Chapter Text
“Oh, dear girl, it’s so lovely to see you.” Matron kisses both Quistis’s cheeks as they stand on the orphanage doorstep. “Come in, come in. Have a bit of coffee with us before you go up to the lighthouse.”
Smiling, Quistis steps over the threshold and into the orphanage’s dark foyer. It’s a jarring contrast to the sunny courtyard. Although she can see golden light glowing in the rooms off the hall, this part of the house feels enclosed and stifling. It always has, even when she was a child. Just a peculiarity of old Centran architecture, she supposes.
“How was the journey?” Matron asks as she bustles off toward the kitchen, beckoning Quistis to follow. “The waters through the Southwest Passage can be a bit choppy this time of year.”
Quistis leaves her suitcase at the front door and trails after Matron down the hall—the spine of the house—passing by the sitting room, dining room, sunroom, library, and the corridors leading off to the bedrooms in either wing of the house. “It was fine,” she says. “No rough seas. At least nothing rough enough to make me sick.”
“I’m glad to hear that.”
When they enter the kitchen, Cid is sitting at the table in a pool of sunlight spilling through the window, reading a newspaper and sipping a cup of coffee. The mug he’s using is emblazoned with a faded Balamb Garden logo.
“Headmaster,” Quistis says with a cordial nod.
“Quistis!” He puts the book and cup down and rises to give her a hug. Quistis returns it with some reluctance. “So good of you to come. I wasn’t sure whether you’d accept Edea’s invitation.”
“Well, the more I thought about it, the more it made sense.” Quistis sits across from Cid and murmurs her thanks as Matron sets a steaming mug in front of her. “I needed a break and there’s nowhere more peaceful or secluded than this place.”
“You can say that again.” Cid chuckles and taps the newspaper on the table. “Would you believe it if I told you this paper is two weeks old?”
“I was going to ask where it came from. I didn’t think you got paper service out here,” Quistis says, adding a teaspoon of sugar to her coffee from the sugar pot on the table. It’s old and chipped and decorated with little pink roses. Quistis recognizes it from her childhood—a gift from Cid on their wedding day, Matron once told her.
“We don’t, but we have supplies brought from FH every two weeks. The sailor who does the delivery brings me the news too.”
Quistis takes a sip of her coffee. “You don’t feel out of the loop, being so disconnected from the outside world?”
Laughing drily, Matron pulls something wrapped in butcher’s paper out of the fridge and sets it on the counter. “I think we’ve had our fill of the outside world.” She unties the string and opens it to reveal chunks of raw meat, bright red and bloody. “No, dear, this is exactly what we’ve always wanted. We never would have left this place if it hadn’t been for … well…”
She trails off with a sigh, and an awkward silence falls over the room. They’re all uncomfortably aware of the part Matron and Cid played in how the Second Sorceress War unfolded. With hindsight, some memory exploration, and a bit of therapy, Quistis now understands just how messed up it was that she was trained from childhood to be a soldier. Not just a soldier, but a mercenary, a paid killer.
And so do her friends. They’ve all dealt with it in different ways. Squall is still commander at Balamb, but he’s less enthusiastic about the role, and Rinoa keeps begging him to move to Deling City with her. Selphie and Irvine left for Trabia to help with reconstruction. Zell retired from SeeD and teaches martial arts in town. Quistis is still at Garden, but she has some unresolved PTSD about her childhood and the war, which is why she’s here. She badly needed a break from Garden and Matron suggested she stay with them, and Quistis, always the dutiful people-pleaser, felt she had to accept.
As for Seifer…
“You’ll join us for supper tonight?” Matron says, glancing at Quistis. It’s phrased like a question, but the look in her eye gives Quistis the impression she’s not allowed to decline. “I’m making a stew. I’m sure that sounds strange, given it’s summer, but it gets cool at night. The wind off the water, you see…”
“Yes,” Quistis says. “I will. Thank you.”
