The Lighthouse Witches(22)

“Sadly, it wasn’t the first time a child went missing. And it wasn’t the last. About a year after we lost Jamie, another child went missing. A German family. The husband was here doing research at the Neolithic site. Little girl.” She moved her eyes to a corner of the room, lost in a memory. “And then, another child. Wee Cam Maguire. Bonniest lad you’ve ever seen. Seven years old. Mother went out of her mind looking for him. But they never did find him.”

I took this in. “Can I ask a personal question?”

“Of course.”

“If these things keep happening, why do you still live here?”

I asked it gently, hoping not to offend her. She raised her eyebrows. “Well, you can see for yourself how beautiful Lòn Haven is. And I think I inherited some of my mother’s stubbornness. My family has lived here for centuries. If you think I’m going to let something as small as a witch’s curse send me packing, you’ve another think coming.” She rallied, clapping her hands together. “Now then, how about that dram?”


III

I avoided the lantern room after that, with the exception of a quick dash inside to retrieve the paintbrushes I’d left there. I spotted the bones, still on the floor, and darted out again, as though I might be able to erase the whole incident by simply closing my eyes to it.

Finn was already at the Longing when I arrived. He was dressed in overalls, prepping plaster in a bucket. A small radio played heavy metal music. He turned it down as I entered.

“Morning,” he said, lifting a white cardboard box and holding it out to me.

“What’s this?” I said.

“Seeing as you’re a visitor to Scotland, my daughter Cassie and I made some shortbread last night.”

“How kind,” I said. “Thank you.”

A quick bow. “You’re most welcome.”

The shortbread broke the ice, and it felt better to work alongside someone here, especially since Isla’s history lesson had made me feel creeped out by the thought of women in a dungeon underneath us. On the wallpaper table, I spread the pencil outline I’d done of the mural on a sheet of paper. “What is that?” Finn asked.

“Oh, it’s the mural.”

He screwed his face up. “The mural? Bit small, isn’t it?”

“It’s an outline,” I said dryly, and he chuckled.

He stepped closer, looking at it curiously. “What is it? Prince’s new name?”

“I’m just the artist. Mr. Roberts wants it painted, and that’s what he’ll get.”

“Hope he’s paying well enough.”

“Enough to keep my girls in pony magazines.”

“Your girls? How many?”

“Three. My youngest’s seven. Clover. Luna’s nine, and Saffy’s fifteen.”

“Fifteen,” he said with a whistle. “Cassie’s ten and I’m already feeling like I’m in that scene in Jaws. You know, ‘We’re gonna need a bigger boat’?”

“She’s ten? She must be in Luna’s class at school, then.”

“Not at school. She’s still recovering.”

“Recovering?”

He stepped back from the plasterwork, wiped his brow. “She had leukemia last year. That’s, uh, the reason I sold this place. The doctors here said they couldn’t do anything more for her. But I found a doctor in America who had this fancy new treatment. So I took her out there, paid for the treatment. And, uh, she’s still here.”

I could tell he felt awkward telling me this. He was sharing with me, and not just the news of his daughter’s illness, either—he had given up his inheritance for her.

I asked how Cassie’s mother felt about it and he told me she wasn’t around, and hadn’t been for a long time. It was rare for me to meet another single parent. I met a lot of people who co-parented, managing the difficult task of ferrying their kids from one home to another, dividing holidays and finances. It was a hard job, to be sure—but a single parent, an honest-to-God buck-stops-with-me single parent was a rare species. And yet, here was Finn, another of my small tribe. He knew the language. He knew the grind of it.

A song came on the radio. “Waterloo.” Finn bent down and fiddled with the dial, finding another channel.

I smiled. “I thought you liked ABBA.”

He looked up, catching my meaning. “Ah. You mean the other night. You heard that, did you?”

“I did.”

“It was on the car radio and I got it stuck in my head. I’m not a fan. Promise.”

“OK.”

He flicked his hair back in a camp flourish. “I might do a wee bit of karaoke in my front room every now and then, with my feather boa and my sequined leg warmers, maybe my silver knee boots. Other than that, I’m against them.”

I laughed. “My lips are sealed.”

He wiggled his hips, and I laughed louder.

“So, since we’re sharing,” he said as I was testing out the cherry picker. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“What really brought you to Lòn Haven?”

“The job, of course.”

“You can’t tell me you came all this way to paint this god-forsaken lighthouse. Especially during a school term.”