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“It’s you,” he whispers.
I don’t move, frozen in place, as I wait for him to open his eyes. To scream. To react in some way. But he doesn’t. He pulls his hand to his chest, then rolls onto his side again. The room falls silent, and I slink back into the safety of the shadows.
He sleeps soundly for the rest of the night, and only when tiredness tugs at my eyes do I quietly leave, closing the back door behind me.
Tomorrow, I’ll do what he thinks I’m here to do – I’ll study those little mammals on his beach, the ones he calls sea lions, but are most definitely not. I’m keen to find out what brought them to this beach and I suspect my answer lies in the sand. It’ll give me a reason to talk to him and get to know him without hiding in the shadows.
THIRTEEN
CASPIAN
Iwake with a start, staring up at my ceiling, breathing heavily, but with the faintest smile tugging at my lips.
I had the strangest dream last night. There was something chasing me through the woods, something big and scary, which smelled like hot, humid, briny earth. It was stormy out and I was scared and tired and couldn’t find my way home. The trees moved to block my path and in the distance a wolf howled. I closed my eyes, blinking them open, and suddenly I was in my bed. Warm and dry, and though it was still dark, the storm had passed and a full moon shone through the window. I had this overwhelming sense that I wasn’t alone, but I didn’t feel afraid, I felt safe. Watched. Protected.
That feeling lingers now, the way dreams often do when you wake up. Like a piece of it followed you into reality and you can’t shake it. Lately, I’ve hated that feeling, always so thick with loneliness and despair. But this? This feels good, and for the first time in a long while, I think I may just be okay.
My palm tingles and I lift it into the air in front of me, tracing the scar with my eyes. It’s my permanent reminder of that night, but also a reminder that I survived.
The Beast of the Sea saved me.
I laugh at the thought, blaming Kiernan for planting it in my mind. I don’t believe in monsters.
Dropping my hand to my face, I rub the sleep from my eyes then stretch across my rumpled sheets. Bagel jumps onto the bed and nudges me, meowing loudly in the way she does when she’s hungry.
It’s Sunday, which means the bakery is closed, and I could sleep in. But my bladder is making that impossible, and there are still twenty hungry sheep, two demanding goats and this annoyingly adorable cat to deal with. I also need to do a thorough survey of the farm to check for any damage from the storm.
With a groan, I roll out of bed and head for the shower. Only once I’m standing naked in my bathroom do I remember that the gas engineer hasn’t been in to repair the boiler yet, and I’d be having yet another frosty start to my day, despite the late summer air outside. Foregoing the shower, I splash water on my face, then dress in a pair of grey joggers and a t-shirt that says ‘Bake it till you make it’ on the front. Pops bought it for me for my nineteenth birthday, when he visited a market in the city. It’s well worn and super soft. I run a hand over the fabric on my stomach while looking at myself in the mirror.
I look rested for the first time in weeks, the bags under my eyes a little less noticeable. Smiling, I give my hair a quick brush, then pull on fluffy socks and head downstairs, where I make a cup of tea, then open the back door and breathe in the morning.
The sun is rising slowly, glowing over the horizon in an array of beautiful colours that look like they belong on an artist’s easel. The air is still and quiet, with only the odd bleat from the barn disturbing the silence. Mornings like this remind me why I moved here – for this serene peacefulness. For this feeling of home that wraps around me like a welcome hug. I never found that in London and I was worried for a moment that I’d lost it after Pops died. But standing here now, leaning against the door frame, I know I haven’t. This is my home, and I’ll do everything I can to protect it.
I stand for a while longer, watching the sun rise as I sip my mug of tea, and once it’s done I feed Bagel, then slide into my wellie boots and head out to the barn. Applesauce and Rhubarb rush around my legs when I open the door to their pen, and I bend down and pat them both on the head. I take out carrot slices I stashed in my pocket earlier and they both eat the treat greedily. Leaving their door open so they can have a chance to explore the farm, I tend to the sheep, ushering them out into the paddock.
There are twenty Shetland sheep on the farm, and once a year, a man from a town further inland visits to shear them. The wool is then sold to a local crafter. Thankfully, this was done earlier in the summer, so it’s not something I have to worry about anytime soon.
Years ago, before I lived in Newbridge, my grandparents ran a highly profitable farm, with sheep, pigs, cows and chickens. They also leased out paddocks and space in their barn to locals looking for stabling for their horses. It was after Nana passed that Pops sold all the animals, and kept only these few sheep, choosing to live off his pensions, savings, and the little bit brought in from the wool and the lighthouse open days. He was happy – never as happy as he had been when my nan was alive, but still. He smiled every day. Even on the hard ones.
Maybe it’s time I do the same.
Singing to myself, I pick up a shovel and start mucking out the barn, removing the soiled straw and pushing it into a corner. It’s a job I hate because the dust always ends up on my skin and makes me itch, but it has to be done.
“Morning,” a voice from behind me greets, and I startle, spinning around, hand tightly clutching the handle of the shovel, to find Sterling standing at the open door. His arms and legs are crossed and he’s leaning casually against the wooden frame.
“Jesus! Make a noise when you creep up on people,” I mutter, throwing the shovel down and pulling off my gloves, which I drop next to it. My hands are sweaty and I rub them on my joggers.
Sterling straightens to his full height and steps into the barn, his eyes crinkling at the edges as he smiles. Applesauce follows on his heels, hopping around in the piles of fresh straw.
“It wouldn’t be creeping if you heard me coming,” he replies.
My heart beats faster and my palms grow sweaty again. My mouth suddenly feels really fucking dry, and it gets worse as he steps closer. He reaches out a hand, bringing it close to my face and I freeze as he grazes the top of my ear.
“You have something here,” he says, then pulls his hand away, a piece of straw clasped between two fingers. “A hazard of the job, I guess.”
My voice trembles when I speak. “Yeah. Thanks.”
He must be well over six feet tall, so standing this close, I have to angle my head upward to look him in the eyes, which I realise too late is a terrible idea because he’s so damn beautiful. And he smells really good. And there’s that strange, exciting fear in my belly again.
