Bridget steps back to search my expression. “Don’t you think he’d understand? He was so concerned for your safety.”
“I don’t want to be haunted by him too!”
Bridget frowns. She knows that’s not why. Not really.
“I can’t undo the harm Elle did,” I try again, looking down at our shoes. “To my parents or to him. But if I can help him in this one request… Maybe it’ll help him heal. Maybe that’s enough. I can’t stop caring about what’s right, what a promise means.”
“Are you sure—”
I squeeze her hand, then let go. I don’t want my sister’s cruelty, but I share her stubbornness.
“Take the boat if you need to,” I say. Not a goodbye. A gentle boundary. “I must do this.”
Bridget holds the sides of my face. I want to fall into her arms. Rest. Allow the hurt of the world to tick by without us. I never used to worry about being good. It was easy as a child. Acting within my role was expected and tenable. I said my prayers, practiced piano, and sang in our choir. That was enough. While Elle struggled with her responsibilities, I floated. The world wasn’t my concern, nor were any unfortunates within it.Be good, be quiet, be loved.
Then I was engaged to Thomas. My easy life of hanging onto Elle turned sour. She stole me here. I took on the new role of forlorn, tragic Liney. Obedient but melancholic. Chamomile convinced me of my own importance and drowned me in wanting. Filled my mind with false hope of escape while keeping me stuck in place.
She was my misery.
I still didn’t suppose myself as ever in the wrong. My sister hurt—more than I can imagine—and that hurt created a monster. I let her braid my hair and cook me supper and kill. It’s not convenient to bring James Douglas to his rest. But it’s the right thing to do. That must matter. If to no one else, at least to me.
I kiss Bridget, press until her back is against the cave wall and I’m against her. While this world of men and monsters may never love or understand us, this can be enough. Her hands slip under my—no, theghost’s—wool jacket, tugging me closer.
“I’ll come back,” I whisper between heavy breaths when we break apart.
“I’ll be here. I promise.”
The snow picks up on my way back to the lighthouse. We’re midway through November. It’ll turn into a storm soon. We can’t still be here when it does.
I open the door and close it behind me as carefully as I can, but there’s no need. Elle isn’t on the main floor. The chesterfield was moved out of the way again. The trapdoor is closed. She’s downstairs.
Now’s my only chance. A frightened Elle, aware of what I know, can’t be reasoned with. It nearly breaks my resolve that I’ll leave her without another word. But I grab the skull out of the bedside table and the lantern, then head upstairs. I tried to take it up last night when she was sleeping, but there was no step or breath I took quiet enough not to rouse her. It was torturous to lie on the chesterfield pretending to sleep and unable to fulfill the one task James gave me.
The journey up the lighthouse stairs is long, but I manage. Have I gotten stronger since I last trekked up here? Last time I ascended to the lightroom, I’d nearly died the day before. Or perhaps my sister’s worrying added to my frailty.
By the time I reach the top landing, I’m out of breath, but my lungs haven’t started burning. I set the lantern down and keep the skull tucked closely to my side as I hoist myself up the ladder.
The lightroom is the same as last time, though less intimidating in the soft glow of the daylit snow. Simple wooden benches ring the walls while the center mechanical structure stands dormant. The large glass windows show a gentle island of maple trees covered in white fluff and lapping waves. A place that shouldn’t know screams or blood.
I’m losing focus on what matters. The skull. I position it carefully onthe bench, pointing it inward toward the lenses.
“I hope this helps, Mr. Douglas,” I say, unsure what might alert him that it’s done.
Nothing happens. I wait a second, then another, then look around the room. I can’t leave this half-done. I sit beside the skull, careful not to disturb it.
“I don’t know if you can hear me. You’re here, in the lightroom. The sky is beautiful. It’s snowing, but there’s still a little blue peeking out. The lens is here. It looks good. Um, clean. You’re on the bench. I’m sure you remember being here.” I rub my hands together, unsure what else would help connect him here. “It’s a beautiful little island. Maybe someone will love it the way it should be after we leave. The way you did.”
“Thank you.” He sits beside me, whole. He gazes up at the lens. There’s relief so full in his eyes that it rivals the sun behind him. “I truly mean it, Miss—”
“You can call me Liney.”
“Liney.” He smiles, tears flowing freely from his eyes. “Thank you. You both must leave.”
I nod and reach for his hand, but mine falls through it. I leave it there anyway. So does he.
“We will,” I promise. A second promise. Another I’ll keep. “We’re leaving after this.”
“I’m so sorry I couldn’t do more.”
