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R EBECCA

And this maiden she lived with had no other thought than to love and be loved by me...

Annabel Lee

SILVERTOWN UPPER PENINSULA OF MICHIGAN SPRING, 1874

A COLD HAND CARESSED HER FACE, brushing her damp hair away from her bruised skin. It was feathery and so light in its touch, Rebecca wondered if she might be dreaming. Her eyes fluttered open, searching for the ministering hand of care. No one was there. It was only the trees, the hard ground beneath her, the rustling wind that permeated her chemise and chilled her body. But she had felt a presence. A feminine presence. The kind that nurtured and under whose influence a person’s soul was warmed and began to rest. “Missy.”

The gruff growl broke through the haze of her mind.

“Missy, you best wake now, ya hear?”

Rough fingertips—so unlike the cool, comforting ones—grazed her neck, poked the side of it, then slapped her cheek.

Rebecca moaned, drawing her knees to her chest, only to have them collide against the side of the grave marker where she’d lost consciousness.

Annabel’s grave.

The world between reality and dreams stilled for Rebecca, and she kept her eyes sealed against reality. Annabel. It had been Annabel’s soothing touch a moment ago. Reaching from the grave, from the beyond. Calling to her from death’s cavern and—

“Missy!” This time the voice was sharper, as was the slap on her face.

Rebecca managed to open her eyes, squinting against the midday sunlight that sparkled through the treetops.

“You’re not dead.”

The voice belonged to a grizzled face, lined and weathered as though the lake itself had beaten channels into his skin. A white beard, scruffy white sideburns, and a fisherman’s cap squashed onto a nest of equally white hair, framing dark eyes that squinted back at her. He smelled of woodsmoke and fish.

“Well?” He straightened from his crouched position over her. “Are you hurt?” The toe of his boot nudged her bare leg.

Rebecca whimpered.

Hurt? Yes.

She opted to nod and not say anything. The old man scared her. His beady eyes were fogged by so many layers of stories and time that she wasn’t sure she could trust him.

“You are hurt.” He groaned as he bent and shoved his left hand between the ground and her shoulder. Not gently, the man pulled on her arm, coaxing her up from her position by the gravestone.

“No.” Rebecca tugged against him, shrinking away. His hand released her, and Rebecca edged backward, bracing her palms on Annabel’s grave. She stared up at the old man, who studied her through narrowed eyes. His faded blue shirt was covered with a worn-out wool vest that had long since lost its buttons.

“I can’t help ya if you’re going to lie down an’ die.”

Rebecca eyed him.

He grunted. “Fine place you picked. Won’t have to dig deep to bury ya, I s’pose. Reckon I’ll come back tonight and take care of your remains, seein’ as the wolves’ll be by to do it themselves if’n I don’t.”

Rebecca whimpered again, this time the sound of her own voice inspiring a clearer thought. She reached out. “Help. I-I...” She was lost. So very lost. She searched the fisherman’s face, trying to recollect whether or not she knew him. There was a brief moment when his voice sounded familiar and touched something inside her, but then it dissipated just as quickly.

He gave no indication that he knew her.

“I’ve been tryin’ to help you.” The old man widened his stance for better balance, then reached down with a thick hand. “Grab it. I’ll yank ya up.”

Injured or not, it was all the gentility she would receive.

Rebecca cautiously placed her hand in his and scrambled to her feet. Her chemise gave her little comfort of modesty, and he seemed to note that, giving a harrumph as he looked around the forest floor as though a blanket or a coat would miraculously appear.

“Ain’t got nothin’,” he simply said.

Rebecca wrapped her arms around herself, a shiver passing through her.

There was a moment of awkward silence. It felt as if he expected something from her, but when she didn’t give it—whatever it was—he accepted its absence.

“Edgar’s my name,” the man said, nodding.

Rebecca stared at him.

Edgar harrumphed again. “Tell me yours.”

“R-Rebecca.” Her voice sounded unfamiliar to her ears.

“Rebecca what?”

She shook her head.

Edgar palmed his beard, petting it as if it were a cat, then dropped his hand to his side. “Now what do I do with ya?” He stared at her, giving Rebecca the feeling that she was an inconvenience and yet he still liked her at the same time.

And she didn’t know why. Rebecca stared back at him.

“Let Annabel lie in peace, for pity’s sake. She’s already a tempest that can’t be silenced.” Edgar’s cryptic words sank into Rebecca, and she cast her gaze back to the stone of the woman who had died so many years before. A woman Rebecca knew nothing about and yet somehow felt as though she had just met her—been nursed and cared for by her.

Edgar motioned her away from the gravestone with knobby fingers. “Follow me.” He turned and started forward, not bothering to look over his shoulder to see if she would follow.

Rebecca hesitated. An old man seemed harmless enough, but she’d learned last night that brutality came in various forms. It was enough to make her doubt even the tiniest bit of kindness Edgar had shown her.

