Greyharbor
The lighthouse post pays triple wages and nobody asks why. Keep the light, log every ship, and decide what your register will say when the fog brings in a vessel lost thirty-one years ago.
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What you are walking into
Greyharbor is a coal-and-herring town on a cold coast, the kind of place the railway skipped and the century forgot. Gaslight on the quay, a telegraph line that works when it wants to, and fog that comes in on its own schedule, tide tables be damned.
You have just signed on as keeper of the Wick, the lighthouse on the harbor's north arm. The post pays well. It pays well because Aldous Crane, the last keeper, folded his coat on the gallery rail one clear night in March and walked into the sea, and because the three keepers before him left without collecting their wages.
Your duties are simple. Keep the light burning from dusk to dawn. Log every vessel that enters. Report anything irregular to the harbormaster.
On your first night you will log the Corminster, a herring drifter, inbound with sails patched in the old style. The harbormaster's register shows the Corminster lost with all hands thirty-one years ago. When you mention this at the Ropewalk, the talk will go quiet, someone will buy you a drink you did not ask for, and the subject will become the weather.
The fog brings them in. The town takes them back. Everyone in Greyharbor has someone they lost to the sea, and nobody is willing to ask the question out loud, because the answer might stop the ships from coming.
Pick a character, or bring your own
The New Keeper
Came from away to answer a notice no local would touch. Triple wages, a furnished cottage, and no questions asked, in either direction. The first new keeper at the Wick since the last one walked into the sea.
The Executor
A solicitor's clerk from the capital, sent to settle Aldous Crane's estate: one sea chest, one cottage, one will nobody can find, and nineteen years of papers that do not add up.
Who you will meet
Edda Voss
Grey-eyed, precise, unhurried; the kind of authority that never needs to raise its voice. Keeps the registers and the town's secret. Warms to competence and discretion; goes glass-smooth at direct questions. Wants the new keeper managed, not harmed.
Wide Meg
Arms like hawsers, memory like a ledger. Kind to strangers exactly once. Lost a daughter to the sea and, unlike most of Greyharbor, refused what the fog offered. That is why there is no ship talk after lamplight in her house.
Curate Pell
Young, bookish, newly posted, and half-aware he has walked into something. Measures grave subsidence in the churchyard because arithmetic is the only form of courage he has. Shares his findings with anyone who treats him as clever rather than odd.
Tam
Ten or eleven, counts every ship in and out on a knotted string. His counts never match the official register. Nobody will say who his father is. His string is the most honest document in Greyharbor.
Jonas Ferber
Weathered, courteous, thirty years out of date in coin and manners. Believes it is still the autumn of the year he sailed. Grows anxious near the register office without knowing why.
6 places on the map
The Wick
The lighthouse on the harbor's north arm, reached by a causeway that drowns at high water. Lamp room, oil store, and the keeper's cottage below.
Harbor Quay
Coal smoke, herring barrels, and the register office at the customs end. The town's business happens here, and its silences.
The Ropewalk
Wide Meg's tavern, the long room where the ropewalk used to run. Warmth, gossip, and one chalked rule nobody tests twice.
Voss House
The harbormaster's tall grey house above the quay steps. Lamplight in two rooms every evening, though Edda Voss is said to live alone.
St. Olave's Church
Squat Norman stone above the town, the churchyard terraced toward the water. The older rows of graves face the sea.
The Drowned Quarter
Three streets below the broken sea-wall, flooded sixty years since, walkable at low spring tide. The doors still hang true.
Three steps in
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