At the bottom of the staircase, I recalled the episode from the night before.
The doll in the dirty water.
It was still there, and much less eerie in the cool light of day. But I remembered how I’d felt a pull toward the section of the floor beneath the stairs. I moved toward it, sloshing through the water, feeling a bit stupid. My foot hit against something. A piece of wood.
I reached down and felt the hard edge of a slab of wood, about two-foot square. It wasn’t heavy, and as soon as I lifted it the water started to gurgle and pour down into whatever the wood had been covering. A good thing, as far as I was concerned, as the dark water started to go down.
I assumed the wood had been covering a drain, but as I looked closer, I saw the grille wasn’t a standard drain covering. The bars were old and rusty, fixed in place by a heavy lock. The water continued to pour down through the bars, a long echo indicating that there was quite a deep drop there. I couldn’t see the bottom.
Luna and Clover were already outside when I emerged from the lighthouse, playing tag and laughing. I started to tell them off for leaving the bothy when they’d been instructed to stay indoors, but they were laughing so hard my words died in the wind.
At lunchtime, the old Range Rover that I recognized as Isla’s pulled up outside. Through the window I saw a cloud of blonde hair emerge from the passenger side. Saffy, followed by another girl.
I ran outside, unable to stop myself from bursting into tears and throwing my arms around her. Luna, Clover, and I had scoured the area around the lighthouse, searching the caves dotting the cliffs farther along the bay. We’d gone into the forest, then drove into the little town, Strallaig, in case she’d made it that far, but there had been no sign of her. I’d told myself that if she didn’t turn up by two o’clock, I’d call the police. It was half past one.
Saffy tolerated my hug—I guessed because we had an audience—and I thanked Isla for finding her. There was a man in the driving seat. An older man, mid-sixties, with a stone-cold stare.
“This is my husband, Bram,” Isla said.
“Hello,” I said. He didn’t smile or say hello back, but I wasn’t bothered. I was just grateful to have Saffy home.
“Where was she?” I asked.
“We spotted her walking along Salters Road, about a mile that way,” she said, turning to point left. “We’ve just stopped by the café for a cuppa, haven’t we, girls?”
The other girl, Rowan, introduced herself as Isla’s daughter. At fifteen, she was the same age as Saffy, and just as shy and awkward, but she was friendly with it, too. She had long hair dyed raven black—an inch of copper roots betrayed her true color—and heavy black eye makeup. An oversized Marilyn Manson T-shirt and studded Doc Martens indicated that she was somewhat of a goth. I invited her and Isla in for a coffee.
“Oh, we’ve just been to Mum’s café,” Rowan said. She laughed nervously when she spoke, a light tinkle of bells.
“Whist,” Isla said, which I remembered meant “be quiet.” Then, to me: “We’d love to, but I’ve to open the café for a crafts workshop.”
She explained that “the café” was her café in the town of Strallaig. She ran it while looking after properties, like the Longing, on the side.
“Another time, then,” I said.
She nodded. “Oh, before I forget—I’ve ordered all the things you asked for. The paints, the harnesses, brushes, extension poles, a thirty-meter cherry picker. They’ll take another week or so to arrive, but they’re on their way.”
I was astonished. “You found a cherry picker?”
“The thingamajig that looks like a fireman’s lift?”