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Chapter 6

If Edythe Marshcame while Alba slept, he would not have heard it. She would have found him, though, he knew. She would have pulled the cotton from his ears, shaken him awake, flicked his nose then pressed a finger to the tip of it so he'd pay attention to the list of chores she had for him.

Instead, he woke alone to the early afternoon sun through the window. The first time he'd ever woken up alone, he realized, which perhaps was why it took him so long to pull his ghost back into his body and recall where he was.

He laid there disoriented for a long while, first by the overcast blue sheen on the air, then by the swollen dryness in his mouth. His lungs felt like they cracked with every sharp breath, dry as chalk and heavy in his chest. Groaning, he finally attempted to roll over, blinking a dozen times before slumping off the side to his knees on the floor.

The wash basin below the window was still empty, so he had no choice but to drag himself down the stairs to the kitchen, where he cranked the water pump with a chorus of miserable grunts until clear water finally spurted out. He drank greedily from the spout like a feral animal in the woods, having to pump more and more and more as he couldn't get enough to quell the desert festering in his stomach. Only after swallowing enough that he thought he might burst did he finally straighten up again and wipe his mouth, reclaiming a few of his senses from the swirling exhaustion clouding his thoughts.

The effort had made a mess of the water, a puddle of it gathered on the floor under his feet and soaking his socks. He grabbed a hand towel to wipe it up—only to realize the water was more than a puddle at his feet. It was a trail, dripping in a scattered path of movement from the bottom of the stairs, to the sink where Alba stood, to—the door of the storage room, where it disappeared beneath the crack.

His heart thudded. He hesitated a moment, before limping stiffly to the door. On the other side, the hatch sat wide open, something heavy in the water below clanging loudly against the rocks as if the tide no longer wanted whatever it was. But the question of the object was nothing to Alba's ringing ears, staring only at the trenches carved into the edge of the wooden floor.

Claw marks of something heaving itself from the sea into the house, its trail of water the only indication it'd ever gone back again.

Alba kicked the lid shut with a bang and a clatter of the metal ring. Breathing heavy, he stared down at it for another moment, before closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose. He turned and closed the door behind him, stopping again to gather his bearings.

He first thought his heart pounded loud enough to ring in his ears, before realizing it was the rhythmic clang of the lantern turning overhead. Just like the day before—only that time, he was sure he'd put her to rest that very morning at sunrise. She shouldn't have made a single sound.

Another bang crashed from the storage room, making Alba shout and stumble back, tripping over one of the chairs and hitting the floor. Another bang, and the storage room door flew open—revealing a crab pot with what appeared to be catch inside, slammed through the closed hatch and dribbling water in every direction over the floor.

Alba could only stare—trying to remember if he'd missed seeing any crab pots the night before. In the water or in the storage room. He was sure there hadn't been, he was sure he'd even looked. He was—he was sure of it. Wasn't he?

Moving slowly, he approached the pot with his heart racing. Nudging the front gate open, he risked a glance, then carefully tucked his hand inside.

A single crab waited for him—but as Alba pulled it out, his stomach knotted when he realized it was mostly empty shell. The meat had been carved out, or perhaps rotted away, revealing the polished cavity inside. Its outside was printed with lines of seaweed stuck fast to the toothy exterior, barnacles petrifying one of its claws in place. Legs sprouted in every direction from the same holes in the sides, more growing like fingers from the joints of others.

Despite resembling a desiccated corpse—the creature hissed a bubbling sound, pinching at Alba with a claw donning a third joint. Alba yelped, dropping it in surprise, a few of its malformed legs snapping off as if made of brittle sandstone—and continuing to writhe against the floorboards. He kicked them back into the water, followed by the rotten crab itself, heart pounding in his ears.

There was something else in the pot, but Alba didn't risk thrusting his hand inside with the same courage as the first. What waited at the bottom was not a crab at all, but what remained of the flipper of a harbor seal, stringy viscera dangling from the detached end. The flesh between the bones hidden inside was thin, nearly translucent against the dim light coming through the hole in the floor—and Alba quickly tossed it back as well the moment he realized why it unsettled him so much. The joints resembled a hand, webbed and rotting and terrible.

