The Lamplighter

chapter 1

they found Da hanging from the northwest lamppost, neck bent, ladder fallen useless in the dirt.

It doesn’t matter how much time has passed. Day and night, I find myself struggling beneath the weight of that moment each time I approach the lamppost. And this evening is no different. The cast iron is rusted in parts, but it stands solidly, waiting for the wick in its glass cage to be lit. Its presence holds me frozen to the ground as I recall that terrible morning: the creak of the rope as Da’s body swayed in the breeze, the whispers loud as a swarm of bees, the cloying fog a voyeur.

Laughter down the street, a deep guttural sound, shakes me from my stasis. I blink as two men pass by, dipping their hats in greeting. After acknowledging them with a nod of my own, I look back to the lamppost. It is just that: a lone lamppost. The creaking remains like a dying echo from my memory, but it’s only the ships in the river. Da’s not here. He died four years ago. I clear my throat, and with it some sense falls back into place, grounding me in the present. I grip my glowing lantern and shrug my bag farther up my shoulder, ignoring the ache that is my constant companion.

My heartbeat slows as I pass the lamppost, leaving it for last.

In the distance, high above the trees, masts shift and sway. The whaling ships protest their restraints before being lulled into complacency by the gentle swell of the harbor water. Fog, a living, breathing creature in the dying light of the setting sun, will soon roll out of the woods, creep down the streets, pour onto the wharf, and smother Warbler Seaport entirely. Buildings and ships will become mere suggestions. And the villagers themselves? Wraiths forever adrift in the murk.

But not on my watch.

First, though, the bell.

It hangs in the middle of the courtyard in front of the town hall. The wooden arch holding it—designed by Gideon, Warbler’s infamous ship carver—is constructed of black locust. Etched into the hardy wood is the chase between a whaling ship and a whale through turbulent, crashing waves. As young children, Josiah and I would trace the whale with our fingertips for good luck.

My fingers find their old route across the wood, the edges smoothed over by years of the tradition. I took it up again nearly six months ago. Josiah would laugh at me were he to find out. Even so, I trace the whale once more for good measure before ringing the bell.

Just before sunset, Warbler is alerted, and my shift begins.

The sound is pure, resonating through the chill air in joyful triumph. Three times it calls out beside me, the vibrations of its song spreading down the rope and into my hand. I leave its bold signal behind—a reassurance to the constables that Henry need not be sent to do my work in my stead—and unlock the door to the shed beside the town hall. Inside, I retrieve the ladder and a bag containing a cloth for cleaning, extra wicks, Da’s wick trimmer, a glass scraper, and other odds and ends should I need them. It’s best to prepare for anything.

The first lamppost is a stone’s throw away from Warbler’s Bell; its blossom of light will be a guide for any villagers near the town hall, the schoolhouse, or the church. Three buildings to a lamppost. I prop the ladder against the lamppost, climb, open the glass door, scrape and wipe any residue off the panes and tin reflectors, trim and light the wick. Then it’s on to the next one down the street. And the next. After each lamppost is lit, an audible sigh follows in my wake and with it smiles from anyone nearby. Light is comfort. Safety. Hope. Patterns and routine keep the people of Warbler, Connecticut, at ease.

Knowing I get to be the one to do that for them keeps my chin up in this solitude.

Before long, I’ve reached the Green. Gardens surround the benches at its center. Their once-bright colors are muted, their leaves crisping up in the autumn air. Not many people frequent the park after dark, except Benjamin, the local drunk. He has taken up his usual position on one of the benches nearest the lamppost in the circular courtyard. The smell of manure and sweat wafts from his, thankfully, sleeping form. I’m saved from his drunken mutterings and the awful sound of his tongue licking his cracked lips as he watches me work.

The fog arrives silent as the dead.

It pours from the smattering of trees to the northwest of the Green, then climbs over the creek before spilling between the dry flower stalks and into the courtyard. I frown. It’s earlier than usual. If Benjamin awakens, he may believe he is still in the slumbers of a dream, floating on a cloud.

While the fog generally arrives around the same time each evening, it isn’t something Warbler can set its clocks to. Therein lies the importance of the bell. It’s best to head home at its song, but should the fog creep out before expected, Warbler knows I’m not far behind. Lighting the way for all.

Movement catches my eye.

