30 GRIFFIN

WHEN GRIFFIN LANDED in the lantern room, a cry of joy escaped his lips. Somehow the impossible had actually come true. He was home. He ran his fingers along the brass fittings in the lens and wiped a trail of residue from the glass. This wasn’t just any lighthouse. He’d spent nearly every day over the past three years taking care of the place with his dad. It was theirs, as much as it belonged to anyone. His parents should be here already—maybe they’d heard the alarm sound in the cottage when he came through the portal and were on their way to meet him at this very moment.

A knot formed in Griffin’s throat. He turned to face the bank of windows and there it was: the cloud-covered sky, the restless gray ocean, and the impossible green of the dense forest climbing up the headland. The best of all the worlds, here, on Earth.

But something was different.

Griffin eased open the glass door and strode onto the gallery. The wind slapped his cheeks, carrying the smell of the little sail jellyfish that had washed up on the beach the night before. Gulls flapped and swerved in a sudden gust, squawking their indignation. Below, the water churned, pounding against the rocks. It was all so familiar, but the lighthouse felt smaller, the ocean tamer.

And then it struck him—it wasn’t the lighthouse that had changed, or the rugged coast. It was him. Griffin had traveled to strange and distant worlds. He’d survived so much more than he’d ever imagined possible.

He was different.

A commotion at the base of the tower drew his attention and Griffin leaned gingerly over the railing. Coasties in crisp uniforms spilled out of the oil houses, pointing to where he stood and sprinting for the guardroom door.

“Don’t move,” one bellowed, adjusting a pair of bright yellow earplugs and lifting a set of bulky headphones to cover them. It was exactly as Beatrix had said—they had nothing to protect them from the priests’ mind control except earplugs and some noise-canceling headphones.

Griffin reached under his tongue and dug out the pearl. Footsteps pounded up the spiral stairs. He didn’t have time to take the song down to the beach like he’d planned, lay it in the sea-soaked sand, and let the lapping waves gradually make their introduction. The coast guardsmen were going to reach the lantern room any second and they wouldn’t understand, not if they were expecting Somni priests coming through the portal. They definitely weren’t going to give Griffin a chance to explain.

He had to trust that Beatrix was ready—that she’d found a way to spread the song inland. All he needed was to get it into the water. He balanced the pearl in his palm for a moment, then he took a step back, lunged, and hurled it over the cliff. The pearl arced through the sky, swelling and wobbling as it fell. Griffin strained, listening for the plunk when it hit the waves. But next thing he knew, he was thrown facedown on the steel floor, his arms pinned tight behind his back, a knee jammed into his spine.

Griffin cringed when his bruised cheek hit the ground again. He should have been scared, or worried, at least. Instead, all he felt was relief. He’d done all he could. Their fight against Somni was finally finished. Laughter shook through him as he remembered the day not so long ago when Fi had knocked him flat just like this.

“Hey—this is no laughing matter,” shouted the Coastie pinning Griffin to the floor. “And this isn’t a costume party. You think this is some kind of prank?”

There were a dozen of them now, crammed into the lantern room and staring menacingly at Griffin.

Why were they yelling?

The first one lifted his knee and tossed Griffin onto his back. “Oh.” He paused. “I know that face.” He grabbed Griffin under the arms and hefted him onto his feet. “Look! It’s the kid from the photos in the cottage, the kid that went missing.” He yanked the headphones off the guy closest to him. “Hey, aren’t those his parents we’ve got at the station for questioning?”

A man with an impressive number of bars pinned to his lapel and a funny-looking hat on his head cut him off with a stern look. “What’s your name, son?”

“Griffin Fenn. I’m the Assistant Lighthouse Keeper here. Or, at least, I was.”

The guy in charge made a waffling motion with his hand and the guardsmen peeled off their ear protection. “You’ll need to come down to the station to answer some questions, I’m afraid.”

Griffin was about to begin explaining about the portal and the priests and all the rest when a sound floated in through the open gallery door, interrupting his thoughts. He started, like when you see your teacher at the hardware store in a ratty old pair of jeans—you’d recognize that face any day, but it’s still the strangest thing to see it somewhere you don’t expect.

The song of the sea was faint. But he would know it anywhere.

Griffin bit down on whatever it was he’d been about to say. A broad smile stretched over his face. It worked! He did it. And finally, finally, he was home.