Chapter Ten

IN THE LITTLE blue house on the hill, Duncan was attempting to read a book by the fire. He never seemed to get more than a couple of sentences read before his mind wandered back to his meeting with Robin earlier in the day. In spite of himself, he was uneasy. He kept telling himself the Moth & Moon was the safest place to be, but every peal of thunder and snapping tree branch filled his mind with worries.

Slamming the book shut, he got up from his velvet armchair. Peering through the shutters, something odd caught Duncan’s eye—through the miasma of the hurricane, he could just see a blinking light in one of the west-facing windows of the lighthouse. It was a repeating pattern. Three blinks, then a pause, then three again. Someone was in distress. From the angle, he knew no one in the Moth & Moon would have been able to see it. A mild dread began to grip him. He knew there were two attendants in the lighthouse—Keeper Knott and Keeper Hall. The main lamp was still radiating its brilliant beam out to sea, but something must have happened to one or both of the keepers.

Duncan frantically paced up and down the room for a few moments. There was nothing else for it—he’d have to go to the lighthouse. There wasn’t anyone else. Taking a deep breath, he pulled on his heaviest boots and tricorne cap, then his midnight-blue overcoat. The fine gold thread caught the light from the fire and glinted as it wove around in surprisingly delicate patterns.

Outside, he clutched his cap tightly and began the journey down the steep roads towards the harbour. He thought the winds had begun to ease a little and was grateful for the small mercy, but then he noticed the rain had stopped entirely. Pausing in his tracks, he turned his head to the sky. Heavy grey clouds remained overhead, but now there was scarcely a breeze.

“The eye of the hurricane,” he mumbled to himself.

He hurried down the pathway from his house on the hill, down to the laneway to the coast. It was eerily quiet and still after the clamour of the storm. He paused for a moment, surveying the damage already done. Downed trees, loosened slate tiles, and scattered thatch littered the village. Just then, he became aware of a faint sound, barely a whisper above the sound of the still-rough sea. He pretended not to notice and carried on a few steps before hearing it again. A pathetic, desperate bawling. He closed his eyes, hoping it would stop. He didn’t have time for this, but on and on, it went. He knew what it was. In an instant, he’d been flung back to his childhood, lying in bed, awakened by a storm and a similar cry, one he ignored, angered at having being roused from sleep. The following morning he’d found the source—one of the recent litter from the farm’s cat had crawled from its bedding and trapped its neck between a box and the barn wall. Its body hung lifeless, mouth still open. The image of that had haunted him for years. He couldn’t shake the thought of the tiny, forlorn creature crying for help, and how he’d ignored it. He could have saved it if he’d just gotten out of bed. He remembered how callous and unconcerned his father had been when he’d told him over breakfast of the creature’s plight.

“Just an animal,” his father had said, taking another bite of bread. “Just an animal.”

“Damn it,” Duncan said, turning back towards the source of the noise.

It was coming from the hedgerow beside him. He’d often stopped and picked blackberries from it on his way past. The faint moonlight barely illuminated the clouds overhead, so he held his lantern close. After some searching, he found the source of the noise—a tiny black and white kitten. Not days old, but not yet months either. Its bright blue eyes threw back the lantern light, and its mewling grew louder when it noticed Duncan.

“What’s all the noise about? Where’s your mother?” Duncan asked, searching through the bramble. In short order, he found her and the rest of the litter. All dead. They’d been crushed and buried by shingles blown loose by the winds.

Sighing heavily—resigned to the obvious course of action—he reached in through the dripping wet blackberry bushes and carefully lifted the kitten to his chest. The tiny creature meowed in protest, as loudly as its feeble lungs could manage.

“Shut up, you little idiot, I’m trying to help you,” Duncan tutted.

He examined the kitten for any injuries but found none. He did notice, however, that one of its front legs was a little shorter than the other. He wrapped the kitten into the safety of his coat and wondered what to do next. There was no time to bring the animal back to his home—the people in the lighthouse needed him. He couldn’t just leave it there, either. He knew what his father would do, but Duncan could never be quite so heartless. He hesitated for a heartbeat before throwing his head back and yelling at the sky.

“Fine, you’re coming with me. Maybe someone at the inn will take you off my hands.”