She could see the lighthouse now, pointing up from a peninsula that jutted into the waves. Framed by blue, it was almost too bright a white to look at in the high sun.
When the mail boat docked at Pesgawan Town, the captain lowered the ramp. She couldn’t hear them over the mail boat’s angry rumble, but saw bearded lobstermen and a handful of older folk cluster around the other passengers when they disembarked. The elderly woman nodded toward Zan. Other heads followed, but turned when she held their gaze, unmoving.
She could imagine the exchange. No doubt they asked each other where she came from, and why she’d chosen their pocket of the world to plant herself.
The application she had filled in and sent to its island address had mentioned little beyond caretaker and host at historic landmark in its description of duties. She wasn’t even sure how she was to keep the light lit. Not that she’d been concerned with much beyond the fact that the island was as far east and north as she could fling herself from the other place. The burnt place.
“The Beauregards are your closest neighbors,” the captain said. He pointed with his chin at a woman in an old-fashioned apron and hair swept into a bun waiting at the end of the pier. “They’ll tell you all you need to know about being keeper here.”
“Thanks,” Zan said. She grabbed her luggage and descended with the goat. Her legs wobbled, waves still trapped in her muscles. She softened her features into their friendliest arrangement. She’d done a poor job of presenting herself as anything but hostile to the other islanders.
The woman—Mrs. Beauregard—waved. “You must be Zan’s wife,” she said, and folded Zan into a well-cushioned embrace.
Zan felt the pleasantness harden from her face. Her thumb twisted the ring she would never remove.
“He never mentioned in his application he’d bring one.” The woman held Zan at arm’s length. “Is he coming on tomorrow’s boat?”
“I’m Zan, actually.”
“You mean to say—”
“It’s short for Suzanna.” It used to be funny, how people chose to believe “Zan” was a nickname for Alexander, or that she was a Slavic man. In the months since the fire, Zan had come to resent that any competence she showed was read as male. As if grief needed this extra layer—her solitude, and survival in solitude, questioned.
Mrs. Beauregard dropped her hands. She smoothed her apron.
“Well. We’ve never had a woman here, keeping the lighthouse.” She peered back at the boat, where the captain stood, not hiding that he was listening. “You didn’t bring a husband with you, did you?”
“Just me and the goat,” Zan said. She tugged the rope, and the goat lifted her head from the weeds behind Zan’s bags. She let her right hand rest on the bump between the goat’s horns, her left hand and its ring behind her back. The animal looked up at her, eyes deep gold.
“Oh.” Mrs. Beauregard stepped back. “A goat. Oh my.”
“Is that a problem?” Zan felt the challenge in her voice.
“No, no, just fine.” The woman patted her hair. “Well. This is all very new.” She paused. Her bosom rose with a great breath. “Just fine. Now, let me show you the keeper’s cottage, and after we’ll have Mr. B. take you round to the light.” She drew a jangling keyring from her apron pocket. Shaking free a heavy key dark with age, she motioned Zan to follow. The goat trotted behind, its bell a silver note.