Chapter 1: The Deed in the Envelope

The envelope arrived on a Tuesday, which Mara would later decide was the only ordinary thing about it. It was thick, cream-colored, and addressed in handwriting so neat it looked printed. Inside were a brass key, a property deed, and a single line of instruction: Do not let the lantern go dark.

She read the deed three times on the bus home. Hollow Bay Light, Station No. 4, transferred in full to Mara Elise Quill upon the death of Agnes Quill. Mara had never heard of Agnes Quill. Her mother, when she was alive, had never mentioned a grandmother at all, and certainly not one who owned a lighthouse.

The lawyer on the phone was polite and unhelpful. Yes, the property was hers. Yes, the taxes were paid through the end of the year. No, he could not say why Agnes had chosen her. "She was very specific," he said, in the tone of a man who had stopped asking questions a long time ago. "She left instructions that you should arrive before the first new moon of autumn."

Mara checked a calendar. The new moon was nine days away.

She told herself she was going for practical reasons. She was between jobs, her lease was ending, and a free building on the coast was worth at least a weekend of curiosity. She packed two suitcases, a box of books, and the brass key, which she kept on a string around her neck because it felt wrong to put it anywhere else.

Hollow Bay was a town of two hundred people and one diner. The waitress there, a woman with silver braids and a name tag that read June, went quiet when Mara mentioned the lighthouse. "Agnes kept that light burning for fifty-one years," June said finally. "Never missed a night. You planning to do the same?"

"I don't even know how it works," Mara admitted.

June refilled her coffee without being asked. "Nobody does, honey. That was always the trouble." She hesitated, then lowered her voice. "Whatever you hear out there after midnight, don't answer it. Agnes never did. That's how she lasted."

Mara laughed, because it seemed like the kind of thing you were supposed to laugh at. June did not laugh with her. Outside, past the harbor and the gray line of the breakwater, the lighthouse stood against a darkening sky, its lantern room empty and dark, waiting.