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“Excuse me.” A gentleman approached our table. His well-made suit had seen some living but his hands and nails were clean. “I couldn’t help but overhear—”
We cut him off with a gale of giggles. “I’m sorry,” I finally managed to gasp.
Miss Barnes picked up the apology. “We were just saying he could have been overheard on the street.”
The stranger gave us a lopsided grin. “Name’s Richardson, and my brother-in-law pilots the supply boat that goes out to the lighthouse every Friday and most Mondays. I expect he’ll have space for passengers on his next trip. His name’s Barnard, and you can find him down at Pier 56. The boat’s called The Lucky.”
“Sounds like a good omen. We’ll look for him this afternoon.”
Richardson gave us a small salute. “You’ll probably want to arrange for a round trip. I’ve never been there myself, but there’s a reason not many want to go.”
“Thanks for the warning,” I said, my smile never flickering. The barkeep chose that moment to show up with our pot pie. Richardson excused himself and we made short work of our lunch. Later we went to Pier 56 and found The Lucky. Her captain, Barnard, looked askance when we asked to go to the lighthouse, but the twenty dollar bill in my hand cheered him up.
We agreed to return at nine o’clock Friday morning, which left us something more than two days to fill. I spent much of the time lurking in the neighborhood taverns, trying to learn anything I could about the lighthouse and about the local witches.
Miss Barnes set herself the same task, although she kept to dress shops and cafés. Altogether, we learned very little. No one wanted to talk about the lighthouse, and if there were other witches in Seattle, they stayed hidden from the general public.
Friday morning dawned cold and rainy. If Barnard was surprised to see us, he kept his opinion to himself. The water was choppy and a steady rain fell, wrapping everything in a layer of mist. Miss Barnes and I huddled together under an umbrella I conjured while our pilot regaled us with adventures at sea.
After the better part of two hours, he pointed to a mass of shadowy darkness. “It’s in there. The Lucky’ll get hung up on the sand bar if we get any closer, so we’ll have to row in.”
A fitful light pierced the gloom at regular intervals. The lighthouse? Miss Barnes and I shared a skeptical glance, but nevertheless we clambered into the rowboat. Barnard provided the muscle and the lighthouse flashed overhead, illuminating a stretch of shallow water, maybe thirty feet between our boat and a stony beach. A narrow dock jutted out into the water, our apparent destination.
Closer in, the flashing light revealed a collection of buildings huddled on a patch of grass, like a pile of long-forgotten child’s blocks. The buildings were surrounded by the wedge-shaped beach and backed by a steep, tree-covered bluff. Smoke rose from a chimney near the rear, and only one window glowed with light, making the place feel more desolate.
“I suppose it’s more lively when the sun is shining,” I said.
Miss Barnes’ only response was a tight-lipped smile. If I’d been trying to cheer either of us, I’d failed.
Barnard must have overheard, because he chuckled. “Naw, it’s gloomy on a good day.”
I forced some enthusiasm. “I’m sure it’s not as bad as all that.”
Miss Barnes gave an unladylike snort, but otherwise didn’t comment.
When we reached the dock, I clambered off the boat, hoisting both my satchels and her valise. “Don’t be an idiot,” she muttered, snatching her bag from my hand.
Barnard followed us out, piling the boxes of supplies on the dock. “If you all have a change of heart, I’ll be back on Monday.”
We shook hands and I slipped him a few bills, not at all sure I wouldn’t take him up on his offer.
The lighthouse flashed again, and this time it illuminated something new. Something, or someone.
A man stood between us and the buildings. Wrapped as he was in darkness and mist, I couldn’t make out his features, or truly ascertain his very presence. Miss Barnes halted her progress, evidently brought up short by the same sight.
We stood side-by-side, the last of the dock’s planks between us and the beach.
“Hello,” I called. I tried to smile, but it was forced at best.
“What do you want?” His voice was deep, the threat barely hidden. Behind us, a steady splashing told me Barnard and his rowboat were making tracks to return to the city.
“I have a letter of introduction from Madam Agatha Munro, the head of the Witches’ Council in San Francisco.” I held out my hand, though we were too far apart to shake. “She sent us here when she received word that Martin Gallagher had passed away.”
The man hadn’t moved, though his silhouette seemed to loom over us. “We don’t need help from strangers.”
A door opened, a square of light in the darkness. “Let ‘em come, Rafe. I wrote her myself, and there’ll be more trouble otherwise.”
A woman’s voice, tired, beaten down by life. “Are you Della Gallagher?” I asked.