Two young women cross over the stone bridge into the Green, drifting toward me like ghosts. The fog and their blue skirts have concealed their feet. They reach me right as I step off the ladder. The taller of the two, Molly, carries a woven basket filled with colored fabric and lace. Her smile is welcoming as always. Hello, Temperance.

I nod. Good evening, Molly. Susannah.

Both of them are around Pru’s age of sixteen summers, though I don’t believe Pru interacts with them often. The two young women are in a more well-off position than our family has ever been. Molly’s father is Warbler’s single druggist, while Susannah’s is the most successful merchant in our seaport.

Susannah nods abruptly at my acknowledgment, nose scrunched as she gives Benjamin a sidelong glance. His lecherous gaze remains hooded by sleep.

I remove my cap and re-pin my copper braid around my head. It had loosened while I scraped off a particularly stubborn mark on the back pane of glass. Molly’s basket catches my eye once more. The blue silk ribbon gleams in the light. My fingers itch to touch the smooth fabric. I put my cap back on and rub my sooty hands along my rough trousers. A visit to the seamstress, I see. Special occasion?

Oh yes. Molly tugs absentmindedly at a strip of white lace. It’s for the Gathering on Friday. Will you be attending?

The Gathering is all anyone has been able to talk about for the last fortnight. Even Pru has been trilling away at the possibility of finally meeting the mysterious beau who began writing her at the beginning of the summer. If I had a shilling for every time she brought him up, she, Mother, and I could live comfortably for the rest of our days. I must admit, I too am anxious to learn his identity. Romantic letters may sweep my sister off her feet, but I am not so easily swayed. In my experience, there is usually an ulterior motive when a man is involved.

Why else wouldn’t he be up-front about his identity?

Temperance couldn’t possibly go, Molly. Susannah’s haughty tone pulls me out of my troubled thoughts and back into the park. She lifts a dark eyebrow, gaze measuring me, rising from my scuffed boots and patched and dirty trousers, to my worn jacket and the cap on my head. There is a dress code, after all.

Heat floods my cheeks. I do own other clothes.

There isn’t a dress code. Molly’s elbow finds Susannah’s side. You just don’t want anyone there who may draw attention from yourself and limit any offers of courtship you may now receive.

Susannah releases an unladylike snort she wouldn’t be caught dead doing in front of her gaggle of admirers. Not likely . . .

I clear my throat. Susannah’s priorities are different from my own. Her world revolves around finding a suitable match for herself to begin a family. Why she thinks I am any sort of threat is beyond me. I understand the need to protect aspirations, though maybe not at the cost of decency and etiquette.

But I don’t have time for snobbery. As we’ve been speaking, the fog has climbed up to our knees. The lampposts in the business district are next on my route. No doubt the fog has already reached the wharf. My toes tap impatiently beneath the murk.

It is no matter. I will join while I can, but lighting the lampposts takes precedence over dancing and socializing. I stare hard at Susannah, who meets my gaze without flinching.

Oh, but it won’t take you all night to light them all, surely. Molly pouts, drawing my attention away from Susannah and her rolling eyes. You should spend time celebrating with the rest of us.

Of course it won’t take me all night to light the lampposts. From start to finish, it takes perhaps two hours. But the girls don’t know any better. They don’t have jobs to do in order to support their comatose mother and make sure their sister doesn’t want for anything. They are free to think of only themselves. I can no longer allow myself to wonder what that must be like. To allow myself to dream about another life.

Someday, maybe. Hopefully.

And besides, Molly continues, unaware of the ache in my heart. "Isn’t the Miriam supposed to return? I’m sure Josiah would appreciate celebrating with you."

Susannah glares at her. The girl could teach a class on disdain and its many expressions.

But even her negativity cannot stop the rush flooding my system. The mere mention of Josiah has my lips curving into a smile and fireflies warming my belly.

"Yes, the Miriam is due back, but we’ll see. You know as much as I how temperamental the Atlantic can be." The tremor in my voice cannot be helped. Our whaling schooner required a cooper before it departed in the spring, and Josiah was quick to sign up for the opportunity. The mere thought of his ship not returning on schedule threatens to shatter my control completely. Tucking away any and all thoughts of Josiah until his return has been the only way to maintain my sanity. But it isn’t always easy.

I make a show of grabbing my ladder. I apologize, but I really must be going now.

