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“How nice to have a choice” was Fairhrim’s arid reply.

Osric flicked the tooth at her.

He climbed the spiralling lighthouse stairs. Impressive, how Fairhrim could fix her stare right between his shoulder blades, so hard that he could feel it. Bit stabby, really.

They toiled upwards. They passed through a storeroom scattered with the bandits’ belongings. The pungency of the guano receded and gave way to mustiness. The stairs were thick with dust, save for where the bandits’ feet had trodden.

Above the storeroom was the old watch room, which had been converted into sleeping quarters.

“Hmm,” said Osric.

“What?” said Fairhrim.

“About ten beds in here,” said Osric.

He regretted having let Bandits One and Two go now. He should’ve been proactive and killed them.

“Should we be worried?” asked Fairhrim.

“Worried?” repeated Osric. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m here.”

Fairhrim’s raised eyebrow informed him that she thought him a bit of a tit.

“If they come up, they’re dead,” said Osric. “However—Iwouldlike us to not be interrupted. Help me with this.”

With Fairhrim’s best attempt at assistance (she flopped her flimsywrists about and grunted), he shoved and pulled a few crates over the stairwell. They wouldn’t stop a determined gang of bandits, but they’d give Osric ample warning that someone was trying to ascend.

The next flight up led to the old lightkeeper’s kitchen, scattered with boxes of supplies of dubious freshness.

Finally—and with much huffing and puffing, which both Osric and Fairhrim did their utmost to suppress—they reached the lantern room. It was circular, glass rimmed, and offered a spectacular view of the sea.

The light sat, black and idle, in the centre of the room.

Fairhrim examined the contraption. “I’ve never seen so many bulbs—have you? A fascinating bit of work by the Ingenauts. I suppose it turns on at sunset. I wonder where the sensors are?”

Lighthouse engineering did not number among Osric’s priorities. “Should we be outside, or in?” he asked.

“Out,” said Fairhrim.

After a bit of searching, they found a handle on one of the panes of glass, which led to an outdoor platform.

Osric stepped outside, followed, with marked hesitation, by Fairhrim. In response to his eyebrow, she said, “I’ve no head for heights.”

“You live in a tower.”

“The tower’s got stone walls twelve feet thick. And windows separating me from death.”

Osric couldn’t further grill her on her contradictions because they were both assailed by the wind. Up here, it was a living thing. It cuffed the back of Fairhrim’s head and unravelled her bun. It whisked Osric’s cloak up and had a fair go at strangling him. It tumbled and tore around them, and every attempt to correct its chaos—pinning the bun, attaching the cloak, holding down the skirts, saving the cravat—became a game.

Osric gave up first. Cloak and cravat were thrown back into the lantern room.

Fairhrim was more determined, but, after a fruitless fight with herhair, cloak, and skirts, she, too, threw her detachable things indoors. Her hair whipped about in a long, voluminous ponytail, dividing its time equally between lashing her across the eyes and getting into Osric’s mouth.

Osric took pleasure in seeing her so discombobulated for the second time today. A bit of chaos among her order might do her some good.

“Less of the guano up here, at least,” said Osric. The wind penetrated his open mouth—rude—and came out of his nostrils.

Fairhrim pinned herself to the glass wall, as far from the railing as she could get. Her voice was thready in the wind. “Sunset’s in a few minutes.”