The Lightkeeper. Susan Wiggs
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while Granger and Jesse drank secretly from a shared flask and tried not to guffaw at the posturing on stage; practicing the newfangled game of baseball while Emily pretended to understand it.
But after that day, a frost hung in the air. Granger became more and more distant. He spent Friday evenings at Madame Fanshaw’s Mansion of Sin rather than in the company of Jesse and Emily. The three of them would never be easy together again.
Emily had recovered first from Thomas Clapp’s insensitive remark. She laughed, cloaking the moment with humor, then said, “If we don’t do this right now, I’m going to uncork this bottle and drink it all myself!”
The last thing Jesse remembered about that day, that glittering day that had changed the course of his life, was the sight of two green bottles swinging through the air, pausing ever so slightly at the top of the arc where the sun shone through the green glass, then shattering against the hull and exploding into a million sun-sparkled bits of emerald.
She was trapped in the dream, and she could not find her way out. It was as if some drug had been fed to her, holding her limbs and head immobile while she was forced to watch and feel things against her will.
The door. An ordinary door of four wood panels and a crystal knob. She sat in a chair opposite the door, watching, waiting.
The door opened. Slowly. She heard the tread of a footstep and the creak of a floorboard, always the same board, always the same tone. Her days had taken on a sameness that was almost comforting in its uneventful boredom.
But today was different. Today she had something to tell him. Something that would make him so happy. He would sweep her up in his arms and whirl her around, and she’d forget all the past slights, all the little unknowing cruelties he’d committed. She would be important to him now. She had something he wanted. Desperately.
A bar of light slanted through the open door. A tall, broad male form came toward her. She waited to see the handsome face, the neatly combed hair held in place with just a little coating of wax, the smile that set her heart to fluttering.
She found herself looking at a stranger. Taller, broader even, than him. And infinitely more frightening.
The light shone from behind, so she only saw his shape, but it was enough to send chills through her. Big shoulders and powerful arms revealed by rolled-up sleeves. Hair that was too long, too wild, flowing like a mane that stirred with the slightest movement.
It was the man who had shot at her earlier. Defying the throbbing pain in the region of her right shoulder, she made the sign of the cross. “Mother Mary and Joseph, help me.”
She heard the rasp of a Lucifer, then an oil lamp on the wall shelf flared to life. Just for a moment, her captor’s face was bathed in radiant gold, and she saw it in fine, exquisite detail, as if she were looking at a painting in church.
A painting of the Dark Angel. There was an icy purity in the blue eyes that made her blood run cold. A high, noble brow and heavy eyebrows. The shape of his mouth was so flawless that she felt the urge to trace it with her finger.
Then the Dark Angel turned and spoke. “Are you awake?”
She burrowed deeper into the covers, holding them to her chin. “And who’s doing the asking?”
He stared at her as if she had sprouted antlers. “Are you afraid of me?”
The words sent her hurtling back in time, back to a place she had risked her life to escape. Don’t be afraid. I don’t want to have to hurt you….
Whimpering, she dived under the blankets and drew her knees up to her chest. It was warm here, and she shouldn’t be shivering, but she couldn’t stop. What a turn she had come to. What an awful, awful turn. She had gotten to a place in her life where she wanted only one thing—to feel safe.
“Ma’am?” The stranger’s voice was low, tentative. Edged with annoyance.
No one had ever called her “ma’am,” as if she were a lady of consequence. The blethering fool, she thought, letting her mind drift like a bit of wood bobbing on the waves. Didn’t he know better?
Feeling like an idiot, Jesse stood with the lamp in one hand, the other hand stretched out toward the shivering mound on the bed. Confound the woman. Couldn’t she make up her mind whether to be awake or asleep?
Tonight, Erik was tending the light. The lad was steady, grinding the gears every four hours as Jesse had trained him to do. But he only allowed Erik to sit watch if the weather held no threat.
Early in the evening, Jesse had gone out to the edge of the promontory and stood for a long time, feeling the wind and tasting the air, watching the rush of clouds across the lowering glow of the sun.
People said his foreknowledge of bad weather was a mystical gift, but he knew it was simply a skill born of long practice. He had learned to read the mood of the sea and the clouds. The first tenet of warfare was to know one’s adversary. He had made a study of it. In the room at the bottom of the lighthouse he had an array of instruments any university scientist would envy—astrolabes and quadrants, barometers and gauges for all manner of measurement.
He was diligent in keeping his log, earning special commendations from the district lighthouse inspector for his attention to detail. Of course, he didn’t do any of this in order to earn commendations.
In the beginning, he’d done it to earn salvation. But after twelve years, he’d given up hoping for that. Now he just did it to survive.
Quietly he replaced the lamp on the wall shelf and stood looking at the hump of quilts and blankets. This was his night to sleep, and here he stood, wakeful and agitated, staring in resentment at the woman from the sea.
Earlier, Palina had brought up a fresh quilt and a jar of strong broth. He had heated some of the broth and set the bowl on the bedside table. “Ma’am?” he said softly. “You should try to eat.”
No response. Setting his jaw, Jesse awkwardly pulled back the blankets to reveal a tangle of hair and a flushed cheek. “Ma’am?” he said again, his voice tighter now, more impatient.
She moaned and shivered again, then turned her head away without opening her eyes. She had slipped back into that state of half sleep.
“Fool woman,” Jesse muttered. “You’re never going to get better if you don’t eat something.” He unfurled the quilt Palina had brought and settled the colorful blanket over the woman.
She stirred, and a small foot emerged from beneath the covers. When Jesse bent to tuck it back in, he was struck by the fine texture of her skin.
In a dark corner of his heart, part of him wondered if she was going to die like everything else he touched.
She released a contented sigh and settled deeper into sleep. The quilt seemed to have a calming effect on her. Ever whimsical, Palina had depicted on the fabric some favored Icelandic myth. This one showed a beautiful mermaid rising out of the sea, borne along on the crest of the boiling surf.
Palina and her myths. She used them to explain everything. She used them instead of simple common sense.
Jesse frowned. Common sense wasn’t working here. In truth, it was all too easy to see the Irishwoman as a creature of myth. She had appeared alone from the sea. She was shrouded in mystery. No one had come searching for her. She wore no wedding ring, yet she was pregnant. The foreign lilt in her voice only added to the mystique that hung around her like the golden glow of a lamp.
She took a deep, shuddering breath that startled Jesse. He hated being startled. He hoped to God that word of her would get out quickly. Bert Palais had promised to circulate the photograph and description as far as his newspaper contacts would reach.
Hurry, Jesse thought, turning down the lamp and walking quietly out of the room. Hurry and get her away from here.
He thought of a time years before when he’d been out yachting with friends.