He maneuvered ahead through the trees and undergrowth. “You comin’?” he asked, his voice trailing behind him.

Rebecca started forward after him. She had little choice but to follow.

The forest opened into a clearing. Rebecca squinted at the sun’s boldness. She shielded her eyes, cupping her hand over them, grateful the old fisherman wasn’t fast on his feet.

To her right, the lake sparkled in its expanse, smooth with small waves pretending to be kind. Ahead of her stood a two-story brick house, and from its west side rose a tower—the lighthouse. They were one unit with two separate purposes. Shelter from the house, rescue from the light.

“You’re the lightkeeper?” Rebecca blurted out between chapped lips, trying to ignore the throbbing in her head and the way the world around her spun. She struggled to keep upright.

Edgar was oblivious to her malady as he pointed at the lake. “The lake, she’s a saucy woman. Someone needs to warn the ships of her devilry.”

Rebecca scanned the horizon, then returned her gaze to the lighthouse. She should remember this place if she had been here before. It was remote and unpopulated. Yet the only thing that looked familiar to her were the twin arched windows on the second story. Had she looked out from those windows before today, out toward the lake or...?

She squeezed her eyes shut against the brightness of the lake reflecting the sun. So many homes heralded arched windows. That was hardly a memory specific to this place. If she hailed from this region or somewhere else, Rebecca didn’t know. Her mind was an empty black slate, all words and letters erased, leaving behind not even a trace of chalk.

“Come into the house,” the lightkeeper said.

Rebecca followed Edgar up the path that led to the back door. It stood open, its wooden panels hanging solid on its hinges. There was a distinct and lingering smell of woodsmoke mixed with the pungent sweet of tobacco.

Rebecca paused. The aroma was eerily familiar. It should prompt a recollection, but it didn’t.

Edgar glanced at her as he shuffled through the small entryway into the kitchen beyond. He puttered about at the stove, the kettle scraping as he pulled it toward him. A few moments later, he returned, a tin cup of coffee in hand and an expectant look on his face.

Rebecca stood frozen in the doorway. If she was supposed to make herself at home, she hadn’t. Something inside—something innate—told her to remain where she was until invited in.

“Sit.” Edgar set the cup on the table, and coffee sloshed over the side.

Still aware of her lack of modesty due to her ripped chemise, Rebecca entered the kitchen with unease. She eyed the corners, the darkened room beyond. They were alone. She slipped onto a hard wooden chair, and the smell of the coffee awakened her senses. Her stomach rumbled, and her body, though aching from the battering from the night before, craved the warmth of the brew. “Thank you.”

Edgar gave a short nod. He waited until Rebecca lifted the coffee to her lips and took a sip. It was bitter and strong. Some coffee grounds made their way through her teeth into her mouth, but Rebecca swallowed them.

“Hungry?” Edgar huffed.

Rebecca gave a quick nod.

Soon Edgar had a plate of hard biscuits in front of her. “Don’t got any butter. Nothing fancy here.”

“That’s all right,” she replied. She felt unnerved, disconnected from who she was, where she’d come from, what had happened...

“So who are ya?” Edgar wanted to know as well.

“Rebecca” was all she could manage as a reply.

His brow furrowed. “Knew that. What’s your full name? Where’re you from?”

Rebecca labored to remember, to access the dark corners of her mind. There weren’t even images. No shadows. Just darkness. And fear. So much fear that another whimper escaped her without her permission.

Edgar held up a hand. “S’okay. We’ll deal with that later. Let me go get you somethin’ warm to wear.”

He shuffled his way from the kitchen into the innards of the keeper’s house. In his absence, Rebecca’s shoulders lowered and released a small bit of the immense tension that had coiled her neck and shoulder muscles into knots.

Edgar returned with a long piece of cloth draped over his arm. Rebecca eyed it as his large fingers rubbed the cotton between them. He dropped it in a pile in front of Rebecca.

“Try that,” he said and then continued on his way to the door they had entered through.

After he left, the silence in the house enveloped Rebecca. She set aside her coffee cup and reached for the garment. She held it up and saw it was a woman’s dress. It was small like Rebecca and looked compatible with her slight form. A serviceable gray, worn beneath the arms, without any frills or embroidery. The material appeared to be homespun, its style so simplistic it was impossible to put a date to it.

Rebecca stood and made the effort to slip into the dress. She was pleasantly surprised to find she was able to button the gown over her bosom. It was comforting to have something covering her body besides just her undergarments.

Moving to the doorway that led into the house, Rebecca peered into the darkened room. It was a cramped, seemingly unused dining area with brick walls and no decor on them. Sunlight streamed through the windows, exposing the table in the room’s center. A lace cloth draped across the middle of the table, where a tapered candle in an iron base stood unlit and boasted a new wick. The unused candle indicated that Edgar the old lightkeeper didn’t often entertain visitors in his home.

