Chapter 2: Madeline
Albie weaves the cab through the tightest street I’ve ever seen, like he’s guiding a boat through a canyon. The car groans, old shocks and stiff steering wheel complaining around every bend, but he’s grinning like it’s a joyride. We scrape past a stone wall that absolutely should’ve taken off the side mirror, but somehow doesn’t.
“I should really stop taking the car through this part,” he mutters, cheerfully ignoring another blind curve. “But I like the view.”
I think he might be clinically unbothered by death.
The buildings press closer together as we go, all slate roofs and whitewashed stone, like a cluster of fairytale cottages shivering under a misty sky. I can see the ocean now only in flickers between houses—glimpses of turquoise, foaming water, grey light. It feels like something sacred and slightly annoyed. Like the sea knows we’re here and isn’t sure how it feels about that yet.
Then, Albie brakes hard and leans his elbow out the window, nodding at something ahead of us.
“This is the one.”
I blink at the steep stone path in front of us, slick with moss and shadowed by the cliff. It leads down to a small white house tucked so tightly into the hillside, it looks like it grew there. The roof is slanted and stubborn-looking, the windows a little fogged. There’s a chimney puffing lazy smoke, like the house is alive and dreaming.
“This is where all the Andersons’ crew stays,” he says, shifting into park and slapping the steering wheel like it owes him money.
I frown. “The Andersons?”
“Yeah. You’re one of theirs now.” He opens the door like that explains anything.
I sit still for a second. I wasn’t hired by anyone named Anderson. My contract said Seacoast Wildlife & Marine Research Institute, which, you know, sounded very official and not like it was owned by some family with a generational claim on the entire coastline.
Albie’s already popping the trunk. “Hope this is the right place. If not, well… they’ll let you know.”
I whip my head around. “What do you mean, if not—”
But he’s already hauling my duffel bag onto the curb like this is all perfectly routine.
I get out, still trying to piece together how a professional internship somehow landed me in what looks like a lighthouse keeper’s cousin’s spare cottage. “I thought the house would be—uh, closer to the water.”
Albie grunts. “You’re practically in it.”
Fair enough.
We carry my bags to the top of the stone path, which winds sharply downward toward the house like a spine made of slate. I try not to imagine slipping and cartwheeling down into the front door like a horror movie opening scene.
“Steps are mean when they’re wet,” Albie says helpfully. “Don’t trust ‘em. They smile at you, but they’re liars.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
We pause at the top. The air smells like salt and earth and woodsmoke. Somewhere in the distance, gulls scream like they’ve seen something they shouldn’t have.
Albie sets my second bag down and turns to me. “Well, here you are. New girl on the coast. You’ve got decent boots, a face like you bite back, and if you can boil water without burning it, you’ll be the smartest one in the house.”
I smile despite myself. “Is that another East Coast compliment?”
He shrugs. “Round here, it’s high praise.”
Then he claps a rough hand against my back—firm, not unkind—and says, “Keep your rudder steady and your coffee black, and you’ll do just fine.”
I stare at him, eyebrows lifted.
He just grins and tips his cap like he’s dropped wisdom from a mountaintop. “See ya ‘round, whale girl.”
And then he’s gone.
Just like that.
The cab shudders away from the curb, disappears around the bend, and I’m standing alone with my bags and the quiet.
I turn slowly to face the path. The stairs look even steeper now that I’m on my own. They wind down between mossy rock walls and weather-stained fences, vanishing into the shade. The cottage below leans ever so slightly toward the cliff, like it’s listening to the sea whisper something it can’t tell anyone else.
I take a deep breath, shift my bag, and start down.
Each step is slick, and the slope is aggressive, but I manage not to die. When I finally reach the front door, I’m breathless, my heart thudding loud in my ears. I don’t know if it’s nerves or exertion or both.
The door is simple, painted white and chipped with age. The knob is a little crooked. A brass fish-shaped door knocker stares at me with a single tarnished eye.
I knock once. No answer.
Twice. Still nothing.
I try the knob.
It turns.
Because of course it does. This place probably hasn’t locked a door in thirty years.
I step inside.
The house smells like salt and cedar and something warm—baking, maybe, or cinnamon gum. The air is dense and soft, like it’s been holding stories. My boots creak over a wooden floor older than I am.
The entryway is narrow, but full of life. A wooden bench sits beneath a textured window, and four pairs of muddy boots line up beneath it like soldiers. Coats hang in a mess of shapes and sizes—heavy flannel, waxed canvas, something corduroy and moth-eaten. They look lived-in, not decorative. Everything in here means something to someone.
I move slowly down the hall. The floor dips slightly under one step. A long rug stretches ahead of me, flanked by two old dressers, both stacked with mismatched lamps, conch shells, and a bowl full of keys. The ceiling is low, the beams exposed, and a model ship hangs from two ropes near the stairs—its sails delicate and dust-covered.
Paintings crowd the walls. Boats. Sea storms. Old maps. One is just a whale’s tail disappearing under a wave.
The whole place feels like someone built it with memory instead of blueprints.
I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding.
This is where I’ll live.
This tiny, creaky, sea-damp house with strangers and salt in the walls.
And for a second—just a flicker—I feel something warm bloom behind my ribs. Something that might be hope.
I take one more step, and a floorboard groans under my weight.
And then—
A soft sound.
Someone clears their throat behind me.
I freeze.
Turn slowly.
And realize I’m not alone.