Against The World

Chapter 108: Three Flashes

The lighthouse required a glassmaker.

This became clear before breakfast had settled.

Perrin laid his drawings across the workshop table, weighted one corner with a hammer, and pointed to the missing sections.

“We can repair the frame. Aldren says the turning ring can be saved. But these have to match.”

I studied the drawing.

The glass curved in several directions at once.

“Can anyone here make them?”

Tilda shook her head.

“Window panes. Bottles. The occasional bowl someone regrets charging too little for. This is different.”

“Orselle?”

“They’ve asked.”

Oswin leaned over the drawing.

“Stoneford had a woman who made lenses.”

Mary looked up from the parts list.

“Had?”

“She may still be there.”

“When did you meet her?”

He considered.

“Seventeen years ago.”

I looked at him.

“She was younger than me.”

“That leaves considerable room,” Tilda said.

Oswin ignored her.

“Veyla. Shop near the river. Blue shutters.”

Mary wrote it down.

Veyla still lived in Stoneford.

Her shutters were green.

She mentioned this twice during our first conversation, as though Oswin’s failure to keep informed represented a personal disappointment.

She arrived three days later carrying a leather case.

Inside were lenses wrapped in wool, several small tools, and a pair of spectacles she exchanged for the ones already on her nose.

She inspected Perrin’s drawings.

Then the tracing taken from one surviving section.

Then the Castellan’s reconstructed diagram.

Nobody spoke.

Finally, she put down her spectacles.

“I’ll need to see the original.”

“Of course,” I said.

“And the old glass must stay where it is until I’ve examined how it sits.”

Perrin nodded.

“Of course.”

“And no one is to polish anything.”

Tilda looked toward the cloth in my hand.

I set it down.

While Veyla visited the tower, the rest of Greykeep continued needing us.

Beatrice had begun buying seed.

The new mill wheel turned.

A roof inspection uncovered a chimney that had apparently been held upright by confidence.

Eleanor dealt with that.

I attended Cael’s second lesson and discovered that knowing the answer did not excuse interrupting someone who was still trying to find it.

Arwen made this clear.

Evelyn enjoyed the lesson.

Particularly that part.

In the evenings, the twins began staying awake long enough to object to several different arrangements before settling on one.

Garrick liked being held where he could see the room.

Carol preferred faces.

This led to my spending a considerable amount of time leaning over a blanket while my daughter examined my nose.

One evening, she reached for it.

Missed.

Tried again.

Evelyn watched from beside me.

“Determined.”

“She gets that from you.”

Carol caught my lower lip.

My wife laughed.

“She also appears to have found a way to stop you talking.”

Our lessons with Aurelia continued.

The clay dishes had become reliable enough that she allowed us to work beyond their rims.

A thread across a narrow opening.

A little warning held between two prepared pieces.

Then the harder part.

Leaving it alone.

I could move away now.

Speak.

Pick up something else.

But whenever I grew pleased with myself, the working tended to fade.

Aurelia observed this without surprise.

“Where did your attention go?”

“To the fact that it was working.”

“And what did you do?”

“Checked it.”

“And tightened it.”

I looked at the two small stones on the table.

“Yes.”

Beside me, Evelyn passed a wooden spoon through her own warning.

She glanced at her wrist.

Then put the spoon down without adjusting anything.

The thread held.

I watched it.

My wife smiled.

“Would you like advice?”

“I’m considering how graciously I can accept it.”

“Take your time.”

That night, Aurelia let us practice in the doorway of her garden room.

Evelyn set the warning.

I held a small shield beyond it.

When something passed through the first working, I was to turn the second toward it.

Aurelia used folded cloth balls.

The first struck my shoulder.

The second hit the shield.

The third passed through because I had begun looking at Evelyn to see whether she had noticed my success.

She had.

She also noticed the third ball.

“You may laugh,” Aurelia told her.

“I was going to.”

We changed places.

Evelyn’s shield was smaller than mine, and she needed more time to set it.

But when the warning touched her wrist, she turned toward the opening rather than throwing power in every direction.

The cloth brushed her shield and fell.

She looked down.

Then up at Aurelia.

“Again?”

Our teacher nodded.

I reset the thread.

Veyla’s answer came at the end of the week.

She could make the missing sections.

She could not promise the first ones would be useful.

Nor the second.

The work required a furnace arrangement she did not have, molds she would need help preparing, and a cooling period she refused to shorten.

“How long?” I asked.

“Longer if you keep asking.”

Tilda folded her arms.

“I like her.”

Veyla tapped the old diagram.

“Whoever made this expected it to be repaired. See these joins? Separate pieces. Sensible.”

Perrin leaned closer.

“Could we make a smaller version first?”

“Yes.”

He smiled.

Then she added, “Several.”

His smile became more thoughtful.

We agreed on payment for her time, materials, and the attempts that would teach us why the first attempt had failed.

Beatrice read the estimate.

“Keep every piece,” she said.

Veyla looked offended.

“Naturally.”

The first useful improvement at the lighthouse was a shutter catch.

The second was a dry cupboard for kindling.

The third was a handrail.

Edda wrote to thank us for all three.

She devoted most of the letter to the cupboard.

I read it aloud at supper.

Garrick nodded.

“People underestimate a sound cupboard.”

“You’ve made several,” Evelyn said.

“I am qualified to speak.”

Helena reached for the letter.

“Does she live alone?”

“At the tower. There’s a relief keeper from the harbor.”

“How often?”

I looked at the page.

It did not say.

The next message to Orselle included the question.

Tamsin’s reply admitted that the arrangement had become less regular than it should have been.

A week later, the harbor council appointed a second paid keeper.