Susannah’s skirts brush me as she passes by without a word. Molly only sighs, and then smiles sweetly at me. A light brown curl has escaped from her bonnet, softening her face. Well, I hope you’ll reconsider coming. Tell Prudence I say hello.

With their exit through the trees, silence returns to the park. Well, nearly. Benjamin’s sporadic snores continue to grate the air as the leaves rustle in the branches above.

The sun has set and twilight reigns, but soon dusk will be upon us. I shift the ladder beneath my arm to a more comfortable position. Lantern in hand, I continue at a quick pace from the Green to the storefronts. As expected, the fog has reached the business district, and is slowly consuming the façades of the cooperage, smithy, and hoop shop in its greedy appetite. Shadows come alive, and I am almost fooled into believing there is something out here with me.

Superstitious whispers plague our seaport as bugs to a carcass. They don’t only come from our elders. With so many different nationalities coming through, I’ve heard rumors of kelpies in the river, African water spirits that followed ships into port, or vilas on the hunt to drown a man. Spirits of whalers lost at sea coming to take the lives of those who survived the passage. One of our locals insists finding a pearl in our river oysters is the only talisman to keep you safe from danger.

Each superstition is as far-fetched as the last.

I will not deny, though, that the fog does love to play tricks. It trails my every step. Encouraging me to tread where I should not.

But I could walk this village blindfolded and still know where I am. I’ve done just that before, in fact. A game Josiah and I used to play before he began his apprenticeship at the cooperage. He’d take a sash and tie it over my eyes, spin me round, and tell me a location to walk to. I never once stepped wrong.

How do you do it, Tempe? You magic or something? His voice carried awe.

Of course not. There’s no such thing. I remember even now the heat of pleasure warming my cheeks. Besides it’s not a useful skill.

You know that isn’t true.

Josiah was right. When nighttime comes and inevitably the fog with it, it is only the lampposts that guide the villagers—a semblance of safety in a place where people easily, and all too often, disappear without a trace. If a body is found, we have answers and can address the issue. But that is a scrap our seaport is rarely thrown, a black mark we will never be free of. The fog descends from the woods north of town, a tidal wave of anonymity rolling over Warbler, and if you don’t hold steady to the lampposts, you’re lost forever. But I will always know my way. Da made sure of it.

Even if I didn’t know where I was, the boisterous laughter and shouting from the tavern would alert me to its location. British, Dutch, and Spanish accents intermix with others I do not recognize. The lamppost out front stands a frozen interloper as a small group cajole and hit each other’s arms, throwing heads back to swallow their drinks. More revelers—a mix of black, brown, and white men—pour out of the tavern and onto the street like spilled marbles. I only vaguely recognize some of them, having seen these newcomers the last few nights.

This particular group’s whaling ship arrived earlier this week from New Bedford, not too far north of us. Word has spread through the seaport that a few weeks before they were to set sail, the figurehead crowning the front of their ship cracked. A bad omen. As they are a superstitious lot, rather than chance sailing the seas with bad luck, they sent a messenger to Warbler, commissioning our ship carver for a new figurehead. When the ship set sail, the captain directed it here to receive the figurehead before they head back out on their hunt.

Lucky figureheads are the one positive thing Warbler Seaport is known for.

And while Gideon finishes the new figurehead, our tavern entertains the whaling crew. More so than the ships constructed or repaired in our shipyard, it’s the visiting whaling ships that bring considerable currency to our village. We generally put up with their crews’ drunken gaiety, albeit reluctantly. I stick to the edge of the walkway, not wanting to draw too much attention to myself.

David, a local fisherman, catches my eye when I stop at the lamppost. He leans against the wall, a smoking pipe perched in his gnarled hand. He tips his head, leathery skin softened by a large, unkempt beard. Evening, Temperance.

David. I nod.

One of the whalers turns toward me, bringing his cup away from his lips. He towers over the others, a mountain of a man. I bet he could hold his arms around four of his mates without difficulty. Probably lift them up too. His gaze has my stomach twisting. The intensity of it can only bring unwanted attention. I pull my cap down as far as it will go before propping the ladder and climbing it.

Temperance? A man with a g’hals name? His voice sounds exactly how I thought it would. Deep, sardonic, and predatory. The responding chortles float above the tavern like vultures.

