Page 70 of The Otherworld

I shrug, sipping my tea. “Papa calls it ‘reading between the lines.’ It means seeing things that are hidden in plain sight. Getting to know someone by the things they don’t say.”

“And what is your conclusion?”

I reach down to stroke Lucius’s fuzzy head, letting my hand ebb and flow toward Adam’s, hoping for an accidental touch. “My conclusion… is that you’re too good to be true, Adam Stevenson.”

He gives a modest laugh, shaking his head.

“My conclusion is that you shouldn’t always put yourself last. You would be a kind, giving person even if you never tried to be. It’s just who you are. And what you feel does matter. It matters to me.”

Adam looks down, his hand drifting over Lucius’s back and brushing softly against mine. I try to ignore the way it makes my heart race double time.

“And my conclusion,” he whispers, “is that you are wiser than anyone I’ve ever met.”

I almost laugh. “How can that be? When I know so little of the world?”

“Knowledge is not wisdom, Orca. You could see the whole world, learn everything there is to learn, read every book written by every philosopher… and still go to your grave not a fraction wiser than the day you were born. Most people follow the compass of the world. But you have a different compass.” He spreads his free hand over his heart. “Here. And it always points true north. Doesn’t it?”

I nod slowly.

Adam watches me, his magnetic gaze wandering over my face, my neck, my lips. He seems to fall into a state of quiet hypnosis—and I fall with him, locked in his gaze, unable to look away. Then, without warning, the spell is broken. He withdraws his hand from Lucius and turns his attention back to the fire.

“Follow it,” he says softly. “It will never fail you.”

21

Ad Astra

ADAM

A hand gently grasps my shoulder. “Adam. Adam, wake up.”

I reluctantly drag myself from the oblivion of sleep, moaning curses under my breath as I roll onto my back. I squint into the darkness, disoriented, until I see Orca standing beside my bed. She’s wearing the nightgown and shawl I first saw her in, wild hair tumbling over her shoulders, eyes sparkling in the semi-dark.

“What’s the matter?” My voice comes out groggy.

“Nothing,” she says. “I just want to show you something.”

“Show me what?”

A secretive smile twitches onto her lips. “Something that can’t be described with words.”

“All right,” I relent, climbing out of bed.

I follow Orca through the living room to a narrow door on the opposite side of the house—the door that leads to the lighthouse tower. A spiral staircase soars above us, bathed in navy blue afterglow from a narrow window on the upper wall. Orca skips ahead of me, her bare feet noiseless on the wrought-iron steps. My ankle still hurts when I put my full weight on it, so I use the railing for support and take the stairs one at a time.

When we reach the top, Orca leads me through what looks like a submarine door and into the lantern room. I shield my eyes from the blindingly bright light, which stands five feet tall in the center of the circular room—rotating slowly as it pierces the endless black night in every direction.

“Is that an airport beacon?” I ask, recognizing the distinct shape of the light.

Orca nods. “It’s visible up to twenty-two miles at sea. Papa says it’s been here since he started keeping the light.”

“I was expecting something different. One of those lamps that look like a giant lightbulb sliced into pieces.”

“A Fresnel lens?” Orca grins. “No, those went out of style a long time ago. But I still love the way they look. This one doesn’t need as much maintenance as the Fresnel—it even has an automatic bulb-changing mechanism in case one of them burns out.” She kneels beside the base of the lamp and snaps a lever. The light dies, submerging the room in darkness.

“Wait, can you do that?”

Orca stands and brushes off her knees. “For a few minutes. No one will know. Come on.”

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