Three cards revealed themselves: The Tower reversed, the Seven of Cups, and the Moon.
Her breath caught. The Tower reversed suggested hidden upheaval, secrets about to surface. The Seven of Cups warned of illusions and difficult choices ahead. But it was the Moon that made her hands tremble—deception, hidden enemies, and danger lurking beneath apparent calm.
She traced the Moon card with one finger, noting how the shadows seemed to shift in the illustrated landscape. Water featured prominently in the card’s imagery—a river winding between two towers, leading to mountains shrouded in mystery.
“Water. Something’s coming from the water.”
The bell above the door jingled as the first customer entered. Mrs. Coleman paused on the threshold for a moment, her expression uncertain, before stepping inside.
“Just a chamomile tea to go, dear.” Mrs. Coleman glanced at the tarot cards still spread on Mathilde’s table. “I have an early appointment.”
Vivienne prepared the tea. Mrs. Coleman’s hands trembled as she accepted the cup and left a few bills on the counter before hurrying out.
Behind her, Old Jack Thornton entered, positioning himself so he could see all the room’s corners—a habit formed by years of living in a town where some truths stayed hidden.
“Morning, Jack.” Vivienne reached for the sturdy mug she kept just for him while keeping one eye on the mysterious footprint. “The usual?”
He nodded, settling his wiry frame onto a stool at the counter while his damaged hand—two fingers lost in a fishing accident near the beacon twenty years ago—gripped the edge. His face bore deep lines from decades of working the waters, his sparse white hair tucked under a perpetual fisherman’s cap. “Storm coming. Two days, maybe three.”
Vivienne paused in pouring his black coffee. “The weather report says clear skies all week.”
Jack’s weathered lips twitched. “Weather folks don’t know these waters like I do. Like you do.” His eyes, narrowed from squinting at the horizon, fixed on her pendant. “That stone humming again?”
Vivienne’s spine straightened. Jack kept glancing around the room, his body alert with the awareness that came from surviving close calls in dangerous waters. “What makes you think that?”
He shrugged, his damaged hand wrapping around the mug she placed before him. “Got the same focused look your grandmother wore when something important was coming. Like you’re listening to voices the rest of us can’t hear.” His gaze flicked toward the windows facing the structure on thepeninsula, then back to her. “Some parts of the harbor haven’t been right for decades. Fish avoid the deep water near there. Smart of them.”
Before Vivienne could respond, the bell jingled again, and Velta Wright appeared in the doorway. Even Velta, usually comfortable with the Hawthorne family’s reputation, hesitated before crossing the threshold. When she finally entered, leading several other book club members, Vivienne noticed how Margaret Holloway stayed near the door, clutching her purse, while the others maintained a respectful distance from Mathilde’s ancient oak table.
Old Jack nodded to Vivienne, leaving a few bills on the counter as he slipped out without another word, his eyes making one final sweep of the room.
“Morning, Vivienne!” Velta’s warmth carried an edge of concern. “Those scones smell wonderful.”
“Lavender with a hint of lemon today.” Vivienne set a tray down on the counter while the mysterious wet footprint shimmered in her peripheral vision. “And I’ve got that Earl Grey blend you like so much.”
As she served the women, unease settled over her. The lighthouse stone at her throat continued its humming, and through the October fog pressing against her windows, she caught glimpses of movement that might have been spirits or might have been tricks of the mist.
“Have you heard about the tourist?” Margaret asked from her position near the door, her voice hushed. “She disappeared near the beacon yesterday.”
The words struck Vivienne hard. Sharp pain lanced behind her eyes, so sudden and intense that she had to grip the counter to stay upright. The taste of copper flooded her mouth while the stone against her throat warmed. The room grew colder, though no frost appeared.
“What?” Vivienne managed through chattering teeth, her breath misting in the frigid air. “When exactly did this happen?”
“Around sunset, from what I heard.” Margaret wrapped her coat tighter around herself as the unnatural cold spread through the room. The other women exchanged nervous glances, several backing toward the door. “Chief Sullivan has the whole department searching, but so far, nothing. Her husband is beside himself.”
The beacon. The girl in her dreams. The parallel scratches on her arm had appeared from a drowning woman’s grip. The connections crashed over Vivienne in waves of realization, and she gripped the counter to keep from collapsing as the stone burned against her throat.
“How old is she?” Vivienne asked through the cold, fighting to control her body’s response to the warning.
“Mid-thirties, I think. Pretty blond thing. Melissa Clarkson. They were only passing through for the night.”
Velta stepped closer. “Vivienne, dear, are you all right? You look positively pale.”
“Is she a tourist or a researcher?” The question rose from an instinct she couldn’t name.
Margaret looked surprised. “Funny you should ask that. Word is she’s a historian studying New England lighthouses for a book. How did you?—”
“Was she carrying a camera? Wire-rimmed glasses? Practical outdoor clothing?” Another wave of cold crashed through her.