Cid and Quistis drink their coffees and chat while Matron prepares the meat, occasionally interjecting her own opinions into their conversation. It’s a light-hearted conversation, but Quistis is ready to get to her lodgings. Though it’s early afternoon, it was a long journey, and she’s dying for a nap in a real bed after three nights in a berth below-deck on a sailboat.
“I’d better bring my luggage up to the lighthouse,” Quistis eventually says, once she’s drained her cup.
“Dear…” Matron bites her lip and exchanges a glance with Cid before returning her gaze to Quistis. “Are you sure you want to stay up there all by yourself? It’ll be awfully lonely.”
Cid nods in agreement. “We have plenty of bedrooms down here. You’ll have all the space you could want.”
Quistis bites her lip. She appreciates their concern, and she did give it a lot of thought. But this place brings back less-than-pleasant memories for her. At least up at the lighthouse, the ghosts of her childhood won’t follow her around everywhere she goes.
“Thank you,” she says, “but I’m fine with the solitude. Really. You won’t need to worry about me.”
Matron and Cid exchange another glance. Quistis thinks they’re about to argue again, but then Matron smiles wanly and sets down the knife she’s been using to cut carrots.
“Cid can help you bring your suitcase up there,” she says. As Quistis opens her mouth to protest, Matron holds up a finger. “Ah-ah! No arguments. It’ll do him good to get some fresh air anyway. Won’t it, love?” She looks pointedly at Cid.
“Yes,” Cid says. “Yes, of course.” He smiles at Quistis. “Let’s get your things, shall we?”
• • •
The ocean rages at the jagged rocks below as Quistis picks her way along the path to the lighthouse. Cid huffs and puffs behind her. It’s a bright day, the sun glinting off the water and the windows of the lighthouse. The front door has been freshly painted blue; a planter full of marigolds sits next to it on a rustic stool, propping open an iron grill gate hinged to the door frame. She’s touched that Matron and Cid went to all this work to make the lighthouse feel homey for her.
Breathing hard, Cid sets her suitcase down next to the marigolds. “I can help you bring it upstairs. Just give me a minute.”
Quistis smiles. “It’s okay. I think I can manage it from here.”
“Are you sure?” Cid puts his hands on his hips and leans back, squinting up at the lighthouse. “Edea said I should—”
“Just take it slow on the walk back,” Quistis says conspiratorially. “She doesn’t need to know.”
Cid still looks dubious, but there’s a hint of relief under it. She won’t have to do any more convincing to make him take her bait. And sure enough, he smiles and stands up straight again.
“You always were one of my strongest SeeDs,” he says. He digs in his pocket and produces two small iron keys, one basic and the other wrought with an elegant vine motif. “Here. The plain one’s for the gate, the fancy one’s for the door. There’s no one here but us, but I imagine you’ll want your privacy.” He pauses. “And some security. You’re a woman staying here alone, after all…”
“I’ll be all right,” she says, slipping the fancy key into the lock on the blue door and turning it. The bolt makes a satisfying clunk as it opens. “Dinner’s at six?”
“Yes.” Quistis expects him to leave, but instead he hesitates, scanning the water restlessly before returning his gaze to her. “You’ll come to us if you need anything, won’t you? At any time, day or night? We’re right down the pathway.”
Quistis nods. “I know. Thank you.”
Cid hesitates for another moment, but then he smiles tightly, gives a half-hearted wave, and ambles back down the path. For a moment, Quistis watches him go, troubled, but a gust of wind coming off the water below puts a chill into her, so she retreats into the lighthouse.
With the blue door closed, the roar of the waves is muted, as though being piped to her from another world. It’s quiet inside the lighthouse, a bit stale. There are no windows on this floor, and it’s sparsely furnished, but there’s a door right across from her that she knows to be the bathroom. Matron has clearly tried to spruce the space up: there’s a coat rack just inside the door, and a bohemian runner rug covering the grey-painted floorboards, and a long bench along the left wall with a few plump yellow throw pillows placed at either end. The stairs are to the right, spiralling upwards.
