Chapter 5

Alba bathed in silence.Mind racing, gazing down at his hands any time there was a pause in scrubbing his skin. He'd definitely only imagined it. It was only the exhaustion weighing heavy on his eyes.

He focused on cleaning the sweat from his skin, his hair. He drained the shallow tub and dressed in his new work clothes, then forced himself to return to the storage room with the trap door. Pulling it open, his heart pounded in the back of his throat—but whatever he thought he saw, he reassured himself with proof to only be the hard petals of barnacles. No fingernails. Nothing of the sort. Alba only needed a good night's sleep—and he grimaced at knowing it wouldn't come until morning, after his first night of tending to the lantern.

He left a note on the table stating where to find him, just in case his mother came while he was away. His handwriting trembled as he struggled to hold the pencil still. In anticipation, in anxiety, in hopes she would.

With an oil lantern in hand, he stepped into the darkening evening light, pausing to listen, gazing up at the gallery of the younger sister lighthouse. He'd already grown accustomed to the constant sound of her gears while in the house, only hearing them again as he gave them thought. Just loud enough to rumble over the wind, over distant stormy thunder, the waves against the rocks. But, to his curiosity, there was no gleam of light from the lens at the top of her tower.

Perhaps the fuel basin had run out, despite Eugene's promise. Alba grimaced at the thought of the amount of wear on the gears without anyone to keep an eye on them, limping through the rising storm toward the base of the shorter tower.

Through the door, the tower's belly was dim, walls lined with boxes of scattered replacement parts and other supplies. Overhead, Alba could see the floor of the platform beneath the gallery, two long ropes of counterweights hanging like the discs of a grandfather clock waiting to be wound.

Unmoving, despite the constant noise. His curiosity turned to frustrated confusion, forcing himself to continue as normal, anyway. He'd already imagined one strange thing while not paying attention, he wasn't eager to be another wickie gone mad before even the first night was over.

He'd expected to be hit with the smell of whale oil, that less-than-appealing waxy stench that always left a bad taste in his mouth—but instead, a fresh, minty scent clung to the air like herbs drying in the sun. He recalled again what Eugene said about their lighthouse using a special kind of fuel brought from the city up the coast, searching for the storage containers, eventually gazing down into a drum filled with solidified oil like in other lanterns he'd worked.

It was indeed far different from anything else he'd ever seen—white, pearlescent, silky under his fingers unlike the slippery, smelly residue left by whale fats. The sweetness of the aroma even tempted him for a lick, somehow sure it tasted like sugar, but he resisted. He wasn't going to go mad so quickly.

Using a spatula to scoop a bulb of solid oil onto the hot plate next to it, Alba melted down what he needed to fill the tin bucket on the floor, screwing the lid on tight before facing the height of the stairs. Sighing, he adjusted the grip on his cane in his hand, tapping the end against the bottom-most step as if to reassure himself the way was sturdy. The sound echoed off the curved walls all the way to the top, warning the lantern he was on his way.

The initial hiketook longer than Alba expected with the stiffness of his leg, but at least once he made it, actually tending to the lantern came naturally. Summoning habits from so many lonely months tending to similar lights up and down the coasts in the north, sometimes with a crew of men, sometimes all alone as a form of punishment. He even found a strange comfort in trimming and lighting the wick inside the massive, domed fresnel lens, appreciating the way the cut glass warped the outside world into ribbons of color from inside.

He wound the dangling counterweights, watching the gears on the lantern table creak to life and begin rotating as the weights dipped slowly to the floor far below. Alba greased the gears between their teeth, next; he walked the circular floor of the gallery to gaze through the glass at the dark horizon outside, noticing the attention to detail from the previous tender when wiping them down. Even the vents overheard were brushed clean, which meant he wouldn't suffocate on fuel and mercury fumes by sticking around too long. Another relief, as he wasn't sure he'd actually be able to make it all the way back up the stairs again if he returned to the ground floor. He opted to stay where he was for the remainder of the night, making a note of amenities to bring with him the next time.

He tried not to look out the weatherglass too much in search of someone rowing their way through the dark water to see him. Someone with dark blonde hair pinned back in a familiar pearl and mermaid-plated pin.

He tried to focus on the work, on finding things to busy his hands and his mind.

He wiped dust from the lantern as it slowly turned, keeping his eyes lowered so the beam wouldn't blind him, warmed by the heat of the glass from the flame inside.

He oiled the crank of the counterweights to subdue the high-pitched noise with every turn to reel them back up again.

He sat on the metal floor beneath the gallery, leaning back against the stone wall and allowing himself just a few moments to close his eyes. The counterweight dropping to the full length of the cord let out a loud clang each time, so even if he did accidentally fall asleep, it would never be for long.

