Page 7 of Echoes of the Sea (Storm Tide #2)

Kip followed his thus-far-silent rescuer out of the rowboat and up the rocky coast. The storm hadn’t abated entirely, and the battering of the wind was still miserable against his soaked skin.

He opted to blame his struggle to keep pace with the man on how cold he was, though he knew that had little to do with it.

If he could still have afforded to pay his personal trainer, he would have fired him.

The land leveled out for only a single step before reaching the door of a stone lighthouse.

Kip was no expert, but the lighthouse seemed small.

The man pulled open the door and motioned him inside.

They’d be really good friends in no time with both of them inside, but getting out of the wind was an exceptionally good idea, so Kip didn’t argue or hesitate.

Arguing wasn’t an option anyway. His teeth were chattering so hard that he couldn’t manage a single word.

He felt around the interior wall for a light switch but didn’t find one. Maybe it was in a weird spot. Or maybe shivering made finding light switches more difficult.

A moment later, a click, like the sound of rocks smacking into each other, sounded, and a quick spark popped up in the darkness.

That repeated again. Once more, then a small fire started in what Kip guessed was a fireplace.

The man added some wood to it. He still hadn’t spoken, even though his teeth weren’t chattering, which was proving kind of creepy.

What were the chances that the living history site had accidentally hired a serial killer?

As the fire slowly grew and the room became less dark, Kip was able to get a better look.

It was small. It was also, as far as he could tell, very authentic.

None of the furniture looked at all modern.

It was worn out and humble, the way a lighthouse of a couple hundred years ago would have looked.

If this attention to detail was adhered to in the dinky lighthouse, then this gig might not actually be a terrible thing.

Osbourne would easily be able to picture Kip in a big-budget historical film if he saw him against such an accurate backdrop.

The still-silent man lifted the lid of a small chest and moved around a few things before pulling out some folded items. He stood once more, turned back to Kip, and shoved the pile into his arms.

A quick glance revealed his armful to be clothes. Dry clothes.

Thank you, potential serial killer.

The man added one more bit of wood to the fire, then tucked his hands into his pockets and stood with his back pointedly toward Kip. He didn’t seem at all likely to walk away. Or turn around.

The six weeks Kip had been in a way-away-from-the-West-End production of Much Ado About Nothing had cured him of any squeamishness surrounding costume changes in crowded dressing rooms. And he hadn’t even been dripping seawater everywhere back then.

He quickly pulled off his Thomas Pink button-down shirt.

It was not likely salvageable, which was a pity because “summer player at a historical site” was not the sort of job that earned people wages sufficient to replace it.

His trousers hadn’t fared much better. He’d bought them at Primark, so it wasn’t as much of a loss.

Thankfully, he’d tossed the boots he’d worn for a good part of his time on The Beau —something the producers almost certainly didn’t know he’d taken with him—into his suitcase, and those would be waiting for him in his room, wherever that was.

He flicked open the slightly grayed shirt.

It was the same style they’d worn on The Beau.

But the fabric was rougher. The trousers were of that Jane-Austen-would-think-this-was-hot variety and were also made of scratchy fabric that screamed “authentic.” Did the people running this place make the actors portraying poorer people actually wear miserable clothes?

No one on The Beau had been relegated to total discomfort.

There was accuracy, and then there was sadism.

Freshly attired in his dry sandpaper, he folded up the wet clothes he’d pulled off, giving them a quick squeeze to get out more water.

“Be’st wise for we to take you up to the main ’ouse.” The man spoke English but an odd version of it. “Us hasn’t room for another who.”

Odder still. Kip would guess he was “in character.”

Kip could play along.

He channeled pre-shark Tennyson, leaning on his widely praised British accent and fine mannerisms. “I would be greatly appreciative to you.”

The man looked over at him. “You aren’t from this corner of the kingdom.”

Kip dipped his head. “I am not.”

Whether that met with the man’s approval, Kip couldn’t say. His rescuer simply jerked his head toward the door, then moved in that direction himself. He snatched up a wool blanket from the back of a chair and held it out to Kip with one hand as he opened the door with the other.