“Let’s do this,” Quistis mutters to herself.
Hoisting her luggage, she starts to climb, wincing every time the hard case bangs against the plaster wall. By the time she reaches the top, she’s huffing and puffing just as badly as Cid was on the walk from the house.
She pauses and looks around. This floor is homier than the one downstairs. There’s a little kitchenette with a window above the sink. The sun shines through it, filling the space with warm light. Across from the kitchen, there’s a couch and a coffee table. To the left of the couch, there’s a second, larger window overlooking the ocean. It’s small but cozy, and Quistis can see herself enjoying her time here.
Another spiral staircase brings her up to the top floor. It’s the smallest of all, more of a loft, housing only a bed, two nightstands, a dresser, and a clothes rack. There’s a window here as well. It’s open, letting in a breeze that stirs the gauzy curtains. Quistis sets down her suitcase and moves to stand next to it, looking out at the water. It goes on for as far as the eye can see, further compounding her feeling that she’s all alone out here.
“Pretty,” she murmurs to herself.
And then she yawns, not bothering to stifle it. She has four hours until dinner. She’ll need a shower before then, but first: a nap.
• • •
After dinner, Quistis walks back up the path to the lighthouse. The sun has nearly set, leaving a burning glow on the horizon, far away over the ocean. A few sea birds swoop by, calling out to one another as they circle the lighthouse standing tall and shadowed against the dusky sky.
Quistis stops short, staring. It shouldn’t be so dark. She’s positive she left the light on over the front door, and the one in the foyer, but both are dormant now. She stands there for a moment, suddenly uneasy in the gloom, wondering if she made a mistake in declining Cid’s offer to walk her home.
“You’re being ridiculous,” she mutters.
There must be a timer on the lights, or maybe the bulbs burned out after so much disuse. She’s the only one with a key—unless Cid and Matron have a spare, but Quisis was with them all evening—and there’s no one else around for miles. They would know if there was. The possibility that someone broke in is slim to none.
All the same, she approaches cautiously and turns the knob on the blue door, giving it a little push. It doesn’t move. It’s still locked. She breathes out a sigh and takes the iron keys out of her pocket. As she unbolts and opens the door, she reaches an arm inside and flips the lights on.
Nothing in the foyer appears to be out of place. Her navy blue Garden sweatshirt is pooled on the end of the bench, exactly where she left it. She stands still for a moment, holding her breath and listening, but there’s nothing. No footsteps, no shuffling, no sense that someone else is nearby. Just silence.
A thorough sweep of the upper floors reveals the same: nothing out of place and no one lying in wait to ambush her. With a sigh of relief, she heads back downstairs to secure the front door. First she moves the stool with the planter and pulls the grate closed, its hinges groaning like a zombie from a B movie. Then she locks it and the blue door and put the keys on the wall shelf above the bench.
Enclosed in the lighthouse, safe and sound and solitary, she brushes her teeth in the bathroom, under the sickly glow of the fluorescent bulb set above the mirror.
• • •
The next day is as sunny as the last. After joining Matron and Cid at the house for a breakfast of eggs and sausages, Quistis slathers herself in sunscreen and walks the beach. A balmy breeze gusts in off the ocean, lifting her gauzy cover-up and swirling it around her bare legs. All her anxieties from the night before float away too; she rationalizes that she only thought she left the lights on, since it was still broad daylight when she went up to the orphanage for dinner.
Shielding her eyes from the sun, she looks up at the lighthouse. In the brilliance, it stands tall like a regal old dame, its whitewashed walls a beacon for passing ships. It’s been here for decades—maybe centuries—and Quistis is sure it will remain long after she and everyone she knows are gone. It’s served as the stage for so many stories, lives full of love and sorrow and loss and joy. There’s nothing scary about it. In a way, it’s comforting to know it was a home for so many before her, and that it’s now home to her, even if only for a few weeks.