Edda’s next letter contained one line about that.

He puts things back where he found them.

I understood it to be a favorable report.

Two weeks passed before Veyla allowed us to see the small lamp assembled.

It stood on a bench behind a screen.

The glass was clearer than I expected.

Curved ridges caught the light from the workshop windows.

Perrin had built a little turning frame around it, with a handle at the side.

Brin waited beside the charging plate.

Veyla inspected the assembly once more.

Then moved everyone away from its face.

“Across the wall,” she told Perrin. “Slowly.”

Brin supplied a small charge.

A pale light appeared inside.

Perrin turned the handle.

A bright bar swept over the plaster.

I straightened.

It crossed the far wall, slid over the closed door, and returned to us.

“Again,” Aldren said.

Perrin turned it.

For several moments, nobody said anything.

Then Della looked toward the screen.

“That would certainly show you the stairs.”

The larger sections took longer.

One cracked during cooling.

Another distorted the light badly enough that Veyla refused to let it leave the workshop.

The next pair passed her inspection.

By then, the stone support at the lighthouse had been repaired.

The turning ring moved freely.

Edda and her new assistant had learned how to inspect the restored mechanism, and the Castellan had helped us identify the old charging path.

The crystal accepted a small amount of power.

Held it.

Released it into the lamp.

We tested that part in daylight with the shutters closed.

The first glow was faint.

The second steadier.

When I offered more, Veyla put one hand up.

“Enough.”

I stopped.

She watched the glass.

Aldren watched the frame.

Perrin watched everything.

At last, Edda stepped forward and turned the control herself.

The light faded.

Then returned.

She kept her hand on the lever for a while.

The first full evening trial was arranged with the harbor.

No ceremony.

There were boats to notify, a light pattern to check, and several people who wished to be somewhere sensible if anything failed.

Tamsin took a vessel beyond the headland with two experienced sailors.

Bren remained at the quay to receive their report.

Eliza came with us to the tower.

Evelyn wore the warm cloak she had brought on our first visit.

The children stayed at Greykeep.

Before we left, my wife kissed each of them and promised to tell them about it when they were old enough to complain that they had missed the occasion.

Helena took Carol.

“Go.”

We went.

At the tower, Edda had laid out supper for the people working there.

We ate before dusk.

Perrin barely noticed his bread.

Veyla took it from the edge of his drawing before he could spill ink on it.

“Eat.”

He obeyed.

The sea beyond the window darkened.

Aldren climbed the stairs for the final inspection.

I followed.

The old fire basket stood ready nearby.

Fresh fuel.

Dry kindling.

Nothing had been discarded because something better might work.

At the window, Evelyn watched the last strip of sunlight disappear beneath the clouds.

“Ready?” she asked.

I looked toward Edda.

The keeper stepped up to the lamp.

“Yes.”

The crystal brightened.

Light gathered inside the glass.

For a moment, the whole chamber seemed to hold its breath.

Then Edda released the turning mechanism.

The lamp moved.

A beam swept across the sea.

Another.

A third.

Darkness followed while the covered section turned past.

Then the light returned.

Three flashes.

A pause.

Three again.

Perrin had one hand pressed over his mouth.

Veyla watched the fitted sections with fierce concentration.

Aldren bent to listen to the turning ring.

Evelyn stood beside me, her fingers closed around mine.

Far below, the water appeared and vanished in pale stretches.

The beam traveled beyond anything our workshop lamps could reach.

Out toward the waiting boat.

We watched.

And waited.

The answer came from the dark.

A small light.

Then another.

Tamsin’s agreed signal.

Seen clearly.

Edda let out a breath that seemed to have been waiting years.

Perrin laughed.

Only once.

Then he began checking the turning speed again.

I looked at the keeper.

Her face shone each time the beam passed the window.

“Does it look right?”

She shook her head slowly.

For a moment, my stomach tightened.

“I’ve never seen it,” she said.

Her hand rested against the stone pillar.

“Only read about it.”

Evelyn moved closer to her.

Together, they watched the light turn.

We stayed through the next checks.

The glass held.

The crystal’s charge fell at a rate the Castellan’s calculations had led us to expect.

The mechanism needed a small adjustment, which Aldren made while Edda kept the ordinary fire ready.

Then the lamp began turning again.

Later, while Perrin recorded the final measurements, the assistant keeper called from the northern window.

“Edda.”

Something in his voice brought us over.

Far along the coast, beyond the dark curve of the headland, a light flashed.

Stopped.

Flashed again.

Edda gripped the window ledge.

“What is it?” I asked.

“North point.”

The other tower.

The one that sometimes answered.

Its light disappeared for several breaths.

Then returned in a longer sequence.

Edda counted under her breath.

Beside her, the assistant opened the signal book.

I waited until she looked up.

“They’re asking whether the old lamp is burning.”

My wife smiled.

“What do we tell them?”

Edda was already reaching for the shutter control.

“Yes,” she said.

We returned home late enough that the castle corridors had quieted.

The twins were asleep.

Helena met us outside the nursery and asked how it had gone.

Evelyn put her arms around her.

“It worked.”

Her mother smiled over her shoulder at me.

I nodded.

After she had gone, we stood beside the cradles for a little while.

Then Evelyn drew me toward the window.

Greykeep’s courtyard lamps shone below.

Beyond the walls, the roads disappeared into darkness.

I thought of Edda in her tower.

Of the other keeper farther north, seeing a familiar pattern for the first time in years.

Perhaps for the first time in his life.

“Three flashes?” Evelyn whispered.

“Three.”

She leaned against me.

Somewhere beyond the reach of our window, the lamp kept turning.

And someone who had asked a question in the dark had received an answer.

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