Kip accepted the makeshift cloak and wrapped it around his shoulders as they stepped back out into the sea spray and wind-whipped drizzle.

He followed the hopefully-not-a-serial-killer back along the rocky outcropping.

“In character” seemed more and more likely.

The man was dressed precisely as Kip would have predicted a nineteenth-century lighthouse keeper would be: heavy coat over an equally heavy sweater.

Thick trousers, well-worn but sturdy boots.

His flat cap even appeared encrusted with salt from years of use near the sea.

Attention to detail, for sure.

The rocks gave way none too soon, and Kip was walking on an uneven but no longer ridiculous path around the island.

As the path turned and began passing a clump of trees, the house came into view.

He’d seen it from the rickety pier but could see it better now.

It looked a lot like those they’d used for exteriors in The Beau.

“Is that the main house?” Kip asked, doing so in character still.

In response, he was offered a single, quick nod. And nothing else.

Unless there was another fine house located on the shore, where the rest of the historic site stretched, he was likely to be playing the role of the gentleman who owned this house. His character on the show had been a younger son without a house of his own. This could be a nice change.

Lightning flashed overhead. It wasn’t green this time, which somehow made it feel less threatening. It did not, however, make the wind less cold. Or the clothes he’d been provided any less itchy.

Or his companion any less creepily quiet.

“Do you live at the lighthouse?” Kip asked.

The man shook his head.

“ Near the lighthouse?” Kip tried again.

The man nodded but still didn’t say anything. Attempting a conversation seemed slightly pointless.

They reached the house and made their way around the side.

In The Beau , the side and back entrances of places were reserved for servants and tradesmen.

It was likely now being used for the people employed at the historic site.

During operating hours, he’d use the door his Regency-era counterpart would have.

The lighthouse keeper knocked at the door they came to, then waited.

Not surprisingly, he did so without talking.

Kip had worked with an actor who was intensely quiet like this, but he’d been that way only in the moments before the cameras had started rolling.

Kip eyed the back entrance. No signs of a camera.

There weren’t even any lights. Or a doorbell.

Someone opened the door from the inside. Kip shouldn’t have been surprised to see the woman in full costume, but he was.

“Found this’n in the water,” the lighthouse keeper said to the woman Kip suspected was playing the role of the housekeeper. “Him’s hands are too delicate for being anything but Quality.”

Delicate? Kip eyed his hands. They weren’t small or dainty. Was it just an insult for the sake of an insult?

The “housekeeper” eyed Kip critically. “Holds heself like Quality.”

“I shiver like Quality as well.” Kip tossed a grin along with the quip, hoping to convince his coworkers to drop their act and let him get settled into this new job.

The housekeeper’s eyes narrowed. “You aren’t from this corner of the kingdom.”

Kip tipped his head toward the lighthouse keeper. “He already used that line.”

His companions exchanged confused looks. He’d have expected there to be more of an “off the clock” vibe at the actors’ entrance. This was going to be an exhausting few months.

“Best ask Miss what her wants done.” The lighthouse keeper dipped his head, then walked away, leaving Kip on the doorstep, unsure if he ought to simply let himself in or go along with the nineteenth-century protocol.

Until he knew more about the feel of the place, he’d probably do best not to rock the boat, even if that boat felt a little too much like a log ride in a shady theme park.

After a moment, during which he started shivering ever more violently, the housekeeper motioned him inside. “I’m Mrs. Jagger.”

“Mick’s mum, by any chance?”

Her expression was as surprised as it was confused. “I have no children, sir.”

Mick Jagger. It wasn’t a difficult joke to understand. Not necessarily funny but not confusing.

Actual candles lit the narrow hallway he followed her through.

They passed rooms that, even glancing as quickly as he had, looked completely accurate.

He was granted a tiny glimpse of a kitchen that didn’t look modernized at all .

Were tourists invited to visit the kitchen as well?

Surely there was an updated place for the actors and staff to make their own meals.

They climbed a tight, winding set of stairs, again only dimly lit but, this time, exclusively by small windows at regular intervals. A door at the top opened into a far more impressive space. Once closed behind them, the door blended perfectly into the wall, almost impossible to spot.