“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.

Chapter 12

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!”

*