He’s rehearsed it a dozen ways in the past two weeks, how he’ll act when she finally shows up on his doorstep, tail between her legs. In most scenarios, he’s magnanimous: she might cry a little, say how sorry she is for absconding in the middle of the night and making them all worry; he’ll pull her into his arms and tell her all is forgiven, that he’s just happy to have her home safe. Everything will be just like it was before—better, even, now that they can put all of the stuff from the past couple of months behind them. He’ll be more gratuitous with his praises and trust her more with her Talent, he vows. Maybe he’ll even try being more open with her. Yes, he’ll do just that.
But then his gaze falls on the necklace hanging on his dresser, its diamond twinkling in the lamplight. His jaw clenches and he gives into his lesser instincts. He imagines making her beg. “Let’s take a walk and discuss this,” he’ll say, before bringing her to the cafe for a do-over. He’ll keep a level head, listen coolly to her apologies before solemnly agreeing to let her come back.
Bitterly, he tears his eyes away and looks at the ceiling. He’s replayed their argument over and over, trying to find where he misstepped. He knows he shouldn’t have gotten so angry, but she was being stubborn and obstinate in the way that always drives him mad and, well, he’s getting worked up again just thinking about it. He hates losing. Clenching his fists, he digs his nails into his palms, willing the feeling to subside. The truth is, if he knew where she was, he would be the one at her door apologising, begging her to come back and fill the hole in his chest that caved in when she left.
He shakes his head. Hadn’t he basically tried that already? She had rolled her eyes when he tried to give her a raise, vehemently rejected the idea that he fire Holly. He already poured out his heart to her down in the basement of Aickmere’s. None of it mattered. She had rejected every single thing he offered. No, the next time he sees her, he needs to pull out all the stops, give her something she can’t refuse.
He loosens his tie and opens the drawer to fold it away. On top is the one she gave him the year before. Gently, he runs his fingers over the smooth, blue fabric, remembering the way her eyes always lit up when he’d wear it. Letting out a sigh, he shoves the tie down to the bottom of the box, along with the memory. He had been so sure she’d be home by Christmas.
Outside, the bells at St. James ring. It’s midnight. Lockwood looks out the window down Portland Row. There isn’t a soul on the street. “Happy New Year, Lucy,” he whispers. He clicks the light off.
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