Finding the previous lighthouse keepers' log hidden beneath a pile of cleaning rags, Alba smirked at the words Moon Harbor, Whitesand Cove Lighthouse printed on the front in faded gold ink. Final proof that he was at least in the place where his mother's telegram was sent from.

Flipping through the most recent pages, Alba found further proof of what the Bluecastle Township clerk and Eugene himself had described—the constant churn of lighthouse keepers over the course of years, one right after one another with none ever staying to see the start of a new month.

To Alba's disappointment, none ever wrote of anything to hint at what made them so eager to leave, except the occasional mention of strange shadows in the corners of the house, the sound of singing from far off at sea, one even writing long diatribes about how tending to the lighthouse at Moon Harbor was akin to trapping a rabbit in a cage, lured by dandelions and fed to evil clustered in doorways that refused to let anyone leave.

The last entry from the most recent keeper made his breath catch. His fingers trailed over the written words, delicate but practical. Not the pen of a charm school graduate, but still a nib held between thoughtful fingers. The style reminded him—of his mother. Had there been any indication of a name, or even initials beneath each dated entry, he would have known for sure, but whoever they were, they left notes as vague as all those before them.

An itemized list of supplies in the cupboards and store rooms. Mentions of things like shadows and a strange wind; finding a dead fish in the rainwater cistern; how gulls tried to fly into the house through the storage-room trapdoor they kept tightly shut from the first day they arrived. They mentioned how surprised they were at the lack of life in the harbor, how they'd expected to find so much more from what they knew of the last time they were there. Alba tried not to see too much into the words, but he couldn't help it.

If the lighthouse had been where his mother was hiding before he arrived, where had she gone?

Was she the one who draped shells on the doorknob while he was inside? Why would she hide from him? Were there other rooms he hadn't found in the house, yet? A cellar? A loft in one of the out-buildings? But Eugene himself said the last lighthouse keeper ran off like the rest of them…

The closer he looked at the list of supplies, the more he realized they seemed more like the scribblings of someone preparing to leave. Not on impulse, like all the others, but on purpose. Writing down how much money they had on hand. On another page, a list of the best choice of foods for traveling, and how they needed new boots that were better suited for the wilderness. Lists scattered throughout other standard information logs, checklists and small notes to prepare for what would come, only for the final note to come the morning before the full moon.

Alba's heart thumped. He dug into his jacket pocket, removing the telegram, as if he hadn't already memorized it.

FULL MOON. His heart sank. Had she—already gone? Did the message take longer to reach him than she expected? Did he take too long getting there to meet her?

Had he really—missed his mother entirely?

He slammed the log book shut, tossing it away. He stared down at the telegram, grinding his teeth together in a mix of frustration and the childish urge to burst into tears. But he wouldn't cry. He had work to do, and he wouldn't cry, and he wouldn't lose all the hope he'd collected over a decade in a single moment of something he might have been making up from strings he didn't know were even meant for him written into a logbook with no proof of his mother ever being there at all?—

Pressing his palms into his eyes, he pushed hard until colors and lights popped in his vision. He held his breath until he couldn't, long enough to wipe every thought from his mind except the need to inhale.

He re-wound the counterweights. He wiped down the hot lens again. He threw down dirty washrags from the top of the stairs so he could launder them before the next night.

His mother hadn't left him. She wouldn't have left him so quickly, without any warning, without even giving him a chance. She would not have gone anywhere without a hint of where he could follow. They always promised to meet in Moon Harbor, damnit, even if he only recently learned its name—and she wouldn't have grown impatient after only a few weeks of waiting for him. Not after an entire decade of waiting for him before that.

The writing in the log book could have very well been anyone. He'd come to the right place, and he knew it, and he was imagining her in places she'd never gone because he was so eager to see her again it practically deluded him.

She hadn't left him. Or if she had—she would come back. She would come back for him. Or he would go looking for her. The full moon—yes, the full moon. If he found nothing else before then, he could do as all the lighthouse keepers before him and vanish the night of the full moon to return to the road and continue searching for Edythe Marsh.

He would search for her in that town as much as he could until then. He would be patient and he would wait. He would seek out clues in all the places she might have left them. He would search every corner of his mind, his memories, for anything he might have missed that would be so obvious once he realized his mistake.

He would not give up hope. There had been so many other opportunities to give up hope, times it would have made far more sense, and that was not one of them. He would not give in to distress. He would not be driven mad by strange winds or shadows in the corners of rooms or fingernails caught in barnacle nests under trapdoors.

