Thirty-five Portland Row, the home and headquarters of Lockwood & Co., was a very special place.  Whenever the old black front door shut behind me and I saw the welcoming glint of the Aztec crystal skull lantern on the key table, the weight of the world was lifted from me like a conjurer snapping a cloak up into the air.  I'd toss my rapier into the pot we used as an mbrella stand, hang my jacket on a peg, and walk up the hall past the shelves with their odd collection of jars and masks and painted gourds.  If it was daytime, I'd peep into the living room to see if anyone was resting or working there; by night I'd check the library, which was where we tended to crash after a job.  If all was quiet, I'd stroll past the staircase to the kitchen, where the lingering smells of toast (Lockwood) or tea cake (George and Kipps) gave clues to who might be in.  Occasionally, if the tin of dried green tea had been opened, or one or two sunflower seeds lay scattered on the countertop, I knew Holly was around and probably working in the office.  You couldn't always tell, though; she was the tidiest of us, and rarely left such clues.  Most rare of all, an odor of stale kippers and traces of dried river mud kicked off by the back door gave proof that Flo Bones had recently stopped by.

The house was our sanctuary, a refuge from ghosts and other, darker things.  And the happiest times of all were the breakfasts enjoyed after a successful case, with the windows open onto the garden, and the sunlight streaming in.

On such an occasion, the morning after our visit to the Fittes mausoleum, Lockwood, George, and I were sitting at the kitchen table.  Holly had gone out to Arif's store to fetch further supplies; the surface of the table was littered with open jam jars, eggcups, butter dishes, and toast crumbs, but we still felt hungry.  At one end of the table, the ghost-jar was striped by sunlight coming through the blinds.  We had our mugs of tea.  George, who had eaten well, was sitting in his chair with a hideous wooden mask propped up on his lap.  He was using a damp tea towel to wipe the dust off it.  Lockwood had a pen and was doodling on a corner of the Thinking Cloth, the tablecloth on which we noted down ideas, while simultaneously glancing at a newspaper leaning against the ghost-jar.  In the jar itself, the ghost was dormant; the plasm stirred lazily in the late morning sun, like green water in a deep and weedy pool.

I sat quietly next to Lockwood, enjoying the companionable silence.  My muscles ached, my head was cloudy.  Lockwood had a scrape on his left temple, and the lenses of George's spectacles were soft with grave dust.  Our exertions hung heavy on us.  But we had not yet spoken of the night before.