The lighthouse did not want to be lit, but Arthur Pendelton intended to light it anyway.
He woke with his face pressed against the sandbar, the taste of Thames silt thick on his tongue, the cold November water seeping through every seam of his coat. Above him, the lighthouse stood—decommissioned, rusted, its Fresnel lens shattered into a thousand glittering pieces that sparkled like a graveyard of bottles in the weak morning light. Arthur pushed himself up. His right knee screamed....
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