Chapter 6: The Lamp

The storm that came on the twelfth night took the power out of the whole coast.

I heard it from the bed.

A shriek in the stone, and then the long sag of every cable on the mainland going down.

The lamp on my table guttered and died, and the window went black.

I was out of bed and into my boots before I'd thought.

I turned the key, and opened my door onto the dark stair.

I wasn't running.

I felt my way down to the library landing, and a lantern met me coming up, and Ansel's face in it was white.

"The lamp," he said.

"The power's gone, and the lens turns by hand when it fails.

"It takes two people to turn it.

"Magnus and Rook are down at the dock with the boats."

A door crashed below us.

Rook came up the stair three steps at a time with his shirt open and a rag wound round his forearm.

He caught the rail.

"Magnus," he said.

"The mooring line parted and tore his arm open to the bone.

"He's still on the dock, holding the boat.

"He won't come in until she's tied."

"Then who turns the lamp?" I said.

The two of them looked at me.

"Show me," I said.

We climbed.

The lamp room at the top of the tower was glass on every side, and the storm beat on it.

The great lens stood in the middle, taller than I was, with a brass crank and a flywheel beneath it.

"A full turn every forty seconds," Ansel said, shouting over the wind.

"The ships need it.

"There's a freighter out there."

He put his hands on the crank.

I put mine beside his.

We turned.

It was heavy, and slow, and my shoulders burned in a minute.

The beam swung out into the dark and across the water, white and long.

Under it the sea was black and white and black again.

"Count," Ansel said.