PROLOGUE
The jagged, rocky coastline spills into the ocean as if it’s breaking apart. Trees stud the cliffs sweeping downward to the water’s edge, the striated patterns of the slate bedrock crafted through centuries of pounding waves and rough weather. Gray-black clouds bruise the sky, throwing shadows over the sea.
I hike through the wet grass, navigating around rocks. My breath comes in fast puffs of white. I’ve only been in Maine for seven days, having arrived near the end of September, but already I feel winter approaching.
After crossing a sedge-covered path, I stop at the base of a sharply graded hill. A crumbling stone wall climbs up the hill and across the edge of the cliff. Just beyond it, the Castille Lighthouse sits overlooking the ocean like an eagle in an aerie.
The conical tower, dating to 1843, is made of white stone and topped with an octagonal iron lantern. I can easily imagine the light appearing on a dark horizon, a harbinger to weary sailors of firm ground; hot, comforting food, and tranquil sleep.
A two-story keeper’s cottage hugs the side of the tower, making the structure resemble an oddly shaped teapot. A modern addition is attached to the western side of the cottage, probably an expansion of the living quarters.
I’ve heard a man lives in the lighthouse, a caretaker of the grounds and the nautical history display. Likely a grizzled old fisherman who’s lived in Castille his whole life and enjoys chatting about his youthful days lobstering on the open seas.
A cold morning wind rustles across the valley, plastering my thin suede trench coat to my body. Shivering, I hitch my satchel strap higher on my shoulder and push my hands into my pockets. The coat and my heeled leather boots have served me well during cool Southern California days, but soon enough I’ll have to exchange them for a fleece-lined parka and insulated snow boots.
I trudge up the hill, my head bent. My boots slip on the damp, mossy rocks and grass. The sharp wind loosens my ponytail and lashes strands of damp red hair around my face.
Finally I reach the crest, which flattens into a grassy plateau stretching toward the cliff’s edge. My heart hammers. Clearly I’ve underestimated both my utter lack of fitness and the steep grade of the hill.
As I catch my breath, I peer at the lighthouse close-up. The surrounding grounds are tidy and well-kept, with a half-moon flagstone terrace and flower boxes. A smaller building housing a nautical history exhibit is set a distance from the lighthouse.
The stone wall borders the cliff like a rim on a dinner plate. The rough-hewn granite rocks, stacked like firewood and weathered from the sea, have been there since the lighthouse was built.
According to the locksmith who’d installed deadbolts in the doors of my inherited old house, no one knows how the stone wall came to be the keeper of secrets.
But it is. For decades, the notches between the stones have held countless scraps of paper—everything from index cards to thick pieces of vellum to old receipts—on which visitors have scrawled secrets.
Some might be innocuous enough: I stole a piece of my kid’s Halloween candy. I only dated him because I liked his dog. I don’t recycle. Others are likely more sinister in tone: I want to leave my husband. I’m in love with my best friend’s wife. I lost my scholarship and can’t tell my parents.
Everyone leaves secrets in the wall, the locksmith had told me. Townspeople, tourists, visitors from neighboring towns.
Now, as a new resident of Castille, I suppose I should carry out the ritual myself.
But what secret to leave? I’m not sure I have any left. All of my secrets have been exposed and thrown around with malicious gossip.
I had an affair with a married man.
I destroyed my career.
I’m scared my life is ruined.
I don’t recognize myself anymore.
I sit on a wooden bench and pull my organizer and a pen from my satchel.
What is a secret, really? Something meant to be kept unknown from others. But how many people need to know before it’s no longer a secret? Is it only a secret if we keep it entirely to ourselves, not divulging it to anyone or anything? Not even a pile of old rocks?
I open the planner to the note pages in the back and scribble the only secret I can think of, then tear the sheet of paper out. Feeling a bit silly, I walk to the edge of the cliff. I fold the paper into a tiny square and kneel to shove it deep between two boulders in the wall.
I straighten and stand. I don’t feel much different, not as if I’m suddenly unburdened or lighter. But maybe as my secret disintegrates into the old stones, it will have less hold on me. Maybe it will even change.
As I turn back toward the path, I glance up at the lighthouse tower. Behind the smoky glass surrounding the tower on all sides, the indistinct figure of a man stands.
Though his image is blurred, his stance is wide and secure, his arms appearing crossed over his chest. He’s still as a rock. I can’t see his face, but I have a strange, sudden sense that he’s watching me.
My heart thumps. A shiver races down my spine. I grab my satchel from the bench and hurry away, almost running down the path in my haste to escape.
Fiamma.
She opens like a canvas sail in his mind. A bird spreading wings of red and gold. Razor-sharp feathers, golden talons. Fierce, untrusting, wild.
Fucking perfect.
She’s not from here. She’s wearing a thin trench coat and stylish leather boots that are no match for the coastal Maine weather. Her profile is sharp—straight nose, firm jaw, long, slender throat. The wind whips her shoulder-length hair around her face. It’s dark red, the color of rust, copper, the powdered dust of burnt sienna.
Fiamma.
She’s the first spark in years. The one who will set his world on fire.