Page 1 of 20
Eleven-year-old Tessa Quill, a keen mapmaker, discovers stolen lighthouse prisms and coded chalk marks in her fogbound coastal town. With a brass spyglass, a scruffy cormorant, and an old keeper’s trust, she braves sea caves, faces a misguided inventor, and restores the beam that saves ships—and birds.
Tessa Quill liked to draw the coastline as if it were a living thing. On the table by the lighthouse window she spread her notebook, anchoring the corners with smooth shells so the sea breeze couldn’t flip the pages. Far below, waves combed the shingle and left ribbons of foam. Gulls argued over a crab shell near the tide line. The lantern room hummed softly above her head, the great glass lens turning with patient grace. It smelled of salt and machine oil and a little like lemons, because Mr. Hollis rubbed the brass with lemon paste when the salt crusted on it.
“Lines straight, little mapmaker,” Mr. Hollis called from the spiral stairs. His voice carried up with the tap of his cane. He was tall and slightly bent, with a face like a wrinkled chart and eyes that could still spot a storm before the clouds got their boots on.
“I’m drawing the bight beyond Gull’s Tooth,” Tessa said, biting her pencil. “When the tide’s low, there’s a ridge here. See?” She sketched a dotted line. The paper swished under her hand.
Mr. Hollis came to the table and leaned over her shoulder. “A fair eye. That saves fools from grounding their boats.” He tapped the sill. “Listen.”
Tessa listened. Beyond the steady hush of waves and the faint whirr of the clockwork, another sound threaded the air. It was a thin note, like a glass singing. She felt it in her teeth.
“What’s that?” she whispered.
“Glass can speak when it’s not happy,” Mr. Hollis said, half joking, half not. He rubbed a hand over the lens housing as if calming a horse. The huge rings of glass, stacked like a shining onion, caught the late sun and cut it into slivers. “Could be the wind. Could be a seam we need to mind.”
Tessa reached out. The brass was cool; the glass was warmer, as if it stored light. She loved the way the lens took a small flame and made a stripe that could slice fog. She loved the lighthouse’s bones—the spiral stairs, the officious plaques, the smell of old raincoats drying on pegs.
“Your dad’s waiting at the bait shop by sundown,” Mr. Hollis said. “Don’t miss your ferry sandwich.”
“I won’t.” Tessa tucked a curl behind her ear. The curl sprang out again stubbornly. She lifted the notebook, blew away pencil crumbs, and closed it. When she looked down the cliff, a black bird floated near the rocks, wings tucked, body slick as ink. It dove and popped up with a strand of green weed wrapped around its beak. It shook, splattered, and looked up as if it could see her.
“Hi, you,” Tessa said to the window. The bird flapped once, then ducked beneath. The tower hummed again, just once, and the hair on Tessa’s arms lifted.