1816, on an isolated shore
The love of the sea was in her blood, as sure and as fierce as the ocean that fostered it. Born to a lighthouse keeper on a distant rocky shore, the sea had been her constant companion, her one and only true friend. Father may have taught her how to read and write, but it was the sea that taught her how to live.
And it was the sea, too, that showed her that everything had two sides, from the dolphins that both played and killed to the crabs that both hid and attacked to the sea itself that sometimes raged and other times was as still as glass.
And it was the sea that showed her how everyone and everything seemed to have a place and a purpose in this world. Every creature seemed to know what it was meant to do and how to do it. How, she wasn’t sure, especially when they neither spoke nor seemed to have reason, but in the mysteries of life and purpose, it seemed the less one thought, the more one knew.
It was an overcast day when Father passed. The clouds were thick and heavy as though they too wanted to cry but would wait for her to do so.
His passing was unexpected to her. Though she had seen the bowing of his back and the graying of his hair, though she had heard the gravel settling in his voice, his spryness had never left him, not until that final morning when he never woke up.
Diligent keeper that he was, when she checked the flame that morning—for the visibility was low enough that she deemed it should be lit even though the sun had risen—it still burned brightly from the night before. It was only then that she cried—loud and heartily—there on the floor a hundred feet above her beloved ocean.
She buried him on the small patch of dirt where they had buried Mother, so thin plants could scarcely grow.
And though rain fell and the clouds roared, no ships passed. No dolphins played. No fish jumped. No sun shone.
No, on the day of her father’s death, she was utterly and horribly alone.
CHAPTER 1
1821
The sea was angry and the storm had not even hit. Daria had the light lit, and now she stood scanning the horizon. Many storms had come and gone in her time as the lighthouse keeper. She’d seen waves higher than the lighthouse. She’d stood not fifty feet away from the splitting crack of lightning as the sky opened up its vengeance. And she’d rowed her boat out to rescue unfortunate men whose ships had seen shoals on a sea churning fiercer than the bowels of hell. And never had she had such foreboding in her heart as this moment.
Try as she might, she couldn’t figure out the cause. Though the sea looked as gray as the clouds and though the clouds churned as fierce as the sea, she saw not a soul on the horizon. And as long as lightning did not strike down her lighthouse in a blaze, if there were no men to save, then there was no danger.
She stayed up in her tower all day and watched, watched as the mist of waves exploded up off the cliffside. When Father used to man the house, she would go near the edge to watch the splintering of the waves, how they would explode like artwork into the sky and properly drench her, first in water and then in laughter. It was the only regret she had now that she had her father’s position—that she could not simply enjoy the storm.
But the best views were from high above, and it was her duty to help as best as she could. Luckily, shipwrecks were a rare enough occurrence. In five years, she had only needed to leave her station five times. Father had had to even less frequently—at least that she couldremember—maybe eight or so times in sixteen years. His rescues hadn’t always even needed a boat. One time, the shoals had shifted so that Father knew he could walk them like a path and he had followed them to the shipwreck andwalkedthe men out of there.
Not all rescues of course were so easy. None of hers had been.
Gray clouds turned to black ones. At first she mistook it for the approach of nightfall, but with a glance to the sky, her own eyes narrowed. It was still too early and the change had been too sudden. No, this was the clouds, drowning out the sun and its light completely, like the darkness wanted to claim the world as its own.
Wind picked up in the anarchy and the waves eagerly joined in, refusing to miss the fun. They hungrily lapped at the rocks of the shoreline. They drowned the smaller boulders and the jetty to her lighthouse, making her home an island, surrounding her and cutting her off like wolves might their prey.
The waves smashed against her rocky shore, loud as thunder, and exploded into the sky straight up, like they were building fortresses around her. Each wave was taller than the last. Each wave erupted with more anger, like it wanted to drive out her presence, like Poseidon himself had declared war.
And it was then—of course then—that she saw a ship. She knew she should be praying but it was a curse that fell from her lips first instead. It was followed quickly by a prayer. Not now.Please Lord, not now. She wasn’t sure who she was even praying for, herself or them.
They were far enough out that they were still a speck, but they were drawing closer with every second, like a bug to a flame, like the lighthouse was drawing them in rather than repelling as it should. It was stupid surely. They must know a lighthouse in this area meant unforgiving waters. But either they were out of control or the promise of land—unforgiving or not—was too tempting in such a storm.
They still looked upright and she hesitated to move. In her little twenty foot sailboat, it would be suicide to go to them, but if they were to start to sink, she had no choice. She knew the violence of the sea; she could never leave someone to its poison.
They were being tossed up and down worse than driftwood caught in the shore break, but so far they seemed alright.
So far.
It was like her thoughts were cursed. Or maybeshewas, for the boat disappeared behind a wave and then she could see them no more.
Her heart lurched.No.Where?
The waves heaved and thrashed, and for a fraction of a second,she could see it on its side, its masts already fully in the water.
She swore again, louder this time, and scolding herself for her language—since there was no one else to do it anymore—she started descending down the stairs two at a time, suddenly so thankful Father had never insisted she wear skirts.
She bolted down the two hundred stairs and out the door, grabbing her oars and praying her own boat was still safely tethered in its docks.
