Chapter Text
In between the evergreen hedges, the trees were coming into leaf across Marylebone Cemetery, Lockwood noticed as he pushed the front gate open. He’d been briefly tempted to go for his old shortcut over the wall. Just to prove to himself that he still could, even with a wraparound carrier strapped to his chest and a kit-bag slung over his shoulder. Lucy would probably turn him into kabab koobideh with his Italian rapier, though, if he ever tried to pull that stunt.
Luce was even grumpier than usual, on account of the constant sleep deprivation. When he’d helpfully pointed out that, as a former agent, she should be used to restless nights and bags under her eyes, she’d thrown them out of the house with a kiss and an eye-roll. ‘I’m now going to take a nice hot bath, followed by my first decent nap in, like, a week,’ she announced, yawning. ‘Don’t you dare to come back before dusk.’
So, there they were, on a short detour to the cemetery, before making their way towards Regent’s Park. Now that London’s graveyards were being declared safe and reopened to the public, one by one, Lockwood had meant to stop by for months. Only, he’d been a bit busy lately. Busy in a very mundane, very unglamorous, not at all life-threatening, yet utterly heart-stopping way.
He glanced down at a sleeping Nelly, who was doing her best to look all rosy and angelic in her pram. He’d better enjoy the peace and quiet while it lasted. That small, smelly lump was a surprising amount of work for someone who still struggled with turning on her back and who’d only recently discovered she could grab at nearby objects on her own. (As George’s glasses, Holly’s ponytail, and several of his ties could all attest.)
Lockwood parked the pram in the shade of a huge cedar and began to rummage around in his old kit-bag for the gardening tools. He wasn’t the first or the only one to have come back, not by a long stretch. A freshly lit candle here, a freshly scrubbed tombstone there, freshly planted beds of flowers in every single row of graves. Something unfurled deep in his chest at the sight, something as tender as the new leaves spreading on the trees, in their startling hues of gold and green. It was unusually hot for early May, and he worked up quite a sweat weeding the gravel path around the family plot and scratching nearly two decades’ worth of bird shit off of Jessica’s angel.
As he went back for his bottled water, a quick look into the pram told him that Nelly was starting to gripe and fuss in her sleep. Lockwood grinned upon seeing Lucy’s familiar scowl on the tiny, scrunched-up face, then braced himself. ‘Here it comes.’ Yup, there it was. He swore he’d heard some Poltergeists and Screaming Spirits making less of a ruckus. ‘Good set of lungs, Nelly,’ he muttered as he swooped the crying baby up into his arms. ‘Must be those excellent genes of yours.’
As long as she was wailing like that, Lockwood at least knew that she was breathing. He still remembered those first few terrifying days after they had come home from hospital. Whenever poor, exhausted Lucy managed to get a wink of sleep, he sat down next to Nelly’s cot, listening for every rustle of her blanket in the dark, for each soft snuffle and puff of air. What if, he couldn’t help thinking, what if there had been some horrible mistake and it would all suddenly just — stop?
Their daughter interrupted that slightly-too-frequent train of thought with all the seriousness it warranted. She spit a bit of sour milk back up, right into his face, then broke into a fit of giggles at his disgusted grimace. Lockwood laughed.
‘Well, if you’re done having a good cry, Nell, I can make the introductions,’ he said and walked down the path with her. ‘Grandma, granddad, Auntie Jess, meet Elinor Lockwood-Carlyle. She‘ll be around more often from now on, I swear.’
As for today, though, they had big plans already, starting with a nice long walk around the zoo.