Jonathan Stroud

lan F,’ he said. ‘We follow Plan F, right now.’
I looked at him. ‘Is that the one where we run away?’
‘Not at all. It’s the one where we beat a dignified emergency retreat.’
‘You’re thinking of Plan G, Luce,’ George grunted. ‘They’re similar.’

‘You’re a girl,’ Lockwood called. ‘Aren’t you meant to be more sensitive?’
‘To emotions, yes. To nuances of human behaviour. Not necessarily to secret passages in a wall.’
‘Oh, it’s much the same thing.

The shape neither shrank nor changed, nor became vaporous, nor departed, nor did any of the other things the Fittes Manual claims they’ll do when you give them hope of release.

‘Really?’

‘No. I’m being ironic. Or is it sarcastic? I can never remember.’

‘Irony’s cleverer, so you’re probably being sarcastic.

I stared at him. ‘For a minute there I thought you’d been listening to George.’

‘Lucy, I’ve not been listening to George.’

Take it from me, if you had to choose between him and a basketful of supercute puppies to toss out of a sinking hot-air balloon, it would have been the pups sent spiraling down to earth

“We call it…the Creeping Shadow.”

He sat back and surveyed us with triumphant, hard-eyed finality, as if expecting us to utter groans and gasps of terror, throw ourselves off our seats, and roll on the floor in panic with our legs wiggling in the air.

Lockwood and I stood transfixed at the top of the bank.

Then I realized he was still holding my hand.

He realized it at the same instant. Our fingers kind of fell away, swinging back into vigilant positions at our work belts, ready to seize a salt-bomb or rapier at a moment’s notice. Lockwood cleared his throat; I pushed my hair out of my eyes. Our boots did small, intricate shuffles on the frosty ground.

“What the heck was that?” I said.

“The Shadow?” Lockwood glanced at me from under his bangs. “Of course the Shadow…” He shook his head.

‘That’s nice to know,’ Lockwood said. ‘George will bear it in mind. Now, how can we help you in our present capacity as professional psychical investigation agents?’

Somewhere in London a chained boy impatiently awaited death. The first stars showed in the sky.