A little after noon, she returns to it, taking her hat off and shaking out her hair as she walks up the path to the front door. It’s cool inside, a relief after so long in the midday sun. Quistis drops her hat on the bench, toes off her sandals, and climbs the stairs to the living space. In the kitchen, she fills a glass with water from the tap and drinks it all down in a few greedy gulps.
After filling a second glass and making herself a peanut butter sandwich, she sits on the couch and rests her feet. There’s a question of what to do with herself for the rest of the day. This vacation is supposed to be about doing nothing and de-stressing, but that’s not the kind of person she is or has ever been. She’s not even sure she knows how to be happy if she’s not coming up with strategies with Xu, or managing client contracts, or honing her skills in the training centre.
A stack of books tucked on a shelf under the coffee table catches her attention. Setting her water glass down, she pulls them out and reads the titles off the spines. Death in Deling City. Murder at Obel Lake. The Case of the Wendigo’s Bones. The Secret at Tears Point. They’re dime-store mystery novels that look about as old as she is, the pages dog-eared and the cover art faded, so they probably came from Matron and Cid’s library down at the house. Maybe they brought them up here so she’d have something to do in her downtime.
There’s a fifth book at the bottom of the pile. It looks new, with a blue velvet cover and the title embossed in silver foil across the front. She traces the lettering with her fingers.
“Epitaphe for an Erraunt Knighte,” she murmurs.
Curious, she opens it. The title is there in the same script as on the cover, but when she sees what’s written in the top right corner, her heart thumps painfully in her chest.
S E I F E R A L M A S Y
So this book belonged to him. But why is it here? It looks too fresh, and the poetry too advanced, for him to have had it when he was a boy. As far as she knows, he never returned here as an adult. When he was six, he was shipped off to Garden, and he stayed there until Ultimecia took him under her wing. Later, after he was apprehended by Galbadia, he was imprisoned in D-District.
And then he died.
Quistis still doesn’t know exactly what happened, only that his death was reported in the papers two weeks before he was supposed to stand trial. The authorities said no foul play was suspected, but also gave no cause of death, so she just assumed it was a suicide. Matron and Cid were mum on the topic, too, when she asked. It must have been traumatizing, to lose one of the children they raised in such a tragic way.
That was two years ago. Quistis has grown so much since then, and she’s had a lot of time to reflect. She’s not sure anymore that Seifer was as bad as everyone thought he was. Troubled, yes, but he was still a boy, barely a man, raised in an environment Cid should have known wasn’t right for him. And sometimes she wonders if Ultimecia did more than just manipulate him, if she forced him to do some of the heinous things he did. Mostly, she feels guilt for failing him, for fighting him when she should’ve been helping him.
Then there’s her anger at Cid for putting her in a position of authority she was in no way prepared for. Even the seasoned instructors had a hard time managing Seifer, so right from the get-go, there was no hope for her.
Sighing, Quistis sets the book down. Maybe it was among Seifer’s things at Garden, and Matron and Cid kept it as a sentimental reminder of him. That’s the most likely explanation. Either way, she doesn’t want the reminder of him, of his death, at least not here, where she’s supposed to be relaxing, so she shoves the book under the seat cushion and sits back down to eat her sandwich.
The afternoon passes quietly. She lies on the couch and reads Death in Deling City until the sun turns orange and shadows creep long across the floorboards. Her stomach grumbles and she realizes it’s after eight o’clock. Getting up, she rummages through the cupboards and finds a few cans of soup and a box of macaroni and cheese. Nothing substantial, but she’s not keen to walk back down the path to the house, so she’ll have to make do.
She heats up a can of tomato soup and eats it at the kitchen counter, looking absently out at the bloody sunset spreading across the water. Her eyes tug toward the couch, and the book she stashed under the cushion. Something about it bothers her, but she can’t really say what, besides the fact that it belonged to Seifer. If Matron and Cid wanted to keep it as a memento of him, why put it up here with the other books? Why not keep it down at the house, safe and close by?
It must’ve gotten mixed up with the others, Quistis tells herself. I’ll ask Matron about it tomorrow.
