The hinges creaked as she pushed the door in, and a current of musty air greeted her. It was the scent of history—salt, dust, a trace of old oil from the lantern years—and it pried open a memory: being here with Daniel when she’d first discovered the place was real, clinging to the handrail, the giddy terror of heights, the sense of standing in the middle of something impossibly old.
She waited at the threshold, letting the others catch up. When Daniel arrived, he ducked inside first, careful not to graze Charlotte’s sleeping face on the lintel. He settled against the wall, shifting the baby to his other arm, and inhaled deeply. “Still smells like the world’s oldest shoe,” he said, voice low.
Emily grinned. “You love it.”
“It’s an acquired taste,” he said, but the fondness was obvious.
Chantelle barreled in next, nearly colliding with Daniel’s knees. She didn’t pause to take in the entryway—just set the guitar case down and started up the spiral stairs, hands on both rails. Each footfall was a distinct, metallic clang, the echo ricocheting up the shaft.
“Careful,” Emily called after her, out of reflex. “Don’t run.”
Chantelle called back, “I’m not! I’m climbing.” The distinction was academic.
Roy and Patricia arrived in tandem. Patricia brushed the sand from her shoes, then held the door open for Roy, who took the threshold in a single, measured step. He looked up the stairwell, mouth quirked. “You sure this thing is up to code? Not yet, I’d say.”
Emily shrugged. “You want to be the building inspector, or the guy who tells his grandkids he climbed it?”
Roy considered, then started up, steady but determined. Patricia followed, close enough to catch if needed, but not hovering. There was an unspoken importance in his posture, as if every flight was a private victory. After what he’d been through it was.
With everyone inside, Emily closed the door, savoring again the thick click of the lock. The interior was colder than outside, the stone walls radiating the memory of February even in July. The only light was the silver wash from the windows, and the banded glow from the spiral stairs, where every other tread caught a slant of moon.
Emily let her eyes adjust, then ran her hand along the lower banister. The wood was warped and ridged, polished smooth by a hundred years of hands—keepers, tourists, kids running just like Chantelle. At the first landing, she paused, letting herfingers trace the grain, feeling for a moment every story that had ever lived here. It was a pulse, soft but insistent.
Above, she could hear the others: the scuff of shoes, the faint rasp of Roy’s slightly labored breath, the sporadic, delighted cackle from Chantelle when she reached a window and shouted down to announce her progress. Cassie’s voice, muffled but clear, narrated each rest stop with a dry “These counts as cardio, right?”
Emily smiled, then started up herself. The stairs were narrow, the treads shallow, and each turn forced a small recalibration of balance. At the first window, she stopped and looked out. The whole harbor was visible, lamps and porch lights trembling on the black water. The stage from earlier, now dark, still held the shape of the night—an after-echo of music, the field rutted with footprints and the ghostly shadows of the last dancers. Farther out, night boats bobbed on their moorings, mast lights flickering like fireflies.
She heard athunkahead, then Chantelle’s voice: “Hey, Mom! You can see everything from here!” The words bounced down the stairwell, colliding with the scrape of Daniel’s boots and Charlotte’s tiny snore.
The next flight was tougher. Her thighs burned, and she felt the baby kick, restless in its high, tight nest. Emily braced herself on the rail, gave her belly a gentle pat, and muttered, “Hang in there, kid.” The spiral seemed to tighten as she went, the air thinner, the sound of the sea louder.
At the second landing, she caught up with the rest of them. Daniel stood in the corner, Charlotte drooling on his collar, his free hand resting on his back. He gave Emily a sheepish grin. “She gained ten pounds during the concert, I swear.”
“She’s prepping for hibernation this winter,” Emily said, brushing a loose curl from Charlotte’s forehead. “I am, too.”
Roy was perched on the windowsill, legs stretched, chest rising and falling in slow, even pulls. Patricia stood beside him, fingers lightly grazing his shoulder, her own breathing in perfect counterpoint.
Chantelle paced the landing, eyes roving over every nail and seam in the wall. She was vibrating with unused energy, her voice only just reined in to a normal register. “Is this where they used to keep the light?”
“No,” Emily said, “the lantern room’s at the very top. That was just for the weights and ropes.”
Chantelle’s eyes widened. “How many more stairs?”
Emily considered. “Enough to prove you’re serious.”
“I am,” she said, already halfway to the next set of treads.
Emily leaned on the rail, watching her daughter disappear upward. The glow from the window caught on Chantelle’s hair, making a faint halo around her. For a moment, Emily let herself imagine the girl years from now, climbing a different staircase, running the same way. The thought made her heart twist—love and fear and pride, layered and inseparable.
Daniel nudged her. “You want to go first, or should I?”
She shook her head. “You go. If she breaks her neck, at least you’re here to catch her.”
He snorted, then started up, his boots heavy but reliable. The sound echoed above, then faded as he and Chantelle climbed past another turn.
Emily waited, letting the silence build. Roy cleared his throat, voice quieter than usual. “You always did like the view from up top. Not like New York, though, is it?”
She smiled, recalling summer evenings on the city roof above that first New York apartment—watching the lights come on, pretending she owned the whole sky. “Still do. But no, the view here is much better. And so is the company.”
