. Maybe he's her ex or something. That would explain Lockwood."

Lucy waved a hand dismissively. "He's unheathily obsessed at this point, it's a miracle she hasn't noticed yet."

"She'd have to be here to notice," George pointed out.

"Oh, ha ha."

"I don't like her."

"You don't like anyone," Lucy countered. She shot him a look. "Why not?"

George shrugged, "She's a liar."

"She's probably got a good reason to lie to us," Lucy replied. "She was kidnapped, George, remember. And I lied to you guys, too."

"But you were abused," George turned to Lucy, leaning against the counter. "And you told us the truth in the end."

"I told you when I felt ready," Lucy sighed, she rested her head in her hands, "She's got her shit, Georgie, we all do. Just give her time. She's got good intentions."

"Even about Fairfax?" George rose an eyebrow, "And why'd she lie to Penelope Fittes? And why'd she lie about her name?"

Lucy groaned, "It's almost two in the morning, please don't make me have this conversation again."

"I don't hate her," George huffed, coming to sit down at the table. "She cooks good biryani, listens to bollywood and makes good jokes. She's a friend. But it's frustrating that she refuses to trust us. We're not gonna hurt her."

"Maybe it's denial," Lucy theorised, "The same way that she denies Lockwood's hardcore crushing on her, she probably denies that we care about her and wouldn't hurt her."

"She needs therapy."

"We all need therapy."

Around an hour later, both Lucy and George had left and gone to bed, and the house was silent when Lockwood had stopped training.

He had dark purplish circles under his eyes and deep inflamed marks in the palms of his hands now.

His sleep schedule was messed up, he was hardly eating and essentially wasting away. He'd begun to spent all day in the basement training swordplay and his life had become a repetitive cycle of wake up, tea, training, tea, shower, sleep, repeat.

He rubbed a towel against his hair and entered his room, clicking on the lights.

"What the fuck?!"

"Language."

Alice sat at his desk, staring at the wall vacantly and despondently. At first glace, she was wearing the same dress as when she left, but then he realised this was a different one as it had a tiny v cutout at the neckline that the last dress didn't have. Her cloak was on the back of the chair and her open hair had a small braid in it on one side.

There was a hollow expression on her face.

Her eyes looked like someone had taken a shovel and dug out her very soul. She had deep dark circles and her skin looked extremely sallow. There was a gaunt look about her that made him instantly realise that she hadn't ate or slept in days.

She looked smaller in a way, like she'd shrunk in on herself. Dimished, in a way.

"I- I didn't hear you come in."

"I came through the window," Alice replied. And sure enough, her pointy shoes were tucked under the window, beside Lockwood's slippers.

"Where were you? Are you okay?" Lockwood whipered, coming over to her.

Alice stood up, but swayed dangerously, holding onto the table. Lockwood's hand shot out to steady her. "I'm fine."

"When's the last time you slept? Or ate?" he demanded, eyes wide and searching her face.

Her eyes were bloodshot and teary, she looked straight past him, shrugging. "The day I left, I guess."

"What? Why?"

Alice shrugged again, his hand was still on her arm and looked down, leaning into his touch, as if she couldn't get enough of it.

"Can I hug you?" she inquired, her voice croaky and quiet. Lockwood had the striking realisation that she'd been crying.

Lockwood didn't answer, instead pulling her into his arms and holding her both gently but as firmly as he could.

Alice rested her head against his chest, screwing her eyes shut as she wrapped her arms around him.

Lockwood closed his eyes, entangling his hand in her hair as she began to cry. He was tired of it now, of keeping her at arms length, of second guessing everything. The past eight days had drilled it into him like a chronic illness. She could lie to him, lie a thousand times, lie forever, but lie beside him, lie alongside him, lie with him. As long as they were together, Lockwood didn't care about her deceit.

He didn't care about what she was, what she'd done, what her name was.

Be a witch, he wanted to say, but be a witch in 35 Portland Row, with us, with me.

Instead, he stayed silent.

Alice was starved. Not just from sustenance, but from affection. From any type of kindness and softness and warmth.

The entire world was cold now. Cold and dead and stone.

The world had died with the rope around Bonny Lizzy's empty, mutilated body. With the scars around Tommy's throat. With the dark streets of Pendle that didn't feel like home anymore.

Nothing felt like home anymore. Not even Portland Row.

Nothing except Lockwood's cologne and the feeling of his arms around her.

She couldn't stay in Pendle, not with everyone she knew and loved dead. And the only survivor - Tom - was a just reminder of everything she'd lost, everything they'd both lost.

He had his mothers eyes. He had Lizzy's eyes.

Her unseeing eyes, that they'd ripped out of her head.

Alice wondered when they'd hang her. Perhaps they'd burn her. Or cut her to peices and carve out her heart for their experiments.

She was ready to collapse, to pass out, to cry herself dead.

Death was better.

End it, the voice in her head urged, use the mirror.

In Alice's bag, carefully wrapped up, was a old, ornate hand mirror. It was cracked, shattered, torn.

It was the mirror that her mother had used to tear open the Veil and cause the Problem.

Tom had given it to her, finding it in Bonny Lizzy's room after the funeral. Alice couldn't find the strength to open the package. She couldn't find the strength to visit her own mother's grave. And she didn't have the strength to close her eyes for the past 8 days and face whatever nightmare she knew would come.

In her dreams, she was 5 years old and watching her parents hang again. She was being dunked in water and then branded by the Society. She was in the Pit, trapped in a hole in the ground, bound by iron bars, forced to survive on rainwater, rats and worms.

End it, the voice in her head urged again. Adelaide Deane.

This time, the voice sounded like her mother.