I beg to differ.Has her voice always held this mocking?
“You want me to hate her.” The floor’s chill creeps into the soles of my feet. Everything in this room wants me cold. “You know I don’t need you, so long as I have her.”
These areyourfeelings, Caroline. It’s not my fault you don’t like them.
She’s right. While Elle’s rage comes out in heat, mine is ice shards that cut into my own heart. I love Elle for protecting me, but my love is tarnished with loss. She stole me away from the world. I cling to the idea she’s wrong about everyone—Thomas, our parents, even me.
Elle always believes me to be lively and cheery-cheeked. But this cold clenches my heart unless I shovel coal into everything I do. She can’t know the effort it takes to crack a smile through the ice. But I’m running out of fuel.
If I stop, give in to the frost, I may never thaw.
Chamomile calls sweetly to bring me back, but I see past her rosy dreams and soft words.
I’m quick up the stairs, only slowing when the spark in my lungs threatens to burn again. But there’s no danger here, save for my own actions. The water that covered our hands, rising, ready to consume us, begs to differ.
How can you run from the worst part of yourself?
I touch the storage room door. There are hand-shaped warps in it a few inches higher than my hands naturally fall. How did Elle do this? The splintered hole where the handle used to be accuses me of the fresh wounds between us.
Our destructions are opposite. Mine suffocates. A festering wound, easily hidden until it consumes. Elle’s engulfs, a fire storm that can’t be ignored. The door smells of smoke. She’s far above me but lingers here.
I open the door and cross the dark room. I reach out to the shelves until I find a box of long candles, placed beside a sliding box of matches. I can’t find a holder, so I strike the match and light the flame, holding the bottom as the wick wakes.
The stairs on the other side of the room are much longer. They spiral up to the lightroom. I’ve never climbed up there before.
Elle works the mechanisms, maintains the oil for the light, and watches for ships in the treacherous waters. Despite her efforts, the sea has claimed lives during our time here. She says sailors put their guard down, spying land for the first time in weeks and making fatal mistakes.
Complacency, she said, is deadly.
It is eerily quiet save for the echo of my footsteps in the hollow middle of the lighthouse. This purgatorial space between life and duty.
My breaths come shallow. The candle flickers with every step. Its light warps the stairs into uneven hills and valleys. I place a hand on the wall. Vibrations carry through my palm from the storm outside. It’s grown stronger—how could I have missed the wail before?
When I was small, I’d skulk out of my room at night. I’d tiptoe down the stairs. It was a game between Elle and me. She’d stay up late in the sitting room. I’d wait out our parents, then make my attempt. If she heard me before I could sneak around the overstuffed green armchair she sat in, she’d rasp out,No living soul stays up so late, little ghost.
My giggling would give me away, and I’d reply,Then what are you?
Elle would slam down the book she’d been reading and hop from the armchair to chase me. Neither of us would shriek for fear our parents would catch us. I was fast, but I’d lose my breath before a full lap of the main floor. I’d wheeze and lean against the dining table until she’d pounce and tackle me to the floor. She’d tickle me mercilessly. Elle knew exactly how much she could get away with, keeping me from harm.
Beware the book monster,she’d whisper through a grin.
Back when she was a monster of games. Night escapades and mirth.
I’ve stopped, lost in my memories. Wax trickles over my thumb, hot but not burning. Another noise, inside, brings me back. A rhythm above, a soft thumping. I rush up the last few bends of the stairs, and thetrapdoor comes into the candle’s light above me. Behind it is the solemn sanctum of keepers. A temple to warnings and riptides and the gaze of a sailor across the bow of a ship.
I have to blow out the candle to hold onto the rungs. I place it carefully against the wall. Then I peel the wax from my fingers and flick them down the depths of the tower.
The odd-rhythmed thumping vibrates my hands through the bars as I climb. The trapdoor isn’t locked. Elle has never forbidden me from this room, but it’s always been understood between us that this is her business, not mine.
I throw open the door and crawl up. The room is dim. Only a single lantern casts light, while the center mirror lens spins, empty. How long has the light been out? I woke to its red glow. My eyes find the source of the thumping.
Elle is slumped on the floor, eyes closed, spasming.
Ice flashes through me. Elle is never in danger. It’s not possible. My strong, diligent sister. My protector. But she convulses so violently I fear her neck may break.
I crack through the panic and rush to her. My blanket-robe falls off. With only windowpanes between us and the flurry outside, the cold prickles at my exposed neck, arms, and calves. Ice batters from all sides of the lighthouse, creating a thunderous chorus.
I kneel and grab each side of Elle’s face to stabilize her. The wax of the candle didn’t hurt my fingers, but her cheeks scorch me.
