Chapter Seven

CHAPTER SEVEN

As the rest of the town was slowly waking up, a lone figure traipsed across the swirling grasslands of The Bluff.

Edward Chorley had cropped blonde hair, his mop of fringe hid a whirling scar where, not too long ago, he’d come off second best to a piece of driftwood brandished by a certain Beatrice Beecham. His eyes were ocean blue and glittered with mischief. His right ear poked out more than his left, as though he’d slept on it while it was folded over once too often. His nose was broad, his build stocky, but he was best known for his mean streak, which ran deep and wide.

Edward lived with his mother in a fisherman’s cottage on Harbinger Street, a ten-minute walk from anywhere decent in the town, and renowned for the ever-present reek of gutted fish from the market. For Edward, there was no better place than the lighthouse on The Bluff.

To those who knew the town of old, the place was called Monument Point, named after the lowly piece of granite commemorating the cr