“Storm?” Mr. Croxton rises from his chair, voice pitched up half an octave.
One tendril squeezes around my calf at my defiance of its potential meal. I bite down on my cheek to stay the course.
“You didn’t feel it in the air?” I draw my eyes up wide and cover my mouth in a show of surprise. “A nor’easter formed off the coast, and it’s coming quick. It could easily wreck your boat. We can’t have that over what, you’ll excuse me, sounds like a problem that is in your society’s favor until my father collects his wages.”
Mr. Croxton turns to peer out the window. The frost has covered the bottom half of the glass. A cough sounds from upstairs. This isn’t one of the creaks and sighs of the lighthouse. It’s Liney.
Mr. Croxton pauses, tilting one ear up.
I slip my hand around the handle of the knife. This time the hunger ripples through me, heat and want and fury. It craves the fulfillment of my deal. Promises ripe for consumption.
Douglas moves between us. “Try,” he pleads, a desperate break in his voice as his watery gray eyes search mine. “You don’t want another ghost.”
Mr. Croxton wouldn’t become a ghost. When I killed Douglas, I made no sacrifice of him. Whatever vengeful mechanism stopped him from moving on won’t save Mr. Croxton. His fate will be worse.
One thought breaks through the hunger’s hold on me. It sounds like Liney, as though she has whispered it through the boards above.If you don’t try, you’re the same as the monster you scorn.
“Did you hear that?” I ask. Mr. Croxton nods. My tongue burns, punishing me for this mercy. “Mice. They drive me mad, but they’re always gone when I search up there.”
Mr. Croxton nods but drags his gaze higher until he’s staring at the boards. The quickening pulse in his stretched neck echoes in my ears. “I could take a look for you?”
“No, thank you.” It comes out too rushed. “Mice are oddly nice company, and I can’t bear even a little mouse come to harm.”
Douglas chokes on a laugh but says nothing. His neck begins to bleed again. Dark trickles cascade down the wound’s ragged edges. If I focus, I’ll see his long-dead pulse live on in the bubbling of his windpipe.
“A kind heart.” Mr. Croxton turns away as I let go of the knife handle. “That won’t help you should you find too many holes in your grain bags.”
I laugh and lead him to the front door. A growl rumbles in the pit of my stomach. My blood sings with want—to rip, tear, submerge.
“I’ll tell my father that you came,” I say, opening the door. My gut twists like eels in protest, worse than any month’s blood. “If he can giveyou the number, can you send his wages to a lockbox on the mainland? A relative in town could collect them.”
That’d be me, disguised in men’s clothes as I am on every supply run. A trip to the postmaster’s is a much safer bet than visiting the Society for Harbour Safety.
“If he can find time soon…” He adjusts his coat collar closer around his neck. Against the cold or me? “I had the oddest thought. As an undocumented girl here, known only to your father, you’re the closest a living person can be to a ghost.”
Mr. Croxton bids me a good day, leaving me confounded at the statement. I keep a hunter’s stare as he walks across the small field and disappears into the copse. Wind ripples through Liney’s dress, but I don’t feel it anymore. My skin has heated beyond its touch.
Douglas calls praises of my restraint behind me. I can’t focus on him. Mr. Croxton got away. He could destroy us. I bought us a week until he may check on us again. What would explain the absence of James Douglas then? Was the ghost comment innocent or a threat? Was I convincing enough?
Minutes pass, and I can’t move from the doorway. Fluffy snowflakes drift onto my hair and melt into its waves. If I let go of the frame, I’ll bolt after Mr. Croxton. A slice, a twist, a pull. So few motions, such little exertion, to pierce a soul from its vessel. My nails leave crescent moons in the wood.
The wind quiets for a moment. As though promising me easy passage toward my prey.
“Hold!” Douglas calls, realizing victory isn’t what’s hiding beneath my skin. “You’ve done it, girl. Hold.”
He passes through me. A chill spreads, a relief compared to the oil lighting inside me.
My own muscles beg me to give in. He’s only one man. One of thousands from the mainland. There could be many reasons for his absenceon Monday. And he was so suspicious. How can I trust that he won’t bring a group of society men after the storm?
My greatest worry this morning was how to cook a cod to Liney’s liking. Now our world could crumble at the will of a glassblower.
“I’ll check that he’s gone,” Douglas promises. It’s a strain for him to make it a few feet from the scene of his murder, save if I will him to. “Hold. It will pass.”
He disappears into the woods. Is he lying? Could he find a way to appear to Mr. Croxton and betray me? No, he would’ve shown himself to Liney long ago if he could. I’d be touched at his efforts if they were for me. Douglas will never truly helpme, only Liney.
I should’ve followed the man to the boat. I should’ve killed him here, made it quick, thrown him down to the basement. Douglas has injected a ridiculous weakness in me when I once wouldn’t hesitate.
The tendrils slither up my spine, spreading their influence to my nerves. It won’t be denied its appetite.
