The Lighthouse

The coach left Mara 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 Mara had read swore there should be one.

She pulled her 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 harbor road smelled of tar and frying fish. Sailors nodded at Mara without slowing, and a woman mending nets watched her pass with green eyes that gave away nothing. At the far end, a crooked sign creaked: THE GANNET — ROOMS.

The Gannet was warm and half-empty. The innkeeper set down a cloth when Mara came in and said, before she 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." She had not said a word about any keeper. The fire popped. Out the window, the tower stayed dark.