Chapter 1 — Inheritance Unveiled

Claire Hartwell

The ferry’s engine droned, its rhythmic thrum vibrating through the soles of Claire Hartwell’s sensible flats as she sat stiffly on the weathered wooden bench. She clutched her leather tote bag like a lifeline, her knuckles pale against its polished straps. The air smelled faintly of salt and diesel, a sharp contrast to the sanitized sterility of her city apartment. Around her, the handful of passengers spoke in subdued tones or gazed out at the endless expanse of grey-blue water. Claire kept her eyes fixed on the horizon, where the distant silhouette of the island loomed closer with each passing moment.

The island. It rose like a forgotten relic from the ocean, its jagged cliffs and dense pine forests shrouded in a veil of mist. For a fleeting moment, something stirred in her—a memory of sitting cross-legged on the floor as her great-uncle’s gravelly voice spun tales of shipwrecks and hidden treasures. She could almost feel the warmth of the mug of cocoa between her small hands. But the memory dissolved as quickly as it had come, leaving behind a hollow ache she was quick to dismiss. That was a child’s world, full of fairy tales. Now, the island was simply a task to complete, an obligation to be dealt with before she could return to her meticulously ordered life.

Her phone buzzed in her lap, and she glanced down at the screen. The signal was already fading, the bars dwindling to one stubborn flicker. A notification from her calendar popped up: *Client Meeting – 2 PM*. She stared at it for a moment, her thumb hovering over the screen before she swiped it away. There would be no client meetings today, no carefully curated slide decks or boardroom negotiations. Just this—an unwanted inheritance and an isolated island she hadn’t set foot on since childhood.

“First time back, huh?” The voice startled her, low and gruff but not unkind. She turned to see the ferry captain, a wiry man with a face as weathered as the shoreline, leaning against the railing. His cap was pulled low over his eyes, but she could feel his gaze assessing her, curious but not intrusive.

Claire hesitated, unsure how to respond. “In a long time,” she said finally, her tone clipped. She wasn’t in the mood for small talk.

“Your great-uncle was a good man,” the captain said, his voice thick with the kind of reverence reserved for the dead. “Kept to himself, but he cared about the island. Wanted it to stay... untouched. Said it had a way of changing people.”

“Changing people?” Claire’s tone was sharper than she intended, but the captain only shrugged.

“Some places do that,” he said simply, before turning his attention back to the water. His words lingered in the air, unwanted, like the salt spray settling on her skin.

The ferry docked with a groan of wood and metal, and Claire rose, smoothing the front of her tailored blouse out of habit before remembering she’d traded her usual heels for flats. The uneven planks of the dock creaked beneath her weight as she stepped onto the island. The wind was sharper here, cutting through her thin blazer and carrying the mingling scents of seaweed and pine. She shivered, adjusting the strap of her bag as her gaze swept the desolate dock for some sign of a welcome—or at least a ride.

No one was waiting for her. The dock was deserted save for a scattering of seagulls and a hand-painted sign pointing toward the village square. Claire sighed and started walking, her sensible flats crunching against the gravel path that wound its way inland.

The village appeared almost suddenly, tucked into a dip in the landscape as if it were deliberately avoiding notice. The square was modest, framed by weathered cottages, a general store with a faded sign, and what looked like a tiny inn. Flower boxes spilling over with late-season blooms lined the cobblestone paths, their vibrant colors a stark contrast to the muted tones of the buildings. The mingling scents of baked bread and sea breeze teased her senses, but the warmth of the scene was tempered by the wary eyes of the locals. Conversations halted as she passed, their voices dropping to murmurs. She felt their gazes linger, curious and cautious, like they were sizing her up, measuring her against some unspoken standard.

“Claire Hartwell, I presume.”

The voice came from her left, brisk and matter-of-fact. She turned to see a woman in her seventies standing on the inn’s porch, a knit cap pulled low over her silver hair and a heavy sweater hanging loosely on her wiry frame. Her eyes were sharp, scanning Claire with an intensity that made her feel like she was being appraised.

“Yes, that’s me,” Claire said, straightening her posture despite herself. “And you are?”

“Aggie Thorne. Lighthouse keeper. Welcome to the island.” The woman’s tone was sardonic, her words carrying the faintest undercurrent of amusement. “Funny how things have a way of calling people back here.”

Claire frowned but kept her expression neutral. “I wasn’t aware my great-uncle spoke of me.”

Aggie’s lips twitched, though whether it was a smile or something more cutting, Claire couldn’t tell. “He didn’t. Not much, anyway. But he left you the island, didn’t he? So here you are.”

Before Claire could respond, Aggie turned and gestured toward the inn. “Go on, drop your things. You’ll want to see the manor before it gets dark.”

“The manor?” Claire echoed, the word catching awkwardly in her mouth. She hadn’t thought of it as anything so grand. In her mind, it was just an old house—a relic of a family she barely knew.

Aggie shrugged. “That’s what we call it. Don’t get your hopes up, though. It’s more ruin than residence these days.”

Claire followed Aggie’s gesture toward the inn, where a middle-aged man was emerging from the door with a key in hand. He introduced himself as Graham, the innkeeper, and led her to a modest room on the second floor. It smelled faintly of lavender and salt, the furnishings simple but clean. She set her bag on the bed and glanced out the small window, which offered a view of the lighthouse in the distance.

The sight stirred something in her—a vague, unformed memory she didn’t quite trust. She shook it off and turned back to Graham, who was explaining the layout of the village and offering directions to the manor.

“Thanks,” she said absently, her mind already moving ahead to the task at hand. She wasn’t here to linger or reminisce. The sooner she assessed the property and finalized the sale, the sooner she could return to her real life.

The path to the manor was overgrown, the gravel barely visible beneath a carpet of moss and fallen pine needles. Claire’s flats were ill-suited for the uneven terrain, and she stumbled more than once, cursing under her breath. The air was heavy with the scent of damp earth and resin, the forest alive with the occasional rustle of leaves or the distant cry of a gull. By the time the house came into view, her frustration had settled into a dull ache at the base of her skull.

The manor was larger than she’d expected, its ivy-covered facade imposing despite its obvious decay. Broken windows gaped like missing teeth, and the front door hung slightly ajar, its paint peeled away to reveal splintered wood beneath. Claire hesitated at the threshold, her hand hovering over the doorknob. The wind whispered through the trees, carrying with it the faintest trace of something familiar—an old cologne, or maybe the scent of cigar smoke. She closed her eyes for a moment, steadying herself. The house felt alive in a way that unsettled her, as if it were holding its breath, waiting for her to step inside.

She pushed the door open and entered.

The air was thick with dust and the faint scent of mildew. Sunlight filtered through the broken windows, casting fragmented patterns on the floor. The grand staircase that dominated the foyer was missing several steps, and the walls were lined with faded wallpaper that might once have been floral. Claire’s footsteps echoed as she moved deeper into the house, her eyes darting between the remnants of its former life—an overturned chair, a cracked mirror, a piano with its lid askew.

She paused in what she assumed had been the study, drawn by a glint of brass on the desk. It was a compass, its lid etched with the image of a lighthouse and waves. She picked it up, its weight solid and reassuring in her hand. The needle quivered slightly, as though alive with some faint energy. When her thumb brushed the edge, it vibrated faintly, startling her.

Frowning, she turned it over, noticing faint engravings along the edge. The letters were worn, almost illegible, but she could make out a single word: *Legacy*.

A shiver ran down her spine, though she couldn’t say why. She slipped the compass into her bag and glanced around the room one last time before heading back to the village. The island’s secrets would wait, for now.

But something told her they wouldn’t wait forever.