Alba tucked the telegram back into his jacket. He continued the rest of the night's work, allowing himself hardly another thought.

Edythe Marsh did not come lookingfor him in the lighthouse while he tended to it. While new discoveries should have made that an unfortunate possibility, Alba could still barely swallow the disappointment.

As the sun rose, lightening the sky to a dull blue and indicating the end of his shift, he let the weights unwind and doused the lantern before staring at the little town clustered on the shore a mile away. The beach was hardly more than a black ribbon from so far away, so high up. He realized the irony of it being called Whitesand Cove, though couldn't summon even the tiniest twitch to the corner of his mouth in amusement.

Making his way down the stairs, he double-checked the lid on the oil container before stepping out into the crisp morning air. Eager for a chance to sleep and nothing else, there were few things that could make him pause before heading straight for the house—and it was the sound of humming coming from somewhere so nearby it made goosebumps flush his arms.

He nearly bolted on old sailor's instinct—but forced himself to think, first. The sound of the hum wasn't drawing him anywhere, wasn't any more tempting than the aroma of warm bread on a cold day. Grounding himself into that reassurance, he took a step forward, then another, then moved swiftly to search the exterior of the house, finally finding what he hoped to be the source.

Fluted pipes, just like those on the buildings in the town. They whistled loud enough to pierce through the melancholic fog hanging over his mind, and he gave in to a different sort of temptation to get a closer look.

The craft of the instruments was stunning, delicate and intricate, silver metal inlaid with thin swirling motifs up and down the shafts. Even the bolts securing them to the wall were shaped like seashells. He didn't know how they, or any of those in town for that matter, created such a nuanced sound with only the wind to play them, but he'd never been one who understood instruments or music much more than to simply enjoy it. His mother knew how to play the flute, always saying it was the best way to summon a mermaid, but Alba had never been keen on learning, himself. Likely for the best, as he later learned even a passive whistle while sailing could very well doom every soul on board. Perhaps because the sound might summon sirens, no different than his mother promised.

He couldn't help a little tune that tweeted between his lips, cracking a smile as the wind answered through the pipes as if complimenting him. He whistled further, and the wind responded, distracting him from the pit in his gut, harmonizing with the sound as if it knew exactly what notes he would offer before he did—until a third song joined them, and ice flooded his veins.

Turning, Alba searched the outside of the house, then the narrow corridor of beach grass between the quarters and the rocky edge of the land. With a sinking feeling, he dared himself to search the horizon last—and out in the dark water, a white spot lingered amongst the endlessly cresting waves.

Hair like silvery spiderwebs swept gracefully in and out on the water, swirling around a pair of equally pale, broad shoulders, while the continuation of its humming song combined to make it impossible for Alba to look away. Still—he managed a step back. He didn't know what it was, too far to see clearly—he only knew he had to turn his ear away. The creature seemed to realize, to sense Alba's resistance—because it suddenly extended two arms and dipped forward.

Toward him. It was swimming toward him.

Alba's body flared hot, moving on its own, stumbling backward before whirling on heel and rushing for the house. As soon as he did, the song of the sea-creature found him again, more intensely that time, gripping him over every inch. Like a net cast over his being, it hooked the bends of his arms, his knees, the nape of his neck, and pulled. It tugged at the back of his throat, the base of his spine, his navel, attempting to draw him back. To lure him to return. That thing in the water was singing out to him—and for the first time in his life, Alba was tempted by it.

Fear crashed through him. Bright and sharp enough to make his ears ring, to break the spell just long enough to stumble around the corner of the house and toward the door.

He slammed it shut behind him, locking it, breathing sharply with his hands pressed to his ears, until the pull on his body faded enough that he was sure he crouched on dry land. The floorboards of the house. He was not in the sea, he had not only imagined his own escape from Belmar. From Josiah Warren.

His hands remained fixed over his ears as he hurried on crouched feet into the kitchen, yanking open the cupboard beneath the sink and searching rapidly through the contents for something, anything he could stuff into his ears. Knocking over jars of candles, packets of garden seeds, a bucket of seashells and pearls and fish skulls, until he finally unearthed a roll of cotton bandages. Tearing two pieces away, he shoved them into his ears deep enough that pain bolted up his temples.

He'd never been enticed by the sea before. Not once. To finally know what so many sailors heard before giving in to the call that tempted them—and for it to happen to him while all alone, isolated, with hardly a soul knowing where he was?—

It was nothing but beauty—and dread—and heartbreak, at forcing himself to ignore it. Gut-churning, soul-rocking heartbreak, distressing enough that Alba burst into tears with how badly he wished to turn and race back out to hear it again.