House of Salt and Sorrows(89)

On the table in the center of the small parlor was a hurricane lamp, and I fumbled to find a box of matches. I tried picturing Fisher and Silas in the threadbare armchairs, huddled around the fireplace as they took turns checking on the beacon’s light. Did they play cards to pass the time? Sing songs or tell outlandish tales? The wick flickered to life, its warm glow casting off some of the night’s eeriness.

Armed with the light, we quickly found the ring of iron keys hanging by the back door. As I picked it off the hook, there was a creak above us, as if someone had stepped on an uneven floorboard.

“Silas?” I called out. “Is that you?” I turned to Cassius. “We should go up and check. What if he’s sick?”

“I’ll go,” he volunteered, his eyes finding the rickety stairs leading to the second floor. “You stay here.”

I shook my head as another squeak sounded. “Silas knows me. I should go too.”

Cassius handed me the lantern and picked up a poker from near the fireplace. He swung it low to the ground, testing its weight. “Stay behind me, at least. Just in case.”

“In case of what?” I asked as we crept up the stairs.

“In case it’s not Silas,” he hissed under his breath.

I swallowed a surge of fear as we climbed the last steps.

There were three rooms on the top level. All the doors were closed. Cassius nudged open the one nearest to us. It was Fisher’s empty bedroom.

The next was Silas’s office, crammed full of books and ledgers. An old globe rested beneath a partially open window. As a gust of wind rushed by, the sphere spun around, creaking as it turned on its rusty axis. I prayed that was the noise we’d heard downstairs.

The final room was Silas’s bedchamber. It was almost spartanly bare, except for the stacks of books lining the floor. The plain cotton curtains were pushed back, giving a spectacular view of Old Maude. Directly across from the window was a wide brass bed.

“Oh, Silas,” I whispered, seeing the still form beneath the navy-and-white quilt.

He lay propped up on a pillow, a book open across his chest. His lined and weathered face looked so peaceful, he could have been dozing. But he didn’t move, and there was a sour scent in the air, wrinkling our noses. He probably crawled into bed a day or so ago, after a long night tending the flame, and never woke up.

I looked out the window at Old Maude. She seemed to be anxiously peering in, unable to help her old friend. I hoped his beloved lighthouse had been the last thing he saw before shutting his eyes. Tears welled in my own as I remembered his crooked smile and gruff bark of laughter.

Cassius felt for Silas’s pulse, a cursory gesture, before raising the quilt up over his face. We tiptoed out of the bedroom and carefully shut the door behind us, as though we might wake him.

“We’ll have to send the High Mariner out at first light,” I said once we were downstairs. My voice quavered, thick and sad. “And Fisher too, of course.”

“I’m sorry he’s gone, Annaleigh,” Cassius said, squeezing my shoulder gently. “But it looked as though he lived a good, long life.”

“You don’t think he suffered, do you?”

He wiped the tears from my cheek, pulling me into a hug. “I’m sure he didn’t.”

“Old Maude must have run out of kerosene, and the beacon went out.” I reached into my pocket, feeling for the keys.

“You know how to refill it?”

I nodded. “Silas always had me carry the bucket of oil up the steps. He said young knees could do it in half the time with half the exertion.”

“We ought to hurry, then. Once the storm hits, I won’t be able to get us back to Highmoor.”

I drew my scarf up over my head once more, securing the ends so it wouldn’t blow away. “You can’t travel in storms?”

“Not in lightning. It’s too unpredictable.”

“Then let’s not waste any time.” I palmed the doorknob, poised to run to the supply shed. Silas kept large drums full of kerosene oil there. “Are you ready?”

We stepped out into the wind. The air was even colder now, whistling across the island and whipping snowflakes in our eyes. I unlocked the door, found an old tin bucket, and filled it three-quarters of the way up. The sharp aroma of kerosene burned my nostrils.

“Won’t you need more? I’ll carry it up. Don’t worry about the weight,” Cassius said.

“The tank won’t hold more than this,” I said, shutting off the kerosene spigot. “This will keep the flame going for a handful of days, at least until Fisher can return. Come on.”

We made our way out toward Old Maude, careful to avoid patches of ice on the cliff’s steps. I paused at the threshold, brushing a bit of flying grit from my eye. A gust of wind raced past the lighthouse and slammed the door shut with a loud crash. Startled, I dropped the lantern. The globe shattered, flames greedily flickering across the fuel. There was a burst of light, and we were left in utter darkness.

“I’m so sorry!” I exclaimed, reaching out to feel for Cassius. “The door hit me and—”

“It’s all right,” he said, finding my hand and giving it a reassuring squeeze. “I’m sure there’s another one back at the cottage?”

“We don’t have time. The storm is almost here. There’s a lantern midway up the stairs. I’ll go up and light it. Stay here so we don’t spill any of the fuel.”