By the time she’s done eating, it’s nearly nine o’clock. She reads a few more pages of Death in Deling City, but finds her eyelids growing heavy. It was a long day out in the sun. She’s ready for bed.
Yawning, Quistis pads into the bathroom, pulling the chain hanging from the light fixture to turn it on. Yellow lights floods the room, and Quistis opens the medicine cabinet to take out her toothpaste and toothbrush. As she closes it again, she catches a flash of something in the mirror behind her, standing in the doorway.
A figure, dark and shadowed, tall and broad as a man.
With a gasp, she whirls to face whoever’s there.
The doorway is empty.
Heart stuttering, she clutches her toothbrush to her chest and stares at the spot where she saw the figure. Fear raises the hair on her arms, but the feeling just as soon gives way to anger. She charges out into the hallway, expecting to find an intruder, but there’s no one there. The front door, when she checks it, is still locked, the key still on the shelf where she left it. She storms up both flights of stairs to check every floor, even under her bed, but there’s no one and nothing.
Laughing, knees weak with relief, she sits down on the edge of the couch. It must’ve been her imagination, her troubled mind playing tricks on her.
She’s alone in the lighthouse.
• • •
“Are you all right, dear? You look like you’ve hardly slept,” Matron says, setting a cup of coffee down in front of Quistis.
“Hmm?” Quistis was staring out the window, watching murky storm clouds roll in over the ocean, but now she looks up at Matron. “Oh. No, I’m fine. Just getting used to sleeping in a new bed, that’s all.”
Matron gives her a skeptical glance but she doesn’t push. She returns to the stove and flips the sausages hissing in the pan.
“Looks like rain,” Cid says, drumming his fingers on the tabletop. His eyes, too, have been scanning the horizon. “I was planning to replace some window frames, but I guess it’ll have to wait a day or two.”
Quistis nods. From here, she can’t see the lighthouse, but it looms in her thoughts. She can’t stop visualizing the figure she glimpsed in the mirror. It couldn’t have been real—she checked every inch of the lighthouse for an intruder—but it was too vivid to be her imagination. Wasn't it?
Regardless, she’s not looking forward to a day cooped up indoors, either here in the dreary orphanage or up at the lighthouse.
“I’ve been working on a puzzle in the sunroom,” Matron says, glancing over at Quistis. “It’s three thousand pieces. Maybe we could spend some time on it this morning, together.”
Quistis smiles at her, grateful for the offer. “I can help around the house too, if you want. Vacuum? Fold laundry?”
“Now, dear, you’re our guest.” Matron takes down three plates and sets them side by side on the counter. “I can’t have you doing my chores.”
“You’re letting me stay for free,” Quistis says. “And you’re feeding me. It’s the least I can do.”
Matron uses a pair of tongs to dish out the sausages onto the plates. “We’ll see. Let’s start with the puzzle.”
They sit at the table and eat together, chatting about the renovations Cid’s doing in the east wing and Quistis’s plans for the week (mostly, walk the coast, sunbathe on the beach, and do some journaling). The sky opens up and strafes the ocean just as they’re starting to clear away the dishes. Great gusts of wind rattle the windowpanes, rain pummels the roof, and ominous clouds cluster low in the sky, darkening the interior of the house. Matron bustles over to the switch by the back door and turns on the lights.
“Let’s hope the power stays on,” she says, biting her lip. “The lines are particularly susceptible to the wind out here.” She moves to the drawers next to the fridge and opens the top one, looking at Quistis. “This is where I keep the emergency supplies—flashlights, candles, first aid kit. You can take some up to the lighthouse later if you’d like.”
Quistis smiles tightly, trying not to think about going back there alone in a storm without power. “Well, here’s hoping we won’t need them.”
They finish clearing the table and washing the dishes, and then Cid retreats to the east wing to plaster some walls while Matron leads Quistis to the sunroom. The puzzle is laid out on a big table next to the windows, only a quarter complete. It’s of an Estharian cityscape, going by the image on the box lid.
