‘There’s a visitor to the village,’ Cullen said, a few minutes later, around a mouthful of hot buttered toast. ‘I heard all about it from Ezra in the Fretted Goose last night.’

‘I hope you were being sensible,’ Rachel said mildly as she checked the till. ‘Remember what the doctor said.’

‘It was pie night,’ Cullen said, a deflection rather than an answer. ‘Anyway, this chap’s keen on the lighthouse, apparently. It’s why he’s come to Newton Dunbar in the first place. He’s writing a book.’

Rachel felt a sudden chill creep across her shoulders and looked up with a frown. ‘About this place? About us?’

Cullen finished off his toast. ‘I doubt it. There’s not much to say, is there?’

Still, that flutter of unease skittered down into her ribcage, resting beneath her heart. ‘Did you meet him? Was he there, last night?’

‘No, Ezra had heard it from Ron, who’d got it from Stanley, who’d heard it straight from Dora McCreedy, who was coming out of the Featherley house next door when he turned up – she’s bought it already, though it’s only been on the market a day. That’s her third property this year, isn’t it? Aiming to buy the whole village, it seems like. Anyway, this chap pulled up outside and started unloading boxes. They had quite the little chat, apparently.’

‘Hmm,’ said Rachel, trying to get the ancient laptop to start up. ‘Well, I suppose I should feel sorry for him, whoever he is. If Dora McCreedy’s got her claws into him he’ll have no peace.’

Cullen gave one of his trademark wicked cackles. The first time Rachel had heard it she’d not been able to stop herself from joining in; she, who until she had come to the Lighthouse Bookshop, had not laughed properly for a very long time. Even now it made her smile.

‘Still, it could be good, eh?’ Cullen said. ‘A writer will be in want of books! We could do with a new regular, even if it’s temporary.’

‘I can’t argue with that,’ Rachel admitted, because she couldn’t. Tourist curiosity aside, and though their small pool of regulars was doggedly loyal, footfall to the Lighthouse Bookshop was staccato at best. Cullen owned the building outright, and Rachel’s wages were low because her accommodation was included. But there were still expenses, and there were some days when the biggest sale she made was in copies of the postcards that reproduced Edie Strang’s beautiful linocut print of the tower.

Rachel herself would be happy if no one new ever came to visit, especially not anyone who wanted to ‘put the place on the map’, as Dora McCreedy frequently complained that Newton Dunbar should be. But the bills had to be paid somehow.

Toby looked for the ruins for hours but could not find them even once the sun had risen. It shouldn’t have bothered him so much, this propensity for the universe to swallow tragedy so successfully that it no longer left a visible mark for others to see. He should be used to it by now; he knew better than most how quickly the truth of an ended story vanished. But Toby never had become used to it. Not in twenty years.