That ain’t a man, Leonard. Someone else laughs.

I glance over my shoulder at David as the whalers argue my sex. It’s a tired song and dance brought on by the mere sight of me in trousers, but I am used to it from strangers. David puffs on his pipe and rolls his eyes. I smile and refocus on the glass.

A hand squeezes my buttock.

I jerk forward, into the post, a gasp ripping my throat. The ladder wobbles beneath my shifting weight.

Blimey! Well, either that man has the softest ass this side of New England or they’re a woman!

I hear someone’s drink spraying the air, coughing, exploding laughter. Rage burns my skin.

Always think before you react, Tempe.

The memory of Da’s voice is soft, the lilt soothing, but someone else is controlling my body now. I grip the neck of the lamppost and kick out behind me. I halfheartedly hope I miss.

I don’t.

My boot hits something solid before glancing off. Most likely the whaler Leonard’s shoulder. There is a brief second of silence wherein I don’t think anyone moves or breathes. My own heart has stopped, taken aback at my boldness.

Leonard’s roar starts it again. You bitch!

I jump from the ladder. A jolt shoots through my legs upon landing, and the weight of my bag yanks down my shoulder. The fog recoils from me. I make it only a few steps before fingers scrabble at my back. More shouting. The air smells of sour breath and whiskey.

His hand catches the back of my jacket and I’m whipped around. Our eyes meet—his bloodshot brown, mine blue—as his ham-hock-sized fist pulls back to strike me.

A shrill whistle pierces the air from down the street.

The whaler freezes in place, chest heaving with his breaths. My heartbeat pounds in my ears, matching the rhythmic click of the constable’s boots as he jogs over.

"Step away from each other right now," Henry’s voice booms. He raises his arm up, a silent message to the gathering group of drunken whalers to back off. Unexpectedly, they listen.

Leonard’s eyes gleam as a muscle flexes in his ruddy cheek. His anger is unjustified and merely adding oil to my own burning temper.

Henry reaches us, tucking his hat under his arm, then toying with the baton on his hip. What’s going on here?

She kicked me! A few drops of spit fly from Leonard’s mouth. Shouts of affirmation come from his friends at the tavern entrance.

Only after he groped me, I grit out through my teeth. They begin to ache with the pressure, no other options available to me as an outlet for my anger. What he did was wrong.

And yet, it takes all my willpower not to apologize.

Is this true, David? Henry looks at David, who puffs once on his pipe. Nods.

Leonard scowls at me, disgust curling his lip. Did I hurt ya? No. And what are you doing walking around dressed like a boy, anyway?

The drunken throng all shout in agreement behind him, their words slurred, laughter taking the forefront. Henry merely sighs, and in it, I hear the repercussions he might have given Leonard die away. My shoulders drop as Henry releases his baton with a shrug. He isn’t from around here, Temperance. He doesn’t know any better.

I bite the inside of my cheek, the copper taste as unwelcome as this whaler’s presence.

Temperance is the lamplighter. Henry turns back to Leonard. I don’t know about you, but I imagine constantly climbing up and down ladders proves difficult in a dress.

Well, it ain’t right. It’s a man’s job.

More copper in my mouth.

What’s important here is that you lot stay on the wharf. It seems Henry doesn’t feel the need to correct Leonard as he turns to the entire group. It’s dangerous to travel in the fog, particularly when you aren’t familiar with our village or if the lights aren’t yet lit.

One misstep into the void in a drunken stupor could easily send someone toppling into the creek or river. Drownings, broken necks, split-open heads. Crimson red splashed upon the rocks. It has happened before and will likely happen again. The handful of times I’ve gone out to douse the lights and found bodies will forever be branded in my memory.

Thankfully, people are drawn to light like moths, and as long as I keep the lampposts lit, accidents rarely happen.

You are expected to respect the rules of our seaport. That includes staying out of the lamplighter’s way. Henry’s gaze flicks to Leonard before returning back to me. Why don’t you two go your separate ways and we’ll call it even.

He smiles at me as if he’s done me the favor and Leonard is on the outside of some private understanding between us. I clench my jaw to keep from saying words I cannot take back.

Remember, you lot are not to leave the wharf . . . Henry’s voice quiets to a dull grumble as he turns away, hand guiding the tosspot toward the rest of his friends. I breathe through my nose, fists clenched, shaking. I close my eyes and count to three before opening them again. Same world. Nothing has changed.

