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Authors: Saundra Mitchell
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and easy to ignore. Then, like nothing happened, I peeled out of my salt-stiff clothes and checked my phone. Bailey’d texted around lunchtime, and I was just then getting it.
There’s a party on Garland Beach, you coming?
Yeah. Yeah, I was.
SIX
Grey
The things I see from my brilliant prison.
A curse is a curse—the trappings are beautiful. They have to be, to tempt the eye, to sway the heart. The gilt packages, the plates that fill with any delicacy I like, they’re the sugar in the poison. The way I look—the way Susannah looked—ethereal monsters. I’m a devil with an angel’s smile.
The one that’s been thinking of me—she saw me today. I barely saw her, but I stood on the cliff and I felt her come close. She hesitated; she saw through the magic for just a moment, and that moment was enough. I’m still imaginary to her, but I’m almost real. She had to disbelieve at first; I certainly did.
But I’m in her thoughts. And that’s what matters.
If she’s anything like me, if she’s anything like the others in this chain of unfortunate souls, her thoughts will grow. She’ll dream me, and wonder about me, and polish all her considerations until she has to come. Until she has to stand before me: to touch me, to know my face.
And my face is beautiful.
Her face is light. That’s what they all are, out there. That’s what I see when I watch this village, cursed but never realizing it.
When it’s especially clear, and until lately, I’ve made sure it’s always especially clear, I can see the houses. Ivory and cranberry and blueberry and brown—they dot the hills, a delectable harvest in every season. I see the churches and their proud steeples. I see doors opening. Windows closing.
But the people—they’re no more substantial than the orchestra that plays in my music boxes.
They’re points of light. In the day, only the brightest ones, the ones that sail past my lighthouse, are visible to me. But at night, oh. I don’t look at the sky anymore; I watch the shore. All those souls are constellations that move.
Tonight, they’ve clustered together on the shore. A bonfire glows. It spits embers into the air. I’m imagining it, but I think I can smell the smoke. The sweet sea and a wood fire, all washed by the gathering mist.
I have nothing to do with it. If it comes, it comes. I’m done reining the elements for them. Instead, I watch them swirl across the beach. Jealously; I admit that. There are so many of them. They’re a cloud of fireflies. The bright ones dazzle, but they don’t interest me.
The dim ones make me ache. With my cursed eyes, I see only their lives, the length of them, the strength of them. If they’re long for this world, they grow bright. Short for it, and they’re much dimmer. There’s a few on that beach who may as well be dead. Soon, they will be. I ask sweetly in my thoughts,
Could you die on the water for me?
It doesn’t matter if they drown. If they have influenza. If they come to blows, if they fire their guns, if some freak accident takes them—so long as they fall on the waves illuminated by my lighthouse.
My reach stretches twenty miles on every side but the landward one. At the stony shoreline, they’re beyond my reach. So if they could slip into the water before they breathe their last, it would be lovely.
It’s the least they could do for me.
I’ve been a good steward for this town; better than most. I’ve been honorable. They’ve had a hundred years of my generosity, holding back the fog. So many good days for them. So many clear days. I’ve been patient. In all this time, I could have blinded hundreds of fishermen. Led them astray, helped their pretty little boats crash into rocks, hidden coming storms.
Many would have; I understand now that Susannah drowned as many as she could before she realized that time and mathematics would betray her.
So I’ve been a true gentleman. I’ve cleared their skies. Not once in these hundred years
There’s a party on Garland Beach, you coming?
Yeah. Yeah, I was.
SIX
Grey
The things I see from my brilliant prison.
A curse is a curse—the trappings are beautiful. They have to be, to tempt the eye, to sway the heart. The gilt packages, the plates that fill with any delicacy I like, they’re the sugar in the poison. The way I look—the way Susannah looked—ethereal monsters. I’m a devil with an angel’s smile.
The one that’s been thinking of me—she saw me today. I barely saw her, but I stood on the cliff and I felt her come close. She hesitated; she saw through the magic for just a moment, and that moment was enough. I’m still imaginary to her, but I’m almost real. She had to disbelieve at first; I certainly did.
But I’m in her thoughts. And that’s what matters.
If she’s anything like me, if she’s anything like the others in this chain of unfortunate souls, her thoughts will grow. She’ll dream me, and wonder about me, and polish all her considerations until she has to come. Until she has to stand before me: to touch me, to know my face.
And my face is beautiful.
Her face is light. That’s what they all are, out there. That’s what I see when I watch this village, cursed but never realizing it.
When it’s especially clear, and until lately, I’ve made sure it’s always especially clear, I can see the houses. Ivory and cranberry and blueberry and brown—they dot the hills, a delectable harvest in every season. I see the churches and their proud steeples. I see doors opening. Windows closing.
But the people—they’re no more substantial than the orchestra that plays in my music boxes.
They’re points of light. In the day, only the brightest ones, the ones that sail past my lighthouse, are visible to me. But at night, oh. I don’t look at the sky anymore; I watch the shore. All those souls are constellations that move.
Tonight, they’ve clustered together on the shore. A bonfire glows. It spits embers into the air. I’m imagining it, but I think I can smell the smoke. The sweet sea and a wood fire, all washed by the gathering mist.
I have nothing to do with it. If it comes, it comes. I’m done reining the elements for them. Instead, I watch them swirl across the beach. Jealously; I admit that. There are so many of them. They’re a cloud of fireflies. The bright ones dazzle, but they don’t interest me.
The dim ones make me ache. With my cursed eyes, I see only their lives, the length of them, the strength of them. If they’re long for this world, they grow bright. Short for it, and they’re much dimmer. There’s a few on that beach who may as well be dead. Soon, they will be. I ask sweetly in my thoughts,
Could you die on the water for me?
It doesn’t matter if they drown. If they have influenza. If they come to blows, if they fire their guns, if some freak accident takes them—so long as they fall on the waves illuminated by my lighthouse.
My reach stretches twenty miles on every side but the landward one. At the stony shoreline, they’re beyond my reach. So if they could slip into the water before they breathe their last, it would be lovely.
It’s the least they could do for me.
I’ve been a good steward for this town; better than most. I’ve been honorable. They’ve had a hundred years of my generosity, holding back the fog. So many good days for them. So many clear days. I’ve been patient. In all this time, I could have blinded hundreds of fishermen. Led them astray, helped their pretty little boats crash into rocks, hidden coming storms.
Many would have; I understand now that Susannah drowned as many as she could before she realized that time and mathematics would betray her.
So I’ve been a true gentleman. I’ve cleared their skies. Not once in these hundred years
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