the gloss-painted skirting board in the bedroom, with no idea why he was awake, no idea why he hallucinated a man who waited for him, no idea who Madeline was or where. It would all stop mattering, and there was nothing soothing about that prospect.
But then there was Lily.
It wasn’t a choice at all, not really.
‘I suppose you’d better go and help your men, then?’ Joe managed. He wanted to cry, but an alarmed part of him pointed out that if his tears froze, he would be out here on the ice blind.
‘And find our ship,’ Kite agreed. He looked sad, and sorry.
Joe nodded, numb. Making the decision to stay, to not know, not investigate, had cracked something in him. He couldn’t tell what, or what the consequences would be, only that there would be consequences. But maybe it was better to just put it all behind him. Lily would be old enough to talk soon. If he felt broken, he would have to learn to live with it.
‘Good luck,’ he said.
‘Thank you.’ Kite didn’t sound particularly relieved. ‘When you get back to the boarding house, don’t let anyone talk you out of leaving. All right? You have to get away from this place.’
‘Okay,’ Joe said softly. He hugged him. It was unbearable to feel the shape of him through their clothes. Kite looked like he could kill someone with one good left hook, but up close, he was smaller than Joe. The idea of leaving him on a deck that had to be sanded felt like murder. ‘Are you going to be in trouble, for not taking me?’
‘No. I can say no one was here. Someone fixed the lamp and left.’
Joe couldn’t leave it at that. He searched around for something to say, anything useful. ‘You’re right. About the Siege of Edinburgh, it’s famous. It happens soon. This year.’
‘How does it …?’
Joe shook his head a little. ‘The French navy shells the city until there’s nothing left. Then …’ He stopped, because he’d read it not even that long ago. M. Saint-Marie had got together a stack of history books so Joe could learn the world properly. When he’d read them, it had all seemed very factual and ordinary, but now he was talking to someone who had it still to come, all the facts and figures made a knot in his throat. ‘They forced all the survivors to dig a long trench outside the city, told them it was for defensive purposes, and then they got everyone in the trench and shot them. It was the end of the war. You need to get out. Take your crew to Jamaica – the resistance was successful there. It’s a free state now. Well, free-ish,’ he had to add, because the image of Alice was there in his mind, tapping her foot and reminding him that her aunt had sold her for a strip of land on a pineapple farm.
‘I’ll do my best,’ Kite said, and Joe knew that he wouldn’t be able to, that the men on his ship would have families and no one would just leave everything behind. Kite smiled briefly, and turned away.
Joe did too. He walked slowly, feeling like there was a chain trickling out behind him, back to the lighthouse, and the more it spooled, the worse he felt.
It was only a few miles to the beach, but it was impossible to see far, so he had to rely on a compass bearing. When he reached the shore, everything was white. Icicles hung from the whale ribs. The dead cormorants were still perched there.
The inn was empty except for the landlord, who had built the fire much smaller than yesterday. He looked alarmed.
‘What are you doing back here?’
‘The lighthouse is haunted,’ Joe said dully.
‘Yes,’ the innkeeper agreed, as if that had always been obvious. ‘But … everyone’s gone up to Stornaway for the winter. I’m just shutting away the last few things.’
‘Do you know how I can get back to the mainland?’ Joe asked. It was a strange struggle. He felt foggy, like a cloud had come to sit inside his skull, and it was hard to make out the shapes of his thoughts. He rubbed his temple. This was how he’d felt at the Gare du Roi. He wanted to punch himself in the head.
‘The mainland! You can’t. You’d have to walk. Even if all the ice is solid, which it won’t be – you’d freeze before you got halfway.’ The landlord paused,