Chapter 3: Madeline
I turn in the direction of the voice, right behind me, not too sure what to expect. And... it wasn't this.
She’s stunning.
Not the kind of stunning that’s curated or effortful or planned. Not the type of beauty people post about with “#nofilter” even though they definitely filtered. She’s the kind that just exists—like it was born from the wind and the salt and the kind of chaos you want to get lost in.
She looks like someone who doesn’t ask the sea for permission—just walks right into it and dares it to push her back.
She’s standing at the far end of the hall, just past the stairwell, one hand braced on the wall like she’s caught mid-step, mid-thought, mid-something. She’s wearing a fitted brown long-sleeve tucked into vintage denim, the kind of outfit that should look practical but somehow looks like a Vogue editorial when she wears it. There’s a chain belt around her waist that glints every time she shifts, drawing the eye without trying to. Her boots are thick-soled and heavy, like they could kick through ice or expectation.
And her rings—there’s one on nearly every finger. All different. All somehow perfectly matched, like they’re telling a story she hasn’t decided whether or not to share.
Her dark hair falls just to her shoulders—almost windswept, almost polished—and there’s this tilt to her head, like she’s assessing me but not unkindly. Like she’s just trying to figure out if I’m a problem, or a surprise.
Her eyes are sultry, intense, more amused than suspicious, but still edged in curiosity.
And she’s looking at me like I’m the ghost in her hallway.
“Um,” she says, eyebrows lifting. “Sorry, who are you?”
“Oh. Right.” I snap out of it so fast I almost trip over my own name. “Madeline. Just—Madeline.”
She blinks.
And it’s a very pretty blink.
Like her eyelashes are in on some private joke.
I laugh softly, breath catching, throat dry, nerves turning into static under my skin. “Madeline Quinn. I’m supposed to start with Seacoast Wildlife & Marine Research Institute this week?”
Her face changes instantly. The confusion melts, and warmth rushes in to take its place.
Her eyes go wide with realization, her smile blooming like a slow sunrise. “Ohhh! Okay, yes. Yes. I was warned someone would be coming, but I thought your name was Quinn.”
I grin, relieved. “A lot of people do. Some people just call me Quinn. It’s a thing.”
She laughs—really laughs—and it fills the whole hallway. It’s the kind of laugh that makes you want to say something funny, just to hear it again.
“Well,” she says, taking a few easy steps toward me with the confidence of someone who’s already carved out a space for herself here, “welcome.”
She reaches out her hand and I take it. Hers is warm. Her grip is firm. Everything about her is the kind of grounded I wish I felt right now.
“I’m Charlie,” she says. “Also with Seacoast. Been working with them three years now. You’re in the right place—promise.”
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding.
Charlie. Of course it’s Charlie. Of course the girl who looks like she was dreamed up by the wind and the sea and a killer thrift rack is named Charlie. Something short and effortless and cooler than I’ll ever be.
She glances down at my bags, then back up at me with a half-smile. “You came in through Albie, right?”
I nod. “He left me with some mysterious boating metaphors and vanished.”
“Classic. He’s an icon.” She starts walking toward the stairs like we’ve known each other for weeks. “Come on, I’ll show you around. Most of the crew lives here in the summer. Unless you’re extra special and get assigned to the other house.”
She makes air quotes when she says extra special, and I follow her, the sound of our boots echoing up the narrow wooden staircase.
“What’s the other house?”
Charlie groans, already rolling her eyes. “There’s a second employee house, closer to the harbour. It’s for, like, senior staff. Long-timers. People who write reports or send bossy emails. You know. The VIPs.”
“So… management.”
“Exactly.” She glances at me and smirks. “They get actual heat, more space, private rooms, and they’re five minutes from the dock instead of twenty. It’s all very elite and important, or so they like to think.”
“And here?” I ask, glancing around as we hit the landing.
She spreads her arms like she’s revealing a stage. “Here, we walk. We freeze. We fight over the good kettle. We form trauma bonds through shared hallway mold and uneven floors. It’s beautiful.”
I laugh, and it’s the first real laugh I’ve let out since I stepped off the plane. Somehow it feels easier around her, like she’s giving me permission.
We reach the top of the stairs and the hallway narrows again, all wood and warmth and old house smell—damp floors and sea air and something sweet that lingers under it all. A dusty lamp hums in the corner, casting gold light against the floor. There’s a painting of a storm above the stairs—waves black and monstrous—and beside it, a string of seashells dangling from a nail, clicking together every time the wind slides under the eaves.
Charlie walks with purpose, like she knows exactly how many steps it takes to get to each door, like the house has learned her rhythms and made room for her.
She stops at a white door with a chipped metal handle and turns to me with a little half-smile.
Resting her hand on the knob, she tilts her head.
“This,” she says, “is your new room.”