“Take a seat,” Matron says, opening the blinds on all the windows to let in as much natural light as possible. It’s still gloomy, so she turns on a floor lamp in the corner as well. “If this weather keeps up, we might just finish by lunchtime.”
They work in companionable silence for a while, sifting through the box full of puzzle pieces and fitting them every now and then in the right spots. The rain doesn’t let up—if anything, it lashes the windows harder, as if it’s trying to get inside, to them. Quistis looks out occasionally, trying to discern the sea beyond the downpour, but the everything’s just a damp, grey smear.
“Can I ask you something?” Quistis says after a while.
Matron peers through her reading glasses at the puzzle piece in her hands. “Of course.”
“I found some books under the coffee table at the lighthouse,” Quistis says. “One of them was Seifer’s. It looked new…”
“Oh?” Matron doesn't look up from the puzzle piece. “Which one?”
“It was called Epitaphe for an Erraunt Knighte. It looked like an epic poem.”
“I see.” Finally, Matron sets her puzzle piece down and meets Quistis’s eyes. Maybe she’s imagining it, but Quistis thinks she sees a hint of guilt in her expression. “I thought I’d cleared out all his things, but I must have missed that one.”
Quistis frowns. “Cleared out all his things?”
“Yes.” Matron nods, pressing her lips together. She’s quiet for a moment, as if deciding what to tell Quistis. “Seifer stayed there while he was awaiting trial.”
Quistis sits back in her chair, stunned. “I thought he was being held at D-District. At least, that’s what the papers said.”
“We kept it quiet.” Matron turns her head to look out the window, though Quistis doesn’t think she’s really seeing the misty drear. It’s more like she’s looking into the past, a past she knows she can’t change. “After the dust settled, Seifer was … psychologically disturbed. That’s hardly surprising, after everything he went through with Ultimecia. The courts decided D-District was not the appropriate place to keep him, but he was also too dangerous to go into a medical institution, so Cid and I offered to bring him here.”
“To the lighthouse,” Quistis says. “House arrest.”
Matron nods. “It’s a lovely home, but also the perfect prison. As you know, you need a key to unlock the gate from the inside. And the outer walls are so sheer, and the windows so high up that they’d make any effort at escape not just impossible, but foolhardy.”
As Quistis puts the pieces together, a chill goes down her spine. “But he tried anyway … didn’t he?”
Matron closes her eyes and nods. “Yes.”
“And that’s how he died?”
“Yes,” Matron says again. She opens her eyes and looks at Quistis. “It was an accident, I’m sure of it. Seifer wanted to live. I don’t think I’ve ever met someone more alive than him. Wouldn’t you agree?”
Quistis nods. Of course she agrees, but it also feels like Matron is desperate for her affirmation on the topic, as if there’s a fragment of doubt buried under the altar to her conviction.
“He tied his bedsheets together to make a rope and tossed it out the kitchen window,” Matron goes on. “Almost a cliché, like something you’d see in a movie.”
“He was nothing if not theatrical,” Quistis murmurs.
Matron smiles grimly. “No. But you see … Cid and I had made sure not to give him too much of anything he could use for such a purpose, so his rope was only a few feet long. I suppose he thought he’d use it to descend as far as he could and then he’d climb the rest of the way using the cracks between the stones as fingerholds.”
“But he fell,” Quistis says.
“Yes. We found him on the rocks below the lighthouse.”
Thunder rumbles close by, rattling the windowpanes, as Quistis absorbs this information. Another chill goes down her spine as she thinks of the figure she saw standing behind her in the mirror.
Don’t, she scolds herself. You’re being ridiculous.
“Is that why you didn’t want me staying there?” she asks. “Because it’s where he died?”
“Yes,” Matron admits. “It’s a sad place for us. Though Seifer made unwise choices, he was still ours, and we cared for him. To think he left this world the way he did…”
Quistis places her hand over Matron’s on the tabletop. “I understand.”
