I balanced on the third rung, the paper lantern between my teeth as I fumbled with cold fingers to tie the string to Aunt Lorrie's shop sign. All along the harbor, saffron bulbs and strings of bunting still fluttered in the October wind, but one by one the lanterns winked out, and then every window followed, until the village dropped into darkness—sudden, thick, and total.
A shiver prickled up my spine. I pressed my palm to the lantern, expecting the bulb to flicker back on. Instead, the silence broke: a black streak shot from behind my boot, tail high and yowling. Biscuit, my aunt’s cat, vanished straight toward the church at the bottom of the lane, his disgruntled wail echoing off the cobbles.
Across the street, a golden match flared. Beckett Thorne stepped out into the orange wash, jaw carved from shadow, his scowl unmistakable even in firelight. He flicked the match at his boot and let it burn. "Your aunt was supposed to warn you," he said, voice flat as slate. "The ward’s failing early. Come down. I need your half of the spell."
His words crashed through me, a cold realization settling in my chest. My aunt’s warning had been stories and half-truths since the day I arrived—a tea shop, a cat, a folded spell, tales of feuding families. Now the truth pressed sharp and immediate against my ribs.
Down by the water, the bell at St. Morwenna’s began to ring. Uneasy, I counted: one, two, three… Twelve strikes, and then it kept ringing—a wild, frantic clanging that had nothing to do with time. Each toll shuddered through the cobbles and climbed up my bones. It was supposed to stop at midnight. It didn’t.
My hand went to my apron pocket. The folded parchment my aunt left me—creased, soft, harmless until now—was burning warm against my thigh. Before I could think, I pulled it free. In the glow of Beckett’s match, ink bled and twisted across the page, fresh and urgent. I recognized her handwriting instantly: Don’t give it to him.
I sucked in a sharp breath. Beckett stood waiting, shoulders tense, waiting for my answer. Below, the bell kept ringing. The lantern in my hand swung, casting wild shadows across his face and the shuttered shops beyond. I was caught between the warning in my palm and the demand across the lane, the ward’s failing breath in the air, and a secret that might cost the whole village if I chose wrong.
But I couldn’t move. I could only watch the ink dry beneath my thumb, and listen as the bell pealed on and on, louder, as if something in the harbor was waking up, hungry and full of memory.
And then, for just a heartbeat, every window on the harbor glowed blue with ghost-light.