Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 86768 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86768 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
I finish my glass, drinking it like water as I return to the bedroom. I pour myself a second one and eat a bite of steak while watching the snow falling outside. There must be a foot on the ground already. Through the thick flakes, I can see the waves of the ocean every time the beacon of the lighthouse pans over the black water. I can’t imagine how cold that water is. The thought makes me shudder.
I touch my fingertips to the glass of the window and look down. Odin thinks I’m afraid of heights, but he’s not quite right. It’s not the height that scares me. It’s the cliffs. I’m afraid of dying on them.
Light pours from the windows of the ballroom below and I imagine all those people downstairs eating and drinking while I, the bride, am locked in this bedroom. Not that I want to be there, but it is strange how life just carries on.
I’m about to turn away when movement around the side of the building catches my eye and there, stalking rather than walking, I see Santos. No coat. I assume he’s still wearing his dress shoes too. His head is cast down against the snow. I slink back a little. If he looks up, he’ll see me. I watch him, wondering what he’s thinking. Why he’s not at the reception. Why he’d go outside on a night like this without a coat at the very least. Snow storms in Avarice are brutal, especially along this cliff’s edge.
But then he turns onto the path that will lead to the lighthouse, and my heart stops for a minute. Why would he go out there? Does he know what happened there?
Another door opens, this one from the ballroom. I wonder if this is going to be a family reunion out in the middle of a snowstorm because it’s Caius. He’s pulling on a coat and carrying a second one. He stops, then turns back. Someone must have called after him. I can’t see who it is from this angle, but he seems irritated, his body language abrupt, and a moment later, he follows in the direction of his brother.
Santos has almost disappeared from view by the time Caius goes after him, following the rapidly disappearing footprints in the snow. Caius catches up to him, and for a moment I think he’s going to tell him to turn back, tell him that he’d be mad to go out to the lighthouse tonight. Maybe he does. Caius hands him the coat, and, after a brief conversation, Santos takes it. Wind here is no joke, and the lighthouse is a whole other kind of freezing. I know. They should turn back. It’s a stupid night to go out there.
But to my dismay, they don’t. Santos slips the coat on, and the pair of them continue along the path to the lighthouse and there’s not a single thing I can do about it.
17
Santos
“I don’t much feel like company, Caius,” I tell my brother as I pull on the coat.
“That’s too bad. You’re in a state. What’s going on?”
“Christ. Take a hint and leave me alone.”
“I’m not leaving you alone. You literally walked out of your wedding reception into what is quickly turning into a blizzard without a coat and in fucking dress shoes.”
I stop, look down at his feet, then up at him, eyebrows raised.
“Didn’t have boots handy,” he says, because he, too, is wearing dress shoes. “But I did bring the coats.”
He makes a goofy face. It’s the same one that has always let him get away with murder when it comes to Mom, and I get it, because I can’t help but smile. Caius knows exactly when to be charming.
“Fine. Thank you for the coat.”
“Welcome. Now can we go back inside where it’s warm and it doesn’t look like fucking Armageddon?”
“You go on. I want to see the lighthouse.”
“You can see it tomorrow.”
I don’t answer. I just keep trudging through the snow. It has already penetrated my shoes, so my feet are wet and freezing.
He mutters a curse but follows. When we were little, it was like this too. Caius, my older half-brother, always has my back. I turn my collar up against the blowing wind and snow as we walk side-by-side over the narrowing neck of the land that will lead to the edge of the cliffs where the lighthouse stands.
Angry waves crash against the rocky coast, splashing drops of ice water at us at intervals. In contrast to the soft snowflakes, they’re like little shards of glass. I shove my hands deep into my pockets.
As we approach, I see the graffiti that stains the walls.
“Thought we were having it cleaned up,” I mention as I take the keys from my pocket.
“It’ll be repainted this summer.”
The graffiti is typical bullshit kids spray paint onto walls. It bothers me to no end when something as beautiful as a lighthouse over a century old is desecrated like this—and it is beautiful, even given its terrible history.