“How’s business?” I ask, hoping to change the subject.
“Tourists are buying more tackle than they know what to do with. I spent an hour yesterday teaching a man from Ohio how to bait a hook. Poor fish around here don’t stand a chance.” She leans closer, lowering her voice. “Sebastian’s been asking questions about you.”
My stomach drops. “What kind of questions?”
“The nosy kind. Wanted to know if I knew where you went fishing last week. Said he saw you hauling in quite a catch.”
Before I can respond, Mayor Blackwood calls the meeting to order. I sit back, mind racing.
Sebastian saw me with the thirty pounds of fish I caught for Roark. Did he follow me back to the lighthouse? Did he see anything?
The meeting trudges through budget approvals and parking concerns for summer tourism. I force myself to look interested while mentally cataloging every interaction I’ve had with Sebastian in the past week. He’d followed me home the first day, but Roark had stayed hidden.
Still, something about the museum director’s interest makes my skin crawl.
“Now, let’s discuss the upcoming Maritime Festival,” Mayor Blackwood announces. “Sebastian, I believe you have some ideas to share?”
Sebastian Walsh rises from his seat across the room. At first glance, he embodies Cape Tempest’s ideal citizen—tailored blazer with nautical-themed elbow patches, salt-and-pepper beard meticulously trimmed, the confident bearing of someone born to high society.
But there’s something behind his smile that never quite reaches his eyes.
“Thank you, Mayor.” His voice carries a hint of an accent I’ve never been able to place. “As you all know, the Maritime Festivalis our biggest tourism draw of the season. But I believe we can make this year truly special—a celebration that captures the true spirit of Cape Tempest.”
He clicks a remote, and a projector illuminates the wall with renderings of the town square decked out for festivities. So far, nothing unusual.
“What made Cape Tempest famous wasn’t just our fishing industry or our lighthouse,” Sebastian continues. “It was our brave hunters who protected shipping lanes from the terrors of the deep.”
The next slide shows historical photographs of Cape Tempest’s whaling ships, followed by images that make my blood run cold—men on docks posing proudly beside the carcasses of sea creatures. Not whales or sharks, but beings I now recognize as sentient species: a harpooned selkie, the mangled remains of what might be a juvenile kraken.
“Post-Unveiling, we’ve learned these creatures are more intelligent than our ancestors realized,” Sebastian acknowledges smoothly. “But rather than hide this part of our history, I propose we embrace it through an educational reenactment.”
The next slide shows sketches of sailors in period costume manning harpoon guns on a replica ship.
“We’ll emphasize that these practices are historical, of course,” Sebastian adds. “A way to honor our past while celebrating how far we’ve come in monster-human relations.”
My fingernails dig into my palms. The casual way he says “monster-human relations,” as if the slaughter of intelligent beings was just an unfortunate misunderstanding.
“The lighthouse would serve as a perfect backdrop,” Sebastian continues, nodding in my direction. “After all, it wasn’t just for guiding ships. It was our first line of defense, warning the town when sea monsters approached.”
I feel Marina’s hand on my arm, a gentle pressure urging caution, but the blood is pounding too loudly in my ears.
“That’s not true,” I hear myself say, my voice cutting through the murmurs of appreciation for Sebastian’s presentation.
The room falls silent. Sebastian’s smile doesn’t waver. “I’m sorry?”
“The lighthouse was never a ‘defense’ against anything,” I continue, unable to stop myself now that I’ve started. “It was—and is—a navigation aid. To protect lives, not endanger them.”
Sebastian’s expression shifts to something patronizing. “While I appreciate your passion for your workplace, Miss Morgan, the historical record is quite clear. The lighthouse keeper’s journals from the 1800s specifically mention watching for ‘strange disruptions in the water’ and ‘unnatural movements’ that might indicate sea monster activity.”
“Because they were trying to avoid them,” I counter, “not hunt them. There’s a difference between observation and actively organizing hunting parties.”
People are staring now. I’ve never spoken up like this during meetings before. Usually, I sit quietly, contribute when asked directly about lighthouse matters, and count the minutes until I can leave.
Sebastian’s eyes narrow slightly. “I’m surprised by your objection. The reenactment isn’t advocating for hunting. It’s educational—showing how perceptions have changed since the Great Unveiling.”
“By glamorizing the slaughter of intelligent beings?”
“Ashe,” Marina murmurs beside me, a note of warning in her voice.
