Page 44 of Tempest at Annabel's Lighthouse
The wind whined outside the lighthouse, and what made things worse was her being enclosed in the attic bedroom. Enclosed and alone while the storm brewed. Thunder rumbled in the distance. Or perhaps it was closer and being cordoned off in Kjersti’s room made it seem farther away.
There were no ghosts tonight, only the lingering haunting of Edgar’s words. She paced the floor, debating whether to head down to the kitchen to witness the storm for herself. No doubt Edgar was still awake, tending to the lantern and keeping aneye on the storm. He reminded her of everything she couldn’t remember. He’d spoken of horrors and of love, and Rebecca was certain now that she had recalled Kjersti first because Kjersti was safe. Kjersti had been a friend to her, a haven. But the rest? The unremembered parts? Abel and Niina? Were they horror or love? Rebecca wanted to know and yet she didn’t. She wanted to demand they tell her what they knew of her, yet it was fear that kept her from doing so.
She crossed the room to the wall that separated her from Abel. Splaying her hand on the wall, she felt the coolness of the plaster. It was probable he slept while Edgar kept watch. One of them needed to rest so that if they needed to swap roles at some point, they could. For a moment, Rebecca thought she heard Abel. Heard his footsteps, the creaking of the floorboards beneath his feet.
Rebecca had shared moments with Niina, now with Edgar, but Abel? He kept his distance, though she felt his brooding gaze when she wasn’t looking. She knew his protective nature was there, and yet she didn’t trust it. She didn’t trusthim. Something about Abel felt dangerous, but in a way that was different from the fear she felt toward her attackers, more than two weeks ago now. This fear confused her. It created butterflies of the unknown in her stomach and made her want to sequester herself when Abel entered the room. But she didn’t know why. She didn’t—
The bedroom door opened.
Rebecca whirled and knew she had not been imagining it. Abelhadbeen pacing his small sleeping quarters. He stood in her doorway, presumptuous in his entrance, wordless and brooding.
“What do you want?” she breathed, clutching at the neckline of her nightgown.
Abel’s eyes were intense. The blue of them had faded until they appeared to be like ice. She believed she had seen hot iron once at a blacksmith’s shop, and the smithy had told her it wasn’tthe blue flames that burned hottest; it was the white flames. White like the flame of Abel’s eyes.
He closed the gap between them in a few long strides, and before Rebecca could react, Abel reached for her. His arms were strong and unfamiliar, muscled with the potential of force, and yet Rebecca knew she could break free at any moment and he would release her.
“I want you to remember,” Abel said hoarsely. His hands held her at her waist, dangerously close to her abdomen.
Rebecca couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t think. She had not expected this—not at all. It was as if Abel was someone who’d been caged and had finally broken free, but now he restrained himself. Or did he?
“Do you remember?” He searched her face.
Rebecca winced, wishing she could give the lighthouse assistant whatever it was that he wanted.
Abel pulled her toward him. She didn’t resist, while at the same time Rebecca knew she should. Needed to. She needed to push him away. Raising her hands, she laid them on his chest, intending to shove him back. But his chest moved up and down in barely controlled breaths. It was emotion, suppressed emotion.
“Do you remember Kjersti?” he asked.
Rebecca stilled. She’d not expected him to ask that.
“She saved you.” Abel leaned forward, his breath warm on her cheek. She felt the stubble on his jaw as he spoke into her ear. His hands still held her waist. Rebecca maintained the spreading of her hands on his chest.
“How could you forget my sister?” Accusation and desperation merged together in his question.
Rebecca pulled back enough to meet his broken expression. This man, he had loved his sister. He had loved Kjersti. Rebecca could see it wounded him that she might have forgotten someone so precious and, based on his statement, someone who had rescued her.
“I remember Kjersti,” Rebecca whispered.
Abel’s eyes flickered.
“I remember Kjersti,” she repeated.
Abel released her, staggering back. He stared at her, his eyes sparking with surprise, maybe hope, and something else she didn’t understand. And then he spun and fled the room, the bedroom door closing with a bang behind him.
Rebecca stumbled to her bed, sinking onto the edge, her hands trembling.
Kjersti. This was about Kjersti.
For a moment, she had thought—or maybe she had hoped?—the emotional boiling within Abel was about her. But no. It was grief. Grief was what haunted Abel, the lightkeeper’s assistant. Grief was what followed him. So desperate to keep his sister’s memory close, he couldn’t bear that Rebecca had forgotten Kjersti along with everything else.
Rebecca lay back on her pillow, shaking. The shock of it both confused her and frightened her. Grief. A hot tear trickled down her cheek. Kjersti. Yes. She had lost a dear friend. She knew that now. She knew that not long ago she had, more than likely, stood by Kjersti’s grave, within distance of Abel, and buried her.
Kjersti was what bound Rebecca to Abel. Kjersti and nothing more.
The storm blew in strong and persistent during the night, and Rebecca was wide awake, along with Abel and Edgar, who were busy tending the light and keeping watch.
“I don’t see any ships out tonight.” Abel struggled through the door, ducking as the wind and rain blew in behind him. He pushed it shut and swiped his rain hat from his head. Drops of water fell onto the wood floor in the narrow entry. He avoided her eyes as he asked, “Is Edgar in the lighthouse?”