Kicking the pot away, it skittered across the floorboards and plunged through the trapdoor back into the water. He threw himself against the door again, slamming it with a deafening sound before grabbing the kitchen table to shove against it. Outside, the wind picked up, howling through the open hatch on the other side, whistling through the flutes on the house. He closed his eyes, pressing his hands back over his ears again.

He wouldn't lose his mind. He wasn't a wickie driven to sea-madness after only a single day alone.

The trap door banged shut, making the floor shake and muffling the wind. He pressed his hands harder into his ears, until they rang as loud as gears turning on the lantern in the pitch dark of night.

He would not go mad. He would not go mad. He would be patient, he would wait.

His mother used to scold him for always being in a rush, telling him ‘take that bone from your teeth; good things come to those who wait.' And he would. He would wait for her. For the first time in his life, he wouldn't be in a hurry. He would allow his fate to come for him, he would give his mother time to find him.

He would not go mad.

Alba didn't realize exactlyhow many days had passed of maintaining a strict routine to keep himself from spiraling—sleeping, tending to the lantern, ignoring any strange sights in the corner of his eye or the back of his ears—until the clouds parted in the sky for the first time since arriving, and a bright moon beamed down at him as if eager to finally say hello. He knew right away by the size of her—a full moon. He'd been tending to that lantern for an entire week, already, despite barely recalling how a majority of the time passed.

He tried not to get his hopes up. He tried to prepare himself for disappointment. But Edythe's telegram haunted the back of his mind as he went about his work, and soon he couldn't help but hope and hope and hope the FULL MOON mentioned on the telegram was, in fact, a promise that she would return for him after all. Perhaps even that night. Perhaps he'd get his chance to leave that cursed place before the sun rose.

Alba burned away at his jittery impatience by wiping down the weatherglass for the hundredth time that night, when something moved on the dark water below. A tiny flicker of lantern light caught his attention, barely illuminating a rowboat. Manned by a single silhouette, heading straight for the lighthouse rocks.

His nervous heart sprang to life, fighting to keep the rush of emotions at bay, though being quickly crushed beneath them. Who else could it be? Who else would row across the full moon's high, angry tides in such a small boat, just to see him? In the middle of the night, with no one else around?

Alba wanted to hope. He wanted to believe it. He couldn't fathom what else it could possibly be.

Hurrying a little too fast, his foot caught in the ladder leading down to the gallery. He crashed into the metal with a deafening clang and a grunt, but barely felt it.

He wound the cables of the counterweights to buy some time.

He wouldn't wait for her to find the note he left on the table every evening.

He wanted to see her for himself. He wanted to hug her. He wanted to see her and know she was alright, and prove the same for himself. Would she be surprised? Would she be relieved? Would she swat him on the back of the head and call him foolish for what he'd done to find her?

He didn't care—he grinned the whole time he descended the stairs, wishing he could move faster. Wishing his damn leg wasn't so eager to lock up, nearly sending him tumbling all the way down to his death.

Throwing open the lighthouse door, the wind nearly swept him off his feet, but he braced against it. Unable to help another smile splitting his face at the sight of a little rowboat banging against the rocks. He grinned even as the flutes on the house rang out shriller than ever, loud and piercing enough they nearly cut into him like knives.

The sea was high with the constant wind, tide rising higher and higher with the draw of the full moon, waves crashing against the rocks with sprays higher than Alba was tall. No one in their right mind would have chosen to row that far out unless—unless it really was?—

He hurried against the wind, the storming water, fighting the slippery ground and how the grass tangled in the foot of his cane in his hurry. Not realizing he held his breath until he made it to the door of the house, hanging open with lantern light from the other side trickling through the crack.

"Mama?" he gasped upon stumbling inside. He searched for her in the dimness, deafened by the shrieking flutes, the roaring waves, the endless pounding of the hatch in the storage room?—

The man standing in his kitchen turned. Alba didn't have to know his face to know who he was, where he came from—why he was there.

One of Josiah Warren's dogs had finally found him.

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