Chapter 8: The Light

Two of Gisela's guards started across the grass toward us.

Conal didn't reach for his truck keys.

He turned and looked at them, and they slowed.

"I'm leaving," he said. "I was always going to leave. She's coming with me."

I looked back at the families.

Torben had still not lifted his eyes from the ground.

"I'll see you all Sunday," I said, loudly enough for the back row to hear.

Then I got into the truck.

Neither of us spoke on the drive down the headland road.

The sea was black on both sides, and the tower came up ahead of us with its lamp unlit.

Conal parked, cut the engine, and sat with his hands on the wheel.

"I shouldn't have touched you," he said.

"I leaned into it."

"You were upset."

"I was upset about the oath. I leaned into your hand because of you."

He was quiet for a long moment.

"I want to show you something," he said. "Before we say anything we'll regret."

He took a flashlight from the glove box, and I followed him up the spiral stairs of the tower.

There were a hundred and twelve steps.

At the top was a round watch room lined with shelves.

Dozens of leather logbooks stood in rows, their spines stamped with years.

"My father wrote in these every night for forty years," Conal said. "Weather, ships, who came and went."

He pulled one from the end of the shelf and opened it on the desk.

"This is three years ago."

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