He doesn’t know any better.

I’d be willing to bet a month’s wages if I had been a man, Leonard would have received no such leniency.

Once I light the wick in the lamppost, the front of the tavern becomes a sick haze in the thickening fog. I gather up my ladder and lantern and hurry past it, refusing to give in to the shiver going up my spine. I feel the whalers’ eyes on me, and for a moment, I wish the wind would pick up and blow out the light, shroud me in the ether.

But no. There is no running. There is no hiding. I mustn’t show fear.

I move up the street to the print shop, general store, and seamstress without incident. Prop, climb, open, clean, trim, light. Only once I’ve passed the inn do I look over my shoulder. The whalers are grouped together once more before the tavern, merry in their oblivious worlds. The notes of a fiddle from within accompany their raucous laughter. One whaler stands apart from the rest, a giant of a man. He watches me, ignoring calls from his mates. He clenches and unclenches his fists.

I swallow down the unease tightening my throat as I turn the corner and Leonard disappears.

The stars are gone, rubbed away by a milky haze. Beyond the shipyard and wharf, all sound has been swallowed. The air is still, fog thick enough now I can’t even see the branches reaching out overhead from the smattering of trees lining the street. There’s nothing to be seen. No landmarks. No movement. Just a fuzzy absence. Perhaps I’ll walk forever in this nothing, no beginning, no end, until one day my heart finally gives out and it all becomes black.

I whistle one of Pru’s favorite tunes to break up the nothing. Let anyone still outside know I’m here, the light with me. You shouldn’t give power to the unknown.

Rather than alleviate the feeling of solitude, my solemn whistle echoes back to me, confirming how alone I am out here. I stop and look behind me, listening for any sounds of following footsteps. Eyes searching for a dark silhouette.

Satisfied, I continue on once more. Though the light from my lantern is a marker for anyone out at this hour, it still is not strong enough to break up the gloom or give life to my shadow. I could be swallowed up with no one the wiser. Well, except for Pru. But how long would it take before she realized something was wrong? Would she be too late?

Like we were with Da?

My stomach growls, interrupting the dark path my thoughts are taking. I pick up the pace, knowing there’s a hot bowl of Pru’s clam chowder waiting for me at home. Winter has already begun to test autumn’s waters, and by the time I come around to extinguish the lights and refill their oil wells tomorrow at dawn, frost will crunch beneath my feet.

With thoughts of the sweet bite of onion and creamy milk and clam keeping me moving, I reach the two buildings connecting the business district with the residential district: the home and workshop of Warbler’s renowned ship carver, Gideon. I take a deep breath, instilling calm into my body to contain my anxious nerves. I imagine myself floating in water, cradled and at peace. The fog is too great for me to discern the buildings, but I know they’re there. After a few more steps, the iron fence appears before me, but nothing else. No lights glow in the murk. Gideon’s windows are either shuttered for the night or, even better, he isn’t home.

A welcome reprieve.

The lamppost is near the entrance of his workshop. As I take the time to scrape and clean it, my arm muscles burn as my thoughts wander. Though I’m grateful to have avoided Gideon’s piercing gaze and dark interest, I do hope he finishes this new siren commission sooner than later. I’d rather not have to deal with drunken and belligerent whalers like Leonard longer than necessary.

Gideon’s workshop houses numerous figureheads. Angels, mermaids, knights, animals. But everyone knows he will take special commissions for one of his sirens should a captain have the purse for it. His siren figureheads are known for their good luck, which is the reason we often have so many visiting whaling ships.

When he isn’t working on figureheads, he can be found carving nameboards, trail boards, and tafferels for the ships being built in the shipyard. Or hired for smaller projects around the seaport like the bell’s arch.

Gideon is truly an artist.

I glance over my shoulder toward the workshop, flesh crawling, but I remain alone, only Da’s words to keep me company.

Stay away from Gideon.

It isn’t too long before I finish cleaning the glass and reflectors, light the wick, and am back on the ground. I shove my cleaning cloth in my bag, pick up the ladder and my lantern, and hurry on my way. Only the lampposts in the residential district to go.

The first lamppost peeks through the fog, a black slash in an otherwise blurry world. Prop, climb, open, clean, trim, light. Glowing windows watch me