“There’s more, dear,” Matron says. She covers Quistis’s hand with her own, holding it tight like she expects Quistis to run from the horror of her next confession. “We didn’t find him for two days. Can you imagine? He lay there for two days on the rocks, the poor thing, and we had no idea. Cid only discovered him when he brought some groceries up to the lighthouse.”
Another thunderclap shakes the foundations, and the lamp in the corner flickers. It’s followed by a jagged fork of lightning that leaves a neon afterimage in the sky over the ocean. Quistis puts her arms around herself, though it does nothing to assuage the cold that’s settled into her flesh. For two years, she’s known Seifer is dead. But she never thought learning the details of his end would leave her so disturbed.
“Our offer stands,” Matron says, business-like. “I can make up a room for you down here at the house. You won’t be a bother, I assure you.”
Quistis bites her lip, thinking of the figure she saw in the mirror. Unease prickles the back of her neck, but she shakes it away. The figure must have been her imagination. Seifer is dead and gone, and there’s no such thing as ghosts, so the idea that he was there, lurking behind her in the doorway, whether flesh or otherwise, is insane. Whatever she saw, it was a trick of her imagination or the light.
You checked every nook and cranny in that place, from top to bottom, she tells herself. There was no one there.
“I’ll let you know if I change my mind,” Quistis says. “I’m okay up there for now.”
Matron still looks troubled, especially when the lamp flickers again, but she nods and picks up her puzzle piece. They spend the rest of the morning working on it, making small talk now and then, and by the time Cid pokes his head in to tell them he’s made sandwiches for lunch, the puzzle is about eighty percent complete.
• • •
At six o’clock, following an afternoon of chores with Matron and an early supper of soup and homemade bread, Quistis makes her way back up the path to the lighthouse. The rain has let up, but it’s left a thick fog behind, blanketing the coast and wreathing the upper levels of the lighthouse in grey cloud. It’s still a couple of hours until sunset, but you wouldn’t know it.
After her conversation with Matron, and the revelations about Seifer’s fate, Quistis would be lying if she said she wasn’t feeling a bit on edge, returning to the lighthouse alone. But she makes herself put the key in the lock and open the door, step inside and turn the light on. It’s as mundane and familiar as always. She grabs her Garden hoodie off the bench and shrugs into it to ward off the damp chill that gusted in when she opened the door.
As she climbs the stairs to the living room, she thinks about Seifer, and how it must have been for him to be locked up in here. She can come and go as she pleases, so it doesn’t carry an atmosphere of claustrophobia, but she can see how it might’ve driven him a bit crazy. Tiny living space, so few windows … it might’ve been better than a jail cell, but to someone like Seifer, seeing the sky beyond the window would have been a cruel taunt. Freedom right there, but outside his grasp.
Quistis pauses at the top of the stairs, opening her senses to the room. All she can hear is the distant roar of the ocean and the tick of the wall clock in the kitchen. There’s nothing else. No feeling of someone there with her, present but unseen.
“You’re being stupid,” she says to herself. In the quiet, the sound of her own voice is almost startling to her own ears. “There’s no such thing as ghosts.”
Still, she approaches the window, opening it to look out. A grey mist hangs across her usual view, but looking down, she can see how high up she is, maybe fifty feet. The foot of the lighthouse is lost in fog, but she knows the rocks down there are sharp and jagged. An image flashes across her mind of Seifer falling, smashing into them, his head cracking open on granite, lying there to rot alone for two days.
She closes her eyes and lets out a shuddering breath. “Oh, Seifer.”
Retreating inside, she closes the window and moves to the couch. Epitaphe for an Erraunt Knighte catches her eye. She left it on the coffee table earlier. Poetry isn’t really her thing, but something about the book calls to her. Was Seifer reading it the day he died? Is this the last thing he touched before his fatal plunge down to the rocks?
Taking a seat, she picks it up and flips through the pages, finds one he dog-eared. Two lines are underscored in pencil, the paper nearly torn from the force of his strokes.
He woulde not yelde, he woulde not bende
A begger’s deth be not his ende