He passed her at a short remove, the timber balanced upon his shoulder. She did not look at him. He did not slow.
After she had gone several paces, he turned. “You will want coal.”
She stopped at once and faced him. The distance she kept was precise—close enough for speech, far enough that neither could reach the other without closing it deliberately. She had measured it. He was certain of that.
“For the hearth,” he added. “There is a bin beside the tower wall. Driftwood alone will not serve you indoors. It is too wet.”
Her gaze shifted toward the lantern house, then back to him. “I shall return for it.”
He inclined his head. “You will also discover that cooking over an open coal bed is less convenient than it appears.”
Her chin lifted by a fraction. “I have no intention of attempting a feast. Cheese and onions will answer for tonight.”
“As you please.”
He did not wait for reply but continued his descent and took up the final length of timber. The wood was heavier than the others, waterlogged at one end, and the weight of it sat differently upon his shoulder than it had an hour ago, when the provisions on those shelves had still been his own, and the headland had still been his own, and the silence in which he worked had not yet acquired an audience.
The stack now stood waist high. He laid the last length across the top and stepped back to consider the arrangement. Seven nights, he had built this. The first had beenragged—too much green wood, too little oil, the whole thing collapsing inward before midnight. He had learnt since then. Dry timber at the base, the heavier lengths across the top for structure, oil along the seams where flame would spread fastest. He could build it in half the time now. That was not a skill he had wanted to acquire.
The wind had freshened, driving low cloud inland. The sea had darkened to slate; no line remained between water and sky.
It would not do to wait longer.
From within the tower, he fetched the older oil—one of the tins he had set aside after the first failure of the lantern. If impurity had crept into the supply, he would use it here, where impurity did not matter. He poured a measured line along the driest lengths and knelt to strike the flint.
The spark caught. The flame ran thin across the surface, then found purchase. The wood hissed where damp resisted it; smoke rose in a low coil before the wind tore it sideways. He fed the flame carefully, adjusting the lower pieces until the fire began to build its own heat.
It climbed in earnest, orange against the gathering dark.
He stepped back, the warmth striking his face and hands. The damp wood steamed and cracked; resin pockets burst with sharp reports. Smoke drifted seaward, carrying with it the bitter scent of old timber.
It would burn for some hours. Long enough to warn any vessel that strayed too near before dawn—or near enough to that. The pyre was visible from two miles at sea, perhaps three in clear weather. The lantern, from fourteen. The difference was the margin in which ships died, and he could do nothing about it except build the fire again tomorrow night, and the night after, and hope that the collar arrived before the margin was tested.
He remained until he was satisfied that the structure would not collapse inward too soon, then turned toward the tower.
He had taken scarcely three steps when he halted.
Miss Bennet stood directly behind him, close enough that another pace would have sent him into her. She stiffened, though she did not retreat.
“What is that?” she asked, looking not at him but at the rising column of flame. “What purpose does it serve?”
The wind drove sparks low and eastward. He glanced at them, then stared blankly back at her. “A warning.”
“To whom?”
“To any ship that has misjudged the reef.”
She studied the blaze. The smoke thickened as a damp seam caught; a tongue of flame leapt higher.
“Is that not the purpose of the lantern?”
“It is.”
She waited. He did not elaborate.
“You have not answered my question, sir.”
“I have answered it accurately.”
