Liney lies in a heap, curled into herself. Another breath in like great bellows to a furnace and I have her in my arms, holding her close as I can without burning her. I hover over her mouth and hear the smallest rattling breath. I’m not too late.
The storeroom is suffocating her. She needs wind, sea air, and wide-open sky.
I haul Liney down the stairs. Douglas is gone. I reach the front door and shuffle her over so that she’s perched on my shoulder. Her weight would normally wind me, but she might as well be a doll while I’m tapped into the deep spiral’s infernal energy. Like an inverted lighthouse, its coiled form reaches to the surface like a spring. I unbolt the door with ashen fingers, swing it open, and stumble out into the evening.
The clouds have broken open above us into a blanket of stars. Dark edges hang on the horizon. Douglas was right. The storm won’t be kind. Did the island create this moment of respite? Hot air from deep below the surface surging up to create a protective, temporary bubble? Or is Liney just lucky?
I rush to the large flat rocks along our small beach and set Liney down. Her eyelids flutter, but she doesn’t stir. I prop Liney’s head up in my lap and smooth her hair out of her face, leaving gray marks along her forehead. Water laps against the rocks. Each swell is closer than the last as though reaching for us.
The infernal heat subsides. If I don’t call on the spiral further, it will reduce to quiet pangs of hunger. Its whispers will become soft sea air instead of a cacophony.
The world’s crimson hue dims. Navy creeps into the churning water. I’m struck by an idea.
I place my hands against Liney’s collarbone. She flinches, but her flesh doesn’t sear. It’s only an uncomfortable temperature, like brushing a foot against the hot coals from a bedwarmer. I diffuse the heat into the muscles of her shoulders, neck, and chest. Our mother used to warm blankets and place them on her torso to slow down her panic. If she can relax, she can regain her breath.
A gull screeches as it flies over us toward the sheltered harbor to roost. Liney shivers in the cold, but I can’t feel it. The lighthouse’s mirrored lens doesn’t rotate a light above us.
A failure, both as a sister and lighthouse keeper. My only excelling qualities are smothering others and siphoning the powers of evil. Yet it’s my only chance to hold onto the modicum of freedom against the men who would steal us back.
I breathe in the crisp evening air, begging Liney to do the same. If I touched anyone else while in possession of Mr. Pratterman’s power, they would burn. But not even he could force me to harm her.
For her alone, I can use this for good.
Slow as the tide turning, Liney’s breath deepens. I want to crush her in an embrace, but I wait until her eyes open. She stares up at the stars, frowning as she shifts focus to me. “Elle…?”
I shush her. Words can wait. I dissipate the heat into the air, steam-like. Just her sister again.
“I’m sorry,” Liney whispers.
She has nothing to apologize for. “I know,” I say instead. The relief of an accepted apology will help more than arguing.
The rest of the evening is quiet. We clean up the table. I wash the dishes; she dries. Each plate and utensil passed between us is an extension of her apology.I’m sorry for what I said. I’m sorry for ruining your special meal. I’m sorry for running from you.We mend through the simpledomesticity of doing what must be done. Halfway through, she begins to hum, and we’re singing old church hymns together like nothing happened.
I leave Liney to change out of my burnt, asparagus-spoiled clothes and charge the light’s gearbox for the evening. Normally this would be easy, but the spiral has drained me. I clench the wooden handle tight, but my arms burn with each spin. I’ve bought us a few hours, but then it will need another charge.
Lighthouse keeping truly begins at night. I sleep in during the day when I can so I can stay alert. The winter months are the worst. Long nights and unpredictable storms. Late October has already shrunk the daylight. We’re lucky to see the sunset stream through the windows with supper.
When I return to our living quarters, Liney is sitting in bed in her sleeping gown. It was sewn hastily by my shaky hands using spare muslin from the lighthouse’s stores. Liney is proficient at the needle, but she’s never fixed it. Looking at her smile in the dying firelight, I know she keeps it as a piece of me.
“I can braid your hair?” I offer.
Liney nods and scoots, patting the space behind her.
Braiding is a sacred tradition, passed down from one Forsyth woman to the next. My mother braided my hair, and I took on the task of Liney’s once I was skilled enough. Hers is wilder than my own, prone to tangling but full and gold as the sun. Mine is pale moonlight, making my features ruddy in comparison.
Liney hands me the comb. I stabilize every tug and apologize when she tenses. It’s a dance. Each partner needs to intuit the other’s movements. I gather her hair into glowing rivers in the firelight. The braid reaches her shoulder blades before either of us says another word.
“Do you really think I brought you here only for my sake?” I ask.
Liney leans her head back until it rests in my lap. Her face is half inshadow, but the fire reflected in one of her eyes flashes from dark brown to almost yellow. “No. I was mad.”
Relief courses through me. Liney shouldn’t be a prisoner here, but telling her the true dangers of the mainland—that I’m much worse than a runaway—could hurt her, andus, irreparably. What she doesn’t know keeps her safe and close.
“You know how much I care for you,” I say, tugging a little on her braid to make her laugh. “What you mean to me.”
Liney closes her eyes. She’s so pale. Traces of purple veins run shallow on her eyelids. Delicate, no matter how she protests otherwise.
“Of course. But it can be intense, Elle. Sometimes I want us to be…” She moves her hands as though they’ll finish her thought.
