The Night Mark(66)

“Oh, my God.”

“Don’t think about it,” Carrick said. “That was back in ’13, and we don’t make the gas here. The tender brings the cylinders and we store them. It’s safe—I promise.”

Faye nodded. She didn’t like the thought of living so close to something so explosive, but it wasn’t like 2015 was without its dangers. She’d driven a two-ton death machine every day of her life since she was sixteen years old. Even in 2015, cars ran on gasoline and caught fire and blew up. Nothing and nowhere and no time in existence was without some sort of risk.

“The room below the lantern room is the one we were just in,” Carrick said. “It’s the watch room. I guess it’s called the watch room because that’s where the keeper keeps watch.”

“I buy that.”

“That’s where the clockwork is, as you saw. It turns the rotors that the light sits on. And the counterweights drop all the way to the lighthouse floor.”

“I didn’t see any counterweights.”

“Did you see that metal tube running all the way down the center of the staircase?”

“I did. I thought it was some kind of support beam.”

“Young lady, this lighthouse is cast iron and brick. The stones are two feet by three feet and take ten men to lift. And inside the stone is copper rebar wrapping this lighthouse tight and holding it together like a corset. It doesn’t need a support beam. That metal tube houses the counterweights as they slide down and turn the light. Then we turn the crank, like winding a grandfather clock to keep it running all night.”

“I stand corrected. I never intended to disparage the might and solidity of this manly edifice.” She matched Carrick’s feigned Southern accent with one of her own.

“You are forgiven your lapse in common sense. I’m sure a young lady like yourself was simply overwhelmed by the sheer majesty of this monument.”

Faye shook her head. Ridiculous man. “So how tall exactly is this majestic monument?”

“Well, that depends,” he said. “Are we counting the height from the floor to the top of the lightning rod? Or are we counting from sea level up to the light?”

“From the base to the tip,” she said, and Carrick cocked an eyebrow at her.

“About eighty-seven feet. Impressive, isn’t it?”

“Impressive enough to give a lady the vapors. Hunting Island’s light is bigger, though, isn’t it?”

“It’s taller, I suppose,” Carrick said dismissively. “Mine’s wider.”

“Width matters, does it?”

“So I’ve been told. Mine is also younger and will likely last a lot longer.”

“Are we still talking about the lighthouse?” Faye asked.

“I have no idea what we’re talking about anymore,” Carrick said, taking her face in his hands.

“Maybe we should stop talking, then,” Faye said.

“Bad idea,” Carrick said, but kissed her anyway.

Carrick kissed her, kissed her good and hard, kissed her until she couldn’t breathe and kissed her until she didn’t want to. She would have let him go on kissing her all night except he kissed her from her lips to her ear and then whispered a word.

“Faith...”

It hit her like a bucket of ice-cold water. She wasn’t Faith. Faith was dead and Carrick didn’t know it. It wasn’t right to mislead him. Faye had a choice. She could either tell Carrick the truth or she could stop letting him kiss her.

“Stop,” Faye said. Carrick stopped. Faye gave him a weak smile. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he said, panting.

“Kissing you is too easy,” she said. Her head spun like a top. She felt faint and dizzy and happy all at once. “I keep forgetting who you are.”

“I keep forgetting myself, too,” he said.

“Go on,” Faye said. “Tell me more about the lighthouse.”

“Better call it a night before I do something I shouldn’t. Again,” he said. He stood up straight and put his back to the railing, to the ocean. He looked so beautiful in the starlight and the lamplight—strong and handsome and dependable.

“I want to stay,” she said. “You know you get lonely up here, don’t you?”

“Lonely? Me?” He shook his head. “Never. I have Ozzie.”

“Ozzie?”

Carrick put two fingers in his mouth and whistled. Faye heard the sound of metal rattling, and seemingly out of nowhere, a small gray cat materialized at Carrick’s feet.

“The Great and Terrible Ozzie,” Carrick said, picking up the cat and carrying him into the watch room. “Principal rat catcher and lighthouse sentinel.” He pulled a bit of food from a tin and fed it to Ozzie. The food looked and smelled like dried fish. “And a rascal. Caught him pissing off the gallery last night. Watered the plants ninety feet down.”

“That’s quite a skill,” Faye said. “You would never do that, I’m sure.”

“Course not. Well, maybe no more than once a night. Depends on how much coffee I had. But he doesn’t drink coffee. No excuse.”

“Don’t listen to him, Ozzie.” Faye stuck her hand out, and Ozzie pushed his head into her palm. She picked him up, and he let her hold him, purring loud enough she could hear it over the roar of the spinning lens. “You can piss off the lighthouse whenever you want. My Lord, you are loud.”