Free Heart of the Ocean by Heather B. Moore

Eliza set
out across the fields on horseback. Mistress Prann had been worried about the
swirling clouds overhead and told her to take the chestnut mare. Eliza was more
than happy to be riding again and even more important, it allowed her to go to
the coast. She hoped to find Helena’s journal in the lighthouse.
    Maeve’s funeral was being planned by the town, and Eliza’s
father was on his way, which meant she’d be returning home to New York soon.
Today might be the last chance she had to find out more about the ghost, as
long as she could find the journal. The voice hadn’t spoken to her since her
last visit to her aunt’s place. It seemed the woman only spoke in the area of
the lighthouse or Maeve’s home. If what Maeve had believed was true—that Helena
Talbot’s spirit had never left—then the voice belonged to her.
    Eliza heard the ocean surf before it came into view. She
rode the mare right up to the cliffs, and at the noise below, it became
jittery. Eliza urged the mare south, toward the lighthouse. When she neared it,
she stopped near a lone tree and tied the horse to the trunk.
    The lighthouse towered above her. It had seen better days,
but the size and construction were still awe inspiring. Eliza ran her hand
along the side of the rough, chipped wall—the coats of whitewash had long since
been faded by the weather. Grasping the rusted latch, she was surprised to find
that it wouldn’t budge. The door was locked. She circled the building, looking
for another entrance. Then she stopped in front of the door again and frowned.
Had her aunt locked it the night of the storm?
    Eliza remembered only the mad dash toward the house. Aunt
Maeve couldn’t have taken time to lock the door. Eliza fingered the giant
keyhole—there was no lock mechanism inside.
    The door had to be stuck. Eliza pushed hard then used her
shoulder against it. Finally it flew open. A couple of roosting doves fluttered
at the movement and flew past her.
    Stepping inside, Eliza realized she’d never really inspected
the old structure. A thick layer of dust seemed to cover the walls, but when
she moved closer, she realized it was mold. In the middle of the floor, a
winding staircase rose to the landing above, as if reaching to the heavens. One
by one, she ascended the steps, passing narrow windows on the way. At the top,
she was surprised to find how cozy the loft was. A hay-stuffed chair stood in
the middle of the circular room, and a stack of books sat on the floor.
    Eliza picked up a leather volume and traced the title—Frankenstein,
by Mary Shelley. Interesting. Not something her aunt would probably choose to
read. The buzzing of a lazy fly caught her attention, probably the last one of
the year. She leafed through the remaining books, but none were journals.
Checking beneath the chair, she found only dust and a lone cobweb. Eliza felt
along the crevices of the wall, but nothing was loose, and the floorboards
underneath her feet seemed solid enough.
    The door to the lighthouse banged. Eliza froze—was it the
wind? Then she heard footsteps on the stairs below.
    Eliza turned with a start. Someone had entered the
lighthouse. She walked to the head of the steps, heart hammering, trying to
decide what to do. Please don’t be the constable. Then she realized that she
had as much right to be here as anyone. After all, the lighthouse used to be
run by her uncle.
    She stepped into the stairwell and called, “Who’s there?”
    No one answered, but she heard the footsteps continued up
the staircase. She moved behind the chair, waiting to see who came into view,
her breath coming fast.
    A shock of rust-red hair appeared first, then a young man’s
ruddy face covered in pockmarks. Eliza found herself staring at the most
brilliant blue eyes she’d ever seen.
    “What’re ’ee doing ’ere?” The man spoke with a thick and
garbled tongue.
    Perhaps he was older than she was, or younger by a year or
two; it was difficult to tell.
    “I’m