Liney walked into the storm. She reached the mouth of the spiral after it had consumed the ship. Nausea creeps up my throat at what could’ve happened. Mr. Pratterman wouldn’t have broken our deal if she’d wandered into his domain on her own accord.
A wayward sheep falling off a cliff isn’t the wolf’s fault, though it may feast all the same.
And now Bridget.Bridget Coleman.She had introduced herself in a hurried voice. As if knowing her name would mean anything to me.Please, ma’am, I need to dry off. And she’ll need medical—
No. Her words can’t cloud my thinking. The facts.
Bridget was in the water, hauling my sister. She collapsed beside her on the beach. She came to as I rushed Liney into the lighthouse. She tried to stand her ground, explain herself, but I threw her out. I hoped she was an illusion or spirit. If I didn’t see her anymore, she didn’t exist.
I clench the sheets in tight bundles beside my hips. I need to consider every possibility. What else could Bridget be if not an ordinary young traveler?
A reanimated corpse? If she died but was given life again, would she count as living in the deal? There’s no evidence that Mr. Pratterman includes this among his tricks, but why would he detail them all to me?
A demon? I’ve not seen one yet. Only myself, in a certain sense. She didn’t have the air of a monster. Too scared, too human by far.
A water sprite or other creature from folklore, like mermaids and selkies? She’s too red-faced in the cold.
An omen? Douglas has spoken of forerunners when trying to scare or guilt me. Those specters of death to come. There will certainly be more death on these shores.
An illusion is the only other explanation. It’s not so strange, not given what I’ve seen conjured. I’ve been transported to entirely different planes of existence by Mr. Pratterman. Dripping candles and burning rock. Could a sailor have saved Liney, only to be thrown back into the sea? Or a rogue wave brought her back and I saw double of her lying on the beach?
The exact wording of the deal is etched into my mind.You will kill the next living nonkin you see before my next visit.I was relieved atnonkin. So simple; kill the next person who isn’t Liney. But it is thelivingthat holds Mr. Pratterman’s curse. Is Bridget past death, or was she never living to begin with? I can’t let my guard down, not on this second run with the Devil. Not even with the girl who is perhaps the reason my sister sleeps beside me now and not at the bottom of the harbor. Or worse.
I close my eyes. The lighting’s changed when I open them again. How long did I sleep? At least there were no dreams, dark or otherwise. I get out of bed, careful not to stir Liney. She snores. She’d be annoying if eachhonchandhawdidn’t relieve me. Proof she’s alive. Despite the storm, the ship, and the Devil himself.
I make porridge. It usually does the trick, but I’m craving sweetness. I have a jar of canned peaches upstairs in the supplies room. It’s stacked beside flour bundles and jars of honey. It should take less than a minute to retrieve. If Bridget hasn’t dismantled my locks and planks while I was asleep, she won’t now.
But Bridget isn’t the one I worry over as I softly pad up the stairs. Nor Liney as I search the shelves. Not even Mr. Pratterman’s moonlit eyes haunt me as I grab the half-empty jar.
It’s the lighthouse keeper’s ghost. He stands, same place as last time, when I turn with the jar close to my chest. I can’t stand his downcast expression.
“You dare—” My voice breaks. I sound so weak. No matter the power I can call upon, all its promises of protection and vengeance, afterward I’m just tired flesh and a fearful heart.
“Girl,” he says, like the call of a gull.
I squeeze my arms around the jar. “You dare show yourself, after you nearlykilledher?” My weakness has a way of igniting. Now isn’t the time. I look up. Away from those mournful gray eyes, the slump of his shoulders, the gash of his throat.
“I didn’t mean for her to come to harm, just to help her,” he says in a rush. “You must know that something happened to her. I hadn’t sensed it before.”
I let a long breath out through my nose. Damn him. Why do I care? He’s already lied once.
Douglas seizes my silence. “She fought with someone. I couldn’t make them out. A shadow. Liney seemed to know them. They fought. Your sister was nearly killed in my—in the kitchen.”
I fumble and almost drop the jar. Though I catch it in time, I imagine splattered peaches mixed in pieces of glass. The peaches become clumps of viscera in my mind. I nearly retch.
Liney? In a fight? I can’t imagine a more preposterous claim.She’d have told me. But Douglas never tricked me before last night. Condescended and inconvenienced me, absolutely. But he’s never lied.
Did Bridget enter the lighthouse earlier? Why would Douglas not see her? Mr. Pratterman’s work is more insidious than I feared. This illusion may be a dark creation, half-corporeal and half shadow.
“I’ll ask her,” I tell him, but I won’t. I’ll butcher this creature, whether or not she’s alive, and we won’t speak a word about it again. “But so help me, Douglas—”
“It’s Mr. Douglas. Or James.”
James. It trips me. I’ve told him to call me Elle to no avail. Yet James is too familiar.Jamesis a person, not a problem.
“If there’s a way to damn a ghost, I’ll find it.”
Douglas leans his head up in exasperation and curls his fingers inward. I grip the peaches tighter. I want to throttle this man. I still trust him, despite myself.
