The constant throb of waves hitting the island was only masked when the wind built enough that it moaned and howled around the building, blocking out every other sound. The house was one storey, attached to the lighthouse by a wide, curved corridor. There, in a room on the far end of the house, the wind banging into it, I was supposed to rest. Mr. Marsden’s wife had died of pneumonia four months earlier and he had two children, a boy and a girl, ages six and eight, who watched me whenever I emerged, silent in their own grief.
I feigned rest for three days and then decided it was time to get to work. I woke early, padded my undergarments and wrapped fabric around my abdomen in an attempt to stem the discomfort, then went to the kitchen. Mr. Marsden was sitting at the table with his hands
