“Shoo!” I cried in a shrill voice, hurling my bag at them. “Get out!”

I had no idea what I’d do if they flapped inside, but to my relief they scattered, squawking indignantly. I could still hear the humming as I grabbed my bag and crawled from the bothy, the little bits of rock and gravel digging painfully into my knees and palms. The rain had stopped, but the wind had picked up, meaning that the mist from before had blown away, and I could clearly see the woman hunched just a short distance from my hut.

She had her back to me but I heard the splashing of water and saw at once that she was washing some clothes in a large puddle that had formed between the rocks – all the time humming that sad, slow song to herself. Every cell in my body screamed at me to run from the woman, but I knew who this was – 269it was the bean nighe. I was seeing her as previous lighthouse keepers on the island had before me. And I was desperate to know whose clothes she was washing.

So I swallowed down my fear and picked my way over the rocks towards her. The air seemed to get colder and colder as I approached, so cold that it suddenly felt difficult to imagine ever being warm again. Up close, the woman was even thinner and frailer than I’d first thought. The hands grasping the clothes were more like claws, with long, dirty yellowed nails. Her skin was withered and pale, her shoulders sunken. She had the look of a creature that lived below ground and never saw the sunlight. Her wiry grey hair was so patchy in places that I could see the wrinkled white skin of her scalp, especially as the wind practically howled around us now, as if it would tear every hair from her head.

“Go away!” she hissed, although I hadn’t spoken a word. “Lot to get through before sunrise.”

She gestured at something with her bony elbow, and I spotted another set of clothes on the ground beside her. My breath caught in my throat as I realized that the puddle had already turned red with blood as she 270energetically wrung out one of the blue boiler suits the guga hunters wore. Since they all dressed alike, it was impossible to tell who it belonged to.

The outfit beside her, though, was another story. I recognized that dark jacket – the moonlight flashed off the tiny silver football badge pinned to the pocket. Those clothes belonged to Will. Without even thinking about it, I started forward towards them.

“Don’t!” the old woman hissed, still wringing out the boiler suit.

Her tone made me shudder. I dreaded seeing her face but I couldn’t let her have Will’s clothes. I lunged forward and my hand closed around his jacket, but the bean nighe was upon me lightning fast.