House of Salt and Sorrows(90)

Faint starlight filtered through the lighthouse from the gallery windows above. The spiral staircase’s railing was barely visible. I grabbed it and felt around with my foot for the first step, then the next, and the next after that.

Keeping one hand on the railing to secure myself in the dark void and the other on the rough stone wall, I felt around for the lantern.

I was about twenty steps up when something grazed my hair, a phantom caress that jerked me to a stop.

“Dance with me,” whispered a soft voice just behind my ear.

“Cassius?” I called out. Had he decided to come up too, rather than wait on the light?

“Yes?” His voice came from below me, in the center of the shaft.

Gripping the railing, I waved my other hand around in the dark, certain I would hit another person’s—another thing’s—body and scream. But there was nothing, only the cold, moist air.

“Dance with me,” the voice repeated beseechingly.

“Do…do you hear that?” I asked, struggling to keep my voice level.

“I can’t hear anything over that wind,” he answered. “Should I come up?”

When my fingers brushed against the small globe of glass, I wanted to cry with relief. I fumbled open the lantern door and found the wick. Just before I struck a match against the wall, I had an awful premonition when I did, the Weeping Woman would be there in front of me. I pictured myself, startled, falling down the metal stairs and ending in a jagged pile of broken and bloody limbs.

But it was just me, and as the wick flared to life, a soft glow of light warmed the stairwell. Cassius was looking up at me, bucket in hand.

“Are you all right?” he asked, stepping around the glass shards from the broken lantern.

I nodded. “My imagination just got the better of me for a moment.”

He headed up the spiral steps, hauling the kerosene. “I shouldn’t wonder after everything that’s happened tonight. Where are we taking this?”

I pointed up the shaft of the lighthouse, where the stairs curved around and around, narrowing in on themselves at the top like the tightly curled body of a seashell. “All the way up to the watch room. The beacon’s base is in there.”

He put the heavy bucket down for a moment and wiped his brow. “Lead the way.”



* * *





I set my lantern on the watch room’s table and checked the beacon’s tank. It was empty.

“We have to crank the piston back up, then put the kerosene oil in,” I explained, spinning the handle. Once the weight was raised, I had Cassius pour the oil in, then reset the weight. “The piston presses the oil up through the pipe here,” I said, showing him the copper tube running up to the burner in the gallery room. “As the wick burns the oil, it’s replenished by the tank.”

“Until it runs out,” Cassius said, setting down the bucket.

“Exactly. Now we just need to light the burner, and the beacon will be back.”

Cassius peered out one of the windows, eyeing the storm. “We should have just enough time.”

“Stay here in case I need the piston lowered again to get the kerosene flowing,” I instructed, leaving the lantern with Cassius as I scurried up the stairs.

The gallery was a mess of dark shadows, but I found my way to the beacon and the lamp. Wrapping my skirt around my fingers—oils from my skin would cause the glass to heat unevenly and shatter—I slid the plate aside and lit the wick. It sputtered to a start, flickering as the kerosene pushed up from below. Once the flame was full and unwavering, I put the glass back in place and studied the rotating mirrors. They ran on a pendulum system, much like a grandfather clock.

“How does it look?” Cassius called. The beacon’s flame offered me just enough light to see him through the opening in the floor.

I knelt down, pointing through the hole. “See those chains near you? Hoist the weights all the way up and then flip the catch. That will start up the mirrors, sending out the flash of light.”

Squinting into the dark, I watched him work, checking the wick every few seconds to make sure it was still going strong. I tilted one of the glasses, instantly blinding myself as the room burst into light, amplified by the series of mirrors.

“It’s working!” I exclaimed, rubbing my eyes. Dozens of brightly colored dots flashed across my vision, making it impossible to see. I heard Cassius on the stairs, coming up to see our work. “Watch out for the flash,” I warned. If Silas were here, he would have fallen over laughing at so amateur a mistake.

“Annaleigh?”

I caught the note of concern in Cassius’s voice. Squinting, I could just barely make out his form on the stairs. Stars danced around him.

“Annaleigh, come to me.”

“What? Why?”

He was staring past me, looking at something huddled at my ankles. I turned, and a shriek ripped from my chest, splitting the world in two.

There, on the floor, twisted with rigor mortis and darkened with decay, was Fisher.





My knees hit the wooden planks as I crumpled to the floor. I tried to cover my mouth, but nothing would stop the guttural, choking screams from pouring forth. Fisher’s neck was wrenched horrifically to the side, his joints splayed in unnatural angles. Milk-white eyes stared back at me from sunken sockets. I knew they couldn’t actually see me, but they seemed to plead for release.