I crouch down and clean away the last of the soot. As I do, I realise I have barely said anything to Grandma. Not for the whole afternoon. Not since she first arrived and told me how ill my brother was.
11
BEDTIME STORIES
That night, Grandma and I set the lighthouse light going together. Afterwards, Grandma brings me down to bed and, when I’m in my pyjamas, she tucks me in.
“I’ll take the night watch tonight, Deryn,” Grandma says as Tan settles beside me on the pillow. “But you can take the tea.” She puts Dad’s flask on my bedside table.
“Thank you, Grandma,” I say.
“Do you want me to read to you?” Grandma asks. “I know your mum normally does.” She takes the book of myths and fairy tales from my bedside and flicks through it. She finds a story near the back that I have never seen before. “Ooh, this is good one,” Grandma says. “It was your father’s favourite. I used to read it to him when he was a boy.”
“What’s it called?” I ask.
“The Firebird.” Grandma reads the opening paragraph. “Tales are told of lost sailors who befriend firebirds. The firebirds would drink the oil from the sailors’ lamps and then fly above their ships, lighting the way for them. Nowadays, no one has ever seen a real firebird. They disappeared thousands of years ago and only exist in ancient legends—”
“Stop,” I say, and shake my head. “I don’t think I can listen to a fairy tale tonight. There’s too much to worry about.”
“All right.” Grandma closes the book and puts it aside. “Maybe I could tell you a story about something else instead?” she suggests.
“Like what?” I ask.
“Did you ever hear about the storm of ’53 when a fishing trawler smashed against the Featherstone Rocks?”
I shake my head.
“It was the worst storm I ever saw,” Grandma says. “The gale was so bad that the whole lighthouse shook. The floors moved, and the shelves rattled. And your grandpa and I had to go out in the dark in his rowing boat and save a whole host of sailors from that trawler before it sank.”
“Were you scared?” I ask.
“A little bit,” Grandma says. “But I knew we were their only hope, and if we could rescue the sailors and get them back to the lighthouse, then they’d be fine.”
“Did you?”
“Yes, we did,” Grandma tells me.
“And did they survive?”
“Every last one of them. They were safe here.” Grandma leans in close to me. “This lighthouse is wise in many ways, Deryn. The walls are thick, and the stones know the weather as well as we do. They know when to be strong, and when to bend and shift to survive a storm. And the walls know the wind could never blow this house down, no matter how much it huffs and puffs.”
Grandma kisses my forehead. “Time to go to sleep now. I’ll be up in the tower, keeping an eye on the light. But if you need me, just come and find me.”
“Goodnight, Grandma,” I tell her as she’s leaving. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
“That you will,” she says, and she leaves the door ajar on her way out.
When she’s gone, I say goodnight to Tan, but the little bird is already asleep.
12
A WILD STORM
That night I dream that Tan escapes from my room and flies through the cottage.
Grandma has left the door to the lighthouse open, and Tan flaps inside and flies down to the cellar. I chase after her, and she lands on the oil tank. The lid of the oil tank is open, and Tan dips her head in and takes a drink, guzzling down the oil as if it’s water.
“Tan!” I cry. “What are you doing? That will kill you!”
But Tan ignores me and keeps on drinking. As she does, her feathers get glossier, her coal-black eyes glisten and her plumage starts to glow. Soon Tan has turned a radiant golden red. She is shining like a tiny dot of pure light, like she might burst into flame. Suddenly, I realise what she is.
“You’re a phoenix, Tan,” I say in my dream. “A firebird!”
Tan nods, and the light from her feathers seems to pulse with the brightness of that truth.
Then someone cries, “Wake up!”
*
Grandma is shaking me. The walls of my room are shaking too. And the bookshelf. And the glass of water on my bedside table. Rain clatters on the roof, and the wind howls outside my window. It feels like the storm in Grandma’s story. Or like a wolf the size of the world is trying to blow our house down.
“The lantern, Deryn!” Grandma cries. “The lighthouse lantern’s gone out! There’s no more oil in the tank! There’s a fishing boat out there in the gale, getting pulled towards the rocks! We have to warn it! We have to re-light the lamp! Is there any spare oil anywhere?”
Grandma picks up the lamp by my bedside and shakes it, but its reservoir is empty. She puts it back down in despair. “Think, Deryn!” Grandma says. “We need to make light!”
Then I remember my dream. I look around for Tan, but she’s gone.
“Oh no!” I say. “I’ve lost Tan!”
“The little bird?” Grandma asks. “Don’t worry about her just now. We have to find a way to get the lamp lit.”
I nod. But I have a horrible feeling that I know exactly where Tan is.
“I think my bird might be able to help us,
