Wind Northwest, Moderate

She did not sleep well. The cottage made the noises old houses make, and every one of them sounded like a footstep on the tower stairs.

In the morning she read the logbook from the beginning. Most of it was ordinary: weather, fuel, a broken pane replaced in March. The keeper's name was Elias Penhallow, and for eleven years he had written almost nothing about himself.

Then, in the last month, the entries changed.

She will come on a Friday, he had written in August. She will carry the crates herself because she does not trust the path. She will be right not to.

Mara put the book down and went to look at the path.

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