Chapter 2 — First Impressions
Claire Hartwell
The morning fog wrapped the island in a damp shroud, muting its colors and softening its edges as Claire stepped gingerly off the ferry. Her sensible flats, ideal for city sidewalks, betrayed her on the slick wooden planks of the dock, forcing her to grip a rusted railing for balance. The air smelled of salt, seaweed, and something earthy she couldn’t quite place—a stark contrast to the sterile chill of her air-conditioned office. She pulled her cardigan tighter around her shoulders, shivering as much from discomfort as from the cold.
The dock groaned under her hesitant steps, each creak amplified in the stillness. Ahead, a cluster of weathered cottages leaned into the wind, their muted colors blending into the gray landscape. A few figures moved through the mist, their forms indistinct but their gazes unmistakable. Conversations hushed as she passed, replaced by the faint hum of the waves lapping against the shore.
Her chest tightened, a familiar pang of disconnection surging up, one she quickly buried beneath the pragmatic focus she wore like armor.
“Miss Hartwell, I presume?”
The voice was crisp, edged with authority. Claire turned to see a woman standing a few paces away. Her silver hair was tucked beneath a knit cap, strands escaping to frame a face weathered like the island itself—sharp, unyielding, and alive with quiet intensity. She wore a heavy sweater the color of storm clouds and boots scuffed from decades of use. Her piercing eyes seemed to strip Claire bare in a single glance.
“Claire, yes,” she replied, extending a hand. “And you are?”
“Aggie Thorne. Lighthouse keeper. Among other things.” Aggie ignored the offered hand and tilted her head toward a narrow dirt path vanishing into the pines. “Best see the manor before the rain rolls in. It doesn’t wait for anyone.”
Claire hesitated, glancing back at the ferry captain, who was busy securing the boat. He caught her eye and offered a small shrug, as if to say, *You’re on your own now.*
With no better option, Claire adjusted the strap of her bag and followed Aggie. The path was uneven, the damp earth clinging to her flats with every step. She stumbled more than once, her shoes woefully unsuited to the rugged terrain.
“You don’t look much like him,” Aggie said abruptly, her voice cutting through the rhythmic crunch of their footsteps.
“Excuse me?” Claire asked, startled.
“Your great-uncle. Theo. He had a way about him—stubborn as a mule, but kind. Always chasing something, though I don’t think he ever caught it.” Aggie glanced back, her expression softening briefly before shuttering again. “You’ve got his eyes, though. That same way of looking like you’re trying to solve a puzzle no one else sees.”
Claire didn’t know how to respond, so she didn’t. Instead, she focused on the path ahead, which was growing steeper. The trees loomed above them, their branches tangled into a canopy that filtered the weak sunlight into fractured beams.
The manor came into view suddenly, its silhouette rising from the mist like a forgotten relic. It was larger than she’d expected, though the grandeur was tempered by decay. Ivy crawled up its stone walls, and jagged shards of glass clung to the frames of shattered windows. The roof sagged in places, and the front steps were cracked and uneven.
“Charming,” Claire muttered under her breath, dryly.
“Better than most things that age,” Aggie shot back, her voice laced with amusement. She stepped aside, gesturing toward the looming structure. “Go on, then. It’s not going to bite. Probably.”
Claire hesitated at the threshold, her fingers grazing the heavy oak door, which groaned in protest as it swung open. The air inside was thick and stale, carrying the faint scent of mildew and rust. Dust motes swirled in the dim light that seeped through the fractured glass. Her footsteps echoed as she crossed the warped floorboards of what must have been the foyer.
A staircase dominated one wall, the banister carved with intricate patterns worn smooth by time. To her left was a sitting room where sagging furniture stood in solemn disrepair. A grand piano crouched in one corner, its keys yellowed and broken, like a mouth mid-scream.
Aggie lingered in the doorway, her arms crossed. “Theo poured his soul into this place. Thought it could be a fortress. A refuge. Funny thing about islands, though—what you’re running from has a way of catching up to you.”
Claire turned to her, frowning. “What exactly is that supposed to mean?”
Aggie shrugged, the motion casual but her eyes sharp. “You’ll figure it out. Or you won’t. Either way, the island doesn’t care. It has its own way of sorting things.”
Before Claire could press her, a new voice interrupted.
“Miss Hartwell, I presume?”
She turned to see a man framed in the doorway, his broad shoulders blocking what little light filtered through the fog. He was tall, with sun-bronzed skin and a thick beard streaked with silver. His flannel shirt and cargo pants suggested practicality over style, and a battered notebook was tucked under one arm.
“Yes, that’s me,” Claire said, the repetition of the phrase beginning to wear thin. “And you are?”
“Dr. Ethan Calder,” he said, stepping inside and extending a hand. His grip was firm, his palm calloused. “Marine biologist. I heard you were coming.”
“News travels fast, I see,” Claire said, withdrawing her hand.
“It does on an island this small,” he replied evenly. His piercing blue eyes studied her with an intensity that made her shift uncomfortably. “I thought it might be worth mentioning that this is one of the most fragile ecosystems in the region. Selling it to a developer could destroy it.”
Claire stiffened, a flicker of irritation sparking. “I haven’t made any decisions yet.”
“No, but you’re considering it,” Ethan said bluntly, though his tone softened slightly. “And you should know what’s at stake before you do. The shorebirds that nest along Seaward Cove, the tidal pools—some of it’s irreplaceable.”
Aggie snorted softly, her amusement evident. “Don’t mind him. Ethan’s been here long enough to think he’s the island’s patron saint.”
“It’s not about me,” Ethan shot back, his gaze never leaving Claire. “It’s about what this place represents. Once it’s gone, it’s gone forever.”
Claire opened her mouth to respond, but her attention snagged on something across the room. Resting on the mantle of the sitting room’s fireplace was a brass compass. Its surface was tarnished, but the intricate etchings on the lid glinted faintly in the dim light.
“What’s this doing here?” she asked, moving toward it.
Aggie’s expression shifted, her sharp features softening for the first time. “That was Theo’s. He never went anywhere without it.”
Claire picked it up, the metal cool and unexpectedly heavy in her hand. The word *Legacy* was etched into its lid, the letters delicate but deliberate. She opened it, watching as the needle quivered—not in response to movement, but as if stirred by something unseen.
A strange unease settled over her, the kind that prickled her skin and made her stomach tighten. For a fleeting moment, she felt the pull of something—an echo of a memory she couldn’t place, a sensation of standing on the edge of something vast and uncharted.
“Looks like it’s yours now,” Aggie said, her tone casual but her eyes watchful.
Claire snapped the lid shut and placed the compass back on the mantle, ignoring the way her fingers tingled.
“I think I’ve seen enough for one day,” she said, her voice tighter than she intended.
Aggie nodded, stepping aside. “Suit yourself. But the island’s not done with you yet.”
Ethan said nothing, his silence more pointed than any words. Claire walked past him, her head high, but the weight of their words—and the compass—followed her into the mist.
