The Lighthouse

The coach left Elias at the edge of Saltwick as the light was going, and did not wait to be thanked. The town sat low against a grey harbor, its windows already lit, and out past the last roofs a single tower stood dark against the water — no lamp turning, though every chart Elias had read swore there should be one.

He pulled his collar up against the wind off the sea and considered the two ways down into town: the harbor road, busy and bright, or the quiet lane along the cliff.

The cliff lane was empty and the sea was very loud below. Halfway along, Elias found a bench facing the dark tower and sat a moment, the wind dragging his black hair across his face. Whatever was wrong out there, it had been wrong for a while. Then the lights of an inn drew him on.

The Gannet was warm and half-empty. The innkeeper set down a cloth when Elias came in and said, before he could ask for a room: "You'll be here about the keeper, then. Everyone who comes these last three nights is here about the keeper." He had not said a word about any keeper. The fire popped. Out the window, the tower stayed dark.