Chapter nine #2
‘Some say he was too proud,’ Veronica continued. ‘Some say the family of the woman the letter was intended for would never have approved. Others say he believed she deserved better than a man married to the sea. Whatever the truth, the letter was never delivered.’
Marcus glanced at Rowan without meaning to.
Rowan was watching the lighthouse, his expression unreadable.
‘And long after they passed away, both heartbroken, when the weather changed,’ Veronica said, ‘when the winds screamed down the lane and the waves rose high enough to strike fear into the bravest sailors, people claimed they saw him here. Standing on these very steps. Waiting. Listening. Trying to find the courage he never found in life.’
She snapped off the torch.
The group gave a delighted murmur. One man muttered that he shouldn’t have let his wife talk him into this, which made several people laugh.
Atlas’s head lifted sharply at the sound, but this time he did not jump. He leaned into Rowan’s leg, body tense but controlled.
Rowan lowered his hand, resting it lightly against Atlas’s neck. ‘Good. Steady.’
Marcus held his breath.
Atlas’s ears twitched. His eyes scanned the group. Then, slowly, he sat.
It was not graceful. It was not relaxed. But it was a sit.
A proper sit.
Marcus felt a burst of pride so sharp it almost hurt.
Rowan looked down at Atlas as if he did not quite trust what he was seeing.
‘Well,’ Marcus whispered, because if he did not say something he might do something ridiculous like clap. ‘Look at him.’
Rowan’s throat moved. ‘Yes.’
The word was barely there.
Veronica switched the torch back on. ‘Our final stop is just beyond the harbour wall. Torches on while we walk, please. And do stay close. Seagull Bay is beautiful at night, but she has a habit of making people look over their shoulders.’
The group began to move again, but Rowan did not.
Marcus waited with him.
Atlas remained seated for another second, then rose when Rowan gave the smallest movement of the lead.
‘That was more than small progress,’ Marcus said.
Rowan looked at him then, and the guardedness in his eyes had thinned, just enough for Marcus to see what sat behind it.
Hope.
Fear.
And something that looked painfully close to grief.
‘He used to be able to sit through anything,’ Rowan said.
Marcus stayed still.
The others were walking ahead now, their torches bobbing in the dusk. Veronica’s voice floated back to them, bright and dramatic, but for once Marcus did not hurry to keep up.
‘Noise, crowds, shouting, sirens, doors slamming, radios, vehicles.’ Rowan looked down at Atlas. ‘He was steady. That was his gift. He could go into chaos and stay focused.’
Marcus kept his voice soft. ‘Because he trusted you.’
Rowan’s jaw tightened.
For a moment, Marcus thought he had said the wrong thing.
Then Rowan nodded once.
‘Yes.’ He drew in a slow breath. ‘That was the problem.’
Marcus’s chest tightened. ‘Rowan—’
‘I gave him a command.’ Rowan’s voice was low, controlled, but Marcus could hear the strain beneath it now. ‘He did exactly what I trained him to do. Exactly what I asked of him.’
Atlas shifted closer to Rowan’s leg.
Rowan’s hand moved over the dog’s head, slow and familiar.
‘There was a situation during our last placement. A building search. It should have been routine.’ He gave a humourless breath. ‘They always say that afterwards, don’t they? Routine. Controlled. Assessed. As if those words mean anything once everything goes wrong.’
Marcus did not speak.
He barely breathed.
‘There was a noise,’ Rowan continued. ‘Metal. Glass. People shouting. Too many things at once. I couldn’t see him for a few seconds.’ His hand stilled on Atlas’s fur. ‘Only a few seconds.’
Marcus understood then that a few seconds could be a lifetime.
Rowan looked towards the harbour, but Marcus did not think he was seeing it.
‘When I got to him, he was still trying to work. Still trying to obey the last thing I’d told him.’ His voice roughened. ‘That’s what stays with me. Not the noise. Not the mess. Not the reports afterwards. Him looking at me as if he was waiting for the next command.’
Marcus’s throat felt thick.
‘Was he hurt?’ he asked quietly.
Rowan’s eyes closed for one brief moment.
‘Not in the way people mean when they ask that question.’
The answer landed heavily between them.
Not broken bones, then. Or not only that.
Something deeper. Something harder to show. Harder to explain. Harder for people to understand.
Marcus looked down at Atlas, at the proud set of his head, the alert ears, the constant watchfulness. He thought of Rowan saying Atlas had once gone into chaos and stayed focused. He thought of the dog sitting through Veronica’s story while tourists laughed and torches flashed around him.
‘He’s still trying,’ Marcus said.
Rowan’s gaze snapped to his.
Marcus held it, though his heart had started beating too hard. ‘Not to be what he was. I don’t mean that. I just mean... he’s still trying to trust the world again.’
Rowan swallowed.
For a long moment, Marcus thought he might pull away. Close down. Turn brisk and practical and pretend he had not just handed Marcus something raw.
Instead, Rowan looked at Atlas.
‘And I don’t know how to ask that of him.’
‘Maybe you don’t ask,’ Marcus said. ‘Maybe you just stand beside him while he chooses it.’
Rowan’s eyes lifted back to his.
Behind them, the sea moved against the harbour wall with a low, steady hush. Ahead, Veronica’s group had paused, their torches gathered like fireflies in the dark.
Rowan’s expression shifted, almost imperceptibly.
‘You make things sound simple.’
Marcus gave a small smile. ‘That’s because I’m very wise.’
‘That’s not the word I would have chosen.’
‘Charming?’
‘Persistent.’
Marcus laughed softly. ‘I’ll take it.’
Atlas nudged Rowan’s hand, impatient now, as if reminding them that standing in the middle of the lane discussing emotional devastation was not technically part of the tour.
Rowan looked down at him, and something tender crossed his face.
‘Come on, then,’ he murmured. ‘Let’s finish it.’
They started after the group, not rushing, not quite touching, but close enough that Marcus could feel the warmth of Rowan beside him.
At the harbour wall, Veronica’s torch flared again, and the tourists turned towards her, hungry for the next ghost, the next shiver, the next tragic story wrapped safely in legend.
Marcus looked at Rowan instead.
He had the unsettling feeling that the most haunting thing he would hear that night had nothing to do with lighthouse keepers, lost letters, or lanterns burning in upstairs windows.
It was the quiet grief of a man who still blamed himself for being trusted.
And the loyal dog walking beside him, brave enough to try again.