Sunbeams flash on the water not far from shore. I glance up. How can light shine when the clouds are so thick today?
“Chamomile!” I yelp.
Fine. Dancing with the officers’ wives.
“No, Chamomile! Look!”
I scramble up from the rocks, staring into the mouth of the harbor. The bright speck grows larger. It’s a rowboat with a single occupant in a dark coat.
“He’s heading here. To us. Directly.”
A fisherman?
“In so small a dinghy, alone? At this time of day? No.” I back up toward the grassy soil. “What if he’s coming to check on the lighthouse keeper?”
The last keeper drowned. That’s why Elle picked this island. It will appear suspicious to find us here, squatters in a dead man’s home.
Chamomile hasn’t risen. She has no reason to worry, invisible to others.
Then he’s in for an interesting surprise.
“Chamomile! Stop it!” I back up farther until I reach the edge of the small woods. The copse of red maple and underbrush of hay-scented ferns extends down the length of the island. “I must warn Elle.”
The man in the rowboat, his silhouette dark against the slate-gray water, waves an arm in an animated arc as I’m almost behind the nearest tree.
Run, Caroline, Chamomile commands, unhelpfully.
I curse myself as I tear through the forest. My hesitation. My dress snagging on the ferns. My lungs, already winded. My hubris in thinking it could ever be safe to swim. Not even sitting on the beach is free from danger.
I push past the close-grown trunks. Their red-leafed branches brush against my cheeks and try to tangle in my hair. I bring my arms up to guard my head only to trip over a clump of ferns and fall, shoulder first, against another tree. A squeal escapes me. My whole arm radiates excruciating sparks.
Is it broken?Chamomile asks.
“No,” I snivel between heaving breaths. From the beach and dock, it’s less than a kilometer across the island to the ocean-facing lighthouse. If I can’t even manage this, I’d be drowned in minutes. “Dislocated.”
I can’t fix it.
I hold my arm close and keep walking. Every step shoots pain from elbow to shoulder until I’m nearly through. Elle will fix it.
“Elle!” I reach the edge of the clearing, the lighthouse finally looming ahead. A tall tower of salt-crusted white shingles leads up to the ever-burning red light. Elle’s lighthouse. Neither of us trusts me in thelightroom or down in the basement with the oil drums. When Elle suggested she could tend the light alone, I was relieved.
I nearly trip in my haste across the grass, sending agony surging up my arm again. I yell for my sister between each ragged breath.
Elle’s face appears at the window; old salt marks smudge the glass. A moment later she comes barreling out the front door. She wears the lighthouse keeper’s garb, a loose-fitting cotton shirt tucked into a pair of dark wool pants I hemmed for her months ago.
“What happened?” she asks in a hurried breath. She tries to grab my arms, but I shrink back.
“I think I dislocated my shoulder,” I explain. “There’s someone rowing. To the island.”
“Who?” Her caramel eyes grow wide, searching my face.
I double over, hacking. I can’t stop picturing tides sucking me down into the harbor.
“A man. He saw me,” I spit out. My breaths come quick and shallow, not helped by my panic. “We are found. I’m so sorry, Elle.”
Elle straightens me up. I want to howl at her touch, but I bite my tongue instead.
“We aren’t found. Not yet. Don’t yell.”
