Page 110 of A Scot in the Storm
Rory rotated the assembly carefully by hand while everyone watched.
Once. Twice. The third turn was smooth as silk. Rory looked up at her. The lantern light caught along the side of his face while exhaustion sat plainly beneath his eyes now, impossible to hide anymore. The last two days had burned through whatever reserve of strength stubbornness had managed to keep him upright
“Again,” he said.
The cradle turned perfectly.
McRae grunted once in approval. “Good seat.”
“Good casting,” Rory answered automatically.
Outside, another cluster of lanterns appeared along the road below as Abigail looked out.
The sea beyond Kinnaird Head had nearly vanished into darkness entirely, the horizon swallowed beneath a sky the color of old iron. Frost feathered the lower panes in delicate white patterns while the waves crashed against the rocks.
Farther down along the harbor, more lanterns flickered beside the piers. Everyone waiting.
Rory crossed toward the reservoir while Ewan checked the feed mechanism one final time.
“Oil.”
Tobias passed over the canister, and the smell deepened immediately, thick and sharp and familiar now.
Abigail watched Rory’s hands as he worked, steady despite exhaustion and careful despite the stiffness that had settled into his shoulders.
History in books had always felt orderly to her. Dates. Records. Letters preserved beneath glass.
But real history smelled like lamp oil, wet wool, and men who hadn’t slept properly in days. It lived in burned hands, aching backs, women carrying hot broth through frozen scaffold yards because everyone knew work went faster once people stopped pretending they weren’t hungry.
Outside, the kirk bell rang faintly through the cold. Six o’clock. The lantern room fell still. Rory adjusted the wick one final time while Ewan stepped back from the lens, and below them the crowd quieted too, as though the entire headland had drawn one long collective breath.
Hundreds of people standing in darkness waiting for one flame.
Abigail glanced again toward the eastern glass, where far beyond the reef, barely visible between sea and sky, a single light pitched unevenly against the water.
The Isabella.
Her chest tightened painfully. Beside her, Rory followed her gaze, and for one suspended moment neither of them spoke. Then he struck the taper.
The sound seemed so small. Just flint against steel. A spark catching. Yet every soul in the lantern room leaned toward it. The taper flared warm gold in Rory’s hand before he lowered it carefully toward the wick.
The lamp caught, a low amber bloom unfolding steadily behind glass. Light gathered and strengthened and turnedbehind the lens. Then the great beam swept outward across the dark sea.
A sound rose from below, not cheering exactly but something rougher and older than that.
Relief.
The beam moved over water, reef, and harbor, white-gold against darkness while frost glittered along the lantern room panes like scattered stars.
Abigail felt wetness on her cheeks before she realized she was crying.
Below them, men removed their caps while women pulled children closer beneath blankets. Someone crossed himself.
The beam turned again, slow and steady and alive. And far beyond the reef, the light from the Isabella shifted course.
Abigail pressed one freezing hand against her mouth.
“They’ve seen the light.”
