I peel the next page back and insert paper towel between it and the dry one, then turn the hair dryer back on.
Tuesday, 30 November—Lil has taken to her bed. She assures me that it is nothing more than exhaustion, that she is not ill, but I have my concerns. I am fashioning a simple wooden coffin for Elizabeth and will bury her near the boathouse. Emily continues to cry. She refuses food, taking in very little nourishment in spite of Lil’s encouragement. I cannot bear the thought of losing another daughter. I will not dig two graves.
Thursday, 2 December—A winter storm is working itself across the Lake. The wind has whipped the water into a turmoil, and I hope to God there are no ships attempting a late-season journey, but I light the lamp regardless. Emily continues to weep. Her cries match those of the wind, tearing at my heart. Nothing can be done to console her. We have tried everything. It is as though a part of her has died. I fear for her life, too.
I’ve moved my project to the kitchen table so that I’m closer to the freezer. I’m using an empty tuna can for an ashtray, and it’s almost overflowing. I don’t give a damn if I catch shit for smoking in the house.
Freeze, blow-dry, blot . . .
Saturday, 4 December—I wonder at the orchestration of life, at the fortunes of chance, of the blessings within tragedy. A most unusual occurrence, and I am fraught with guilt, all the while relieved. She is a gift from the Lake. She has brought life. I cannot bring myself to undo what I have done. I will lay the story on this paper and turn the page to think on it no more.
My heart beats fast. It’s the date I’ve been looking for. The script here is much more difficult to read. I can tell the lightkeeper was writing quickly, forming the words with large looping letters that run together. I have to read slowly when I just want to rush to the end.
I was driven from the comfort of my home by the cries of my only daughter, my precious Emily, out into the depth of the most horrendous storm I have seen in my many seasons at this light. Or I was drawn, perhaps, by the wolves—I don’t know which. Between the howling of the wind and the laments of my only surviving daughter, I heard them conversing, so I took my gun and walked the east shore under the pretense of searching for them. As I clambered over the slippery rocks, I spotted a tender being driven toward the shore. It appeared empty, but I still waded in, the icy water mixing with the driving snow so that I was chilled to the center of my being. I caught the bow, turning it to the shore and guiding it up onto the beach, fighting with the waves. I was able to pull it far enough from the water’s reach that it was no longer at risk of splintering, and it was while I struggled with it that I noticed the body inside. It was a woman, wrapped in a stiffly frozen woolen blanket and curled in the bottom of the boat. Her eyes were open, haunting dark eyes, staring blankly, her auburn hair framing her beautiful but ghastly pale face, her lips purple-blue. I did not question for a moment that she was dead, that she had been floating for some time, tossed by the waves, driven by the wind toward Porphyry Point. I quickly scanned the beach and waters, looking for signs of a wreck, for other boats, but there was nothing. I knew I couldn’t leave her there, exposed to the elements, so I climbed into the craft and gathered the form in my arms, intending to lay the body to rest in the woodshed until the storm abated. As I lifted her, I heard a cry, feeble, smothered. At first I thought I had been mistaken, that life yet coursed through the woman’s veins, and I laid her back against the gunwales, but her blank, staring eyes confirmed her state. The cries came from beneath her coverings, and in them I heard an echo of my own dear Emily. I hastened to remove the blankets. It was a child, perhaps two years old—small and delicate, barely alive, with hair the color of night. I quickly gathered her up, tucked her beneath my jacket, and returned to the light. Peter and Charlie were asleep. Lil has contracted the fever; her glazed eyes opened briefly when I entered the cottage, but registered nothing. Emily was in her cot, her cries reduced to exhausted whimpering, and I feared she too hovered near death. I knew I had to warm up the tiny body I carried, and I knew too that the reaper hovered outside in the howling wind. I removed the child’s damp clothes and laid her in the bed, laid her beside Emily, in the place so recently occupied by Elizabeth. Within moments, Emily’s cries had ceased. Fearing the worst, I returned and peered in at them. I saw their two bodies curled together, Emily’s hand grasping a clump of the other’s hair so like her own dead sister’s, her eyes closed, sleeping peacefully. But the eyes of the other stared back at me. She did not cry, this child, but her eyes spoke volumes. I fear I have stolen the life of one to give life to the other.
It all makes sense. Oh my god, it all makes sense. Elizabeth is dead and buried. Of course.
But something’s not quite right. I can’t quite put my finger on it. The book is back in the freezer, but I’ve lost my patience. I hover in the kitchen, waiting.
Tuesday, 7 December—Both girls are thriving. They are feeding well. The boys continue to gather strength; Peter has even ventured from his bed. I have been scouring the shores for signs of a wreck and have found nothing. The tender is not marked. I can only assume that the ship from which it issued has foundered in the area. It may be many more days before we receive a report. I have buried the woman’s body at sea. I wrapped her in canvas and weighted her with stones. I am not sure why I have done so. I have buried Elizabeth too, but not as I intended. I took her instead to Hardscrabble Island. She lies beneath a cairn, away from any paths that would lead someone to stumble upon her marker, where she can look upon the Lake for all eternity, where the light will sweep across her bed, where she will sleep and not be found.
What is written next comes as a complete shock. It is all I can do to read to the bottom of the page before quickly grabbing my things and heading out into the storm, the journal stuffed into my backpack and my violin tucked beneath my arm.
I have to tell Miss Livingstone.
She isn't Elizabeth.
50
Elizabeth