The lighthouse’s old clock chimes the hour. I reluctantly loosen my hold, allowing her feet to touch the floor again. “Your admirers await, Lighthouse Keeper Morgan.”
“Our admirers,” she corrects, straightening her shirt.
The doorbell chimes. “Right on cue,” I murmur, glancing at the nautical clock on the wall. Eight minutes before the official tour time, which means it’s Mrs. Holloway and her grandson. Always early, always eager to hear whatever new historical anecdotes I’ve prepared.
“There he is!” Timothy exclaims as we open the door. At ten years old, he shows none of the fear many adults still can’t entirely conceal. Instead, his eyes light up with fascination. “Mr. Roark! Did you find any treasures today?”
It’s become something of a tradition—I occasionally bring small items recovered from the seabed during my patrols. Nothing valuable in monetary terms, just curious objects with interesting histories: sea glass smoothed by decades of tides, pieces of pottery from long-forgotten shipwrecks, unusual shells from deeper waters than humans typically explore.
“As a matter of fact,” I reply, reaching into a satchel I’d prepared earlier, “I discovered something rather interesting near Cutler’s Reef.” I extend my hand, opening my palm to reveal a piece of green sea glass, unusually large and perfectly smoothed by the ocean.
“Whoa,” Timothy breathes, accepting it with reverent hands. “It looks like an emerald!”
“That’s what sailors often called them—sea emeralds,” I explain. “This particular piece is likely from a champagne bottle tossed overboard during a celebration nearly fifty years ago.”
Mrs. Holloway smiles indulgently at her grandson. “What do we say, Timothy?”
“Thank you, Mr. Roark!” he says, already examining the glass from every angle. “Can I add it to our collection?”
“Of course. That’s why I brought it.”
More visitors arrive, a steady stream that will continue throughout the morning. Most are tourists, cameras ready, expressions ranging from curious to nervously excited about the lighthouse’s unusual guardian.
Some are locals bringing friends or relatives to meet the town’s most unusual resident. A few are repeat visitors who greet me by name, comfortable enough now to ask questions about my life before Cape Tempest.
I’ve developed what Ashe calls my “tour persona”—knowledgeable, slightly formal, with just enough of my natural intensity to remind people they’re speaking with a creature of the deep, but not so much as to frighten children.
By midday, the tours pause for a lunch break. The visitors disperse to explore the grounds or head into town for meals. Ashe locks the lighthouse door with a sigh of relief, kicking off her shoes as soon as we’re alone.
“Four more tours this afternoon,” she groans, stretching her arms above her head. “Maybe we should hire help.”
“And deprive the public of your unparalleled expertise?” I ask, moving behind her to gently massage her shoulders. “Unthinkable.”
She melts into my touch. “You’re just saying that because you don’t want to train someone new.”
“Perhaps,” I admit. My hands work at the knots in her muscles with practiced precision. “Though I maintain that no one explains the principles of lighthouse operation with your particular blend of technical accuracy and accessible terminology.”
“Flattery will get you everywhere,” she murmurs, eyes closed in contentment.
“I certainly hope so.”
I pause, wondering if now is the time. It feels right, and I make a decision then, one I’ve been contemplating for weeks. “I noticed something unusual with the Fresnel lens during the last tour. Perhaps you should inspect it before the next group arrives.”
She frowns. “The main lens? You didn’t mention that earlier.”
“It developed quite recently,” I say smoothly. The patterns on my skin ripple slightly—a tell she might notice if she weren’t already concerned about lighthouse equipment.
“Why didn’t you just fix it yourself?” she asks, already moving toward the stairs.
I follow her, my tentacles navigating the familiar spiral with practiced ease. “Some matters require the official lighthouse keeper’s attention.”
She throws me a suspicious glance over her shoulder. “Since when do you stand on ceremony?”
“I’m simply respecting the chain of command.”
She snorts but continues climbing. The late noon sun streams through the windows of the lamp room, casting golden light across the massive Fresnel lens that has guided ships safely past Cape Tempest’s treacherous shores for countless years.
Ashe circles the lens housing, her experienced eyes scanning for any irregularity. “I don’t see anything wrong,” she says after a complete inspection. “The lens is clean, alignment looks perfect.” She turns to me, hands on her hips. “What exactly am I supposed to be looking for?”
