Lucy doesn't like the quiet. She thinks it should be a relief. That she should be comforted by the gentle stillness of the attic bedroom, when so much of her life is filled with the clamoring of lost souls. But she doesn't know how to read the absence of sound. There's no solace in it. Instead, it feels like the calm before the storm, a lingering sense of impending doom. The instant before the other shoe drops.
She's most relaxed in the hazy, early hours when she lies in bed and listens to George and Lockwood already up, filling the house with mundane sounds. George clattering away in the kitchen, the calming whoosh of the shower running, the whistle of the teapot, the way they speak in low, relaxed tones to each other, familiar good-natured banter warming the air. This is the safest Lucy has ever felt. These are the sounds of a full life.