Just off the dining room was a small pantry. It too had brick walls, and aside from the shelves stacked with various items, there was a washbasin with a hand crank to squeeze water from clothes after cleaning them. Rebecca was hard-pressed to imagine Edgar at work standing over the washbasin.

The only other room on the first level was a square sitting room with a fireplace, stuffed chairs with a small table between them, and kerosene lamps mounted on the walls in cast-iron holders. At the far end of the room was a set of stairs that led to the second floor. Rebecca made her way up the stairs, careful not to trip on the narrow treads. Once at the top, she entered another small living space that housed a desk, a bookshelf with volumes covered in cobwebs, and what appeared to be a lightkeeper’s log.

She ran her hand over the inked words dried on the page. The handwriting was clear with pen strokes that emphasized the writer’s confidence. The entry for yesterday was already penned: Routine work. Standing by—rain and strong winds. For whatever reason, Rebecca caressed the words. They seemed to come alive beneath her fingertips, to beat like a heart, strong and purposeful. The words exuded strength and didn’t match the perception Rebecca had drawn from the stooped-shouldered Edgar.

Her eyes blurred as her head pounded. Rebecca pushed her hair behind her ear, leaning against the desk while she composed herself. Once she had gathered her wits again, she took note of the solitary room beyond.

A narrow bed had been shoved into a corner between two windows, one at its head and one by its feet. That it was the keeper’s sleeping quarters was obvious by the shirt hanging off the scarred iron post of the footboard, the suspenders in a pile on the floor, and a few toiletry items littered about the top of a compact dresser.

Beyond that stood one more door that led into a little alcove. Rebecca moved closer but with hesitation, then peered into the alcove. It was clear where it went. She saw a landing and then metal stairs that spiraled upward to the lighthouse above.

Rebecca took a few steps upward, gripping the metal rail that curved along the stairs. She came to another landing, where a doorway on one side led to what she assumed was the attic, while the stairs continued their upward spiral to the lantern room.

She peered through the doorway into a short hallway. This was a space that wasn’t meant to be a living area and yet had been converted into one. It was dark with no windows. It smelled musty, yet there was the scent of spice and even the faint scent of lavender. There were two doors across from each other.

After a quick inspection, she noted one of the doors opened to a tiny bedroom with barely enough space for a single bed. It was plain and dull with a sloping ceiling that would make it necessary for anyone taller than Rebecca to duck. The bed had a navy-blue patchwork quilt and a sagging mattress, with a rag rug on the wooden floor. Rebecca turned from the room and saw that the other door—the only other entry into the constrictive space—was closed. She tried the knob, but the door remained solidly secured.

“It’s locked.”

Rebecca cried out in shock, spinning around and hitting her shoulder against the wall. She stared at the form who blocked the entrance back to the lighthouse stairwell. He was tall and bent over so as not to hit his head on the top of the doorframe. He had dark straight hair that hung over his forehead. His eyes were piercing, and yet he addressed her as a man might when coaxing a trapped, frightened animal.

“I won’t hurt you,” he assured, his voice rumbling in the hallway between them.

Desperation filled her at the sight of him. She blinked against the thrum of pain in her head, straining to recall if he was the man from the previous night who’d partaken in chasing her and beating her, and if she should claw her way to escape, or if he was in fact safe.

“I’m Abel.” Frosty eyes searched hers. When she didn’t respond, he took a careful step toward her, his hands up as if to indicate he meant her no harm.

Rebecca eyed him warily.

“I’m the assistant here. I work alongside Edgar. I’m training to eventually keep the light on my own.” He eyed her for a second, and Rebecca couldn’t find her tongue to utter a reply. Abel pointed to the sparse room and the sagging bed. “That’s where I sleep.”

Rebecca glanced at the open room, her hand still resting on the locked door she’d just tried to open.

Abel cleared his throat. “Edgar sent me to fetch you.”

Rebecca stared at him, searching her memory for something—anything—that would bring clarity to this moment. He was a stranger. Or was he? His eyes were so vivid, so sharp, she wondered if he could see into her soul and knew more about her than she did about herself.

“Do you know who I am?” she asked.

Surprise swept across his angular features. “Me? No . I mean, no.”

“You’ve never seen me before?” she pressed, her voice echoing in the small passageway.

Abel’s eyes narrowed as though trying to comprehend. “Don’t you know who you are?”

His question, though innocent and perfectly sensible, sparked something inside Rebecca. She had been here before. She’d walked the shores of this lake many times. She’d breathed in scent of the fir trees and the poplar. She’d been caressed by the same breeze that turned into a gale when one least expected it.

But no. She did not know who she was. And with nothing more to give the man in front of her, Rebecca simply shook her head and responded, “No. I am ... no one.”