The Light Keeper's Legacy (A Chloe Ellefson Mystery) by Kathleen Ernst Page A

leading into the lantern room. How had women done this in long skirts?
    The lantern room was nine-sided, with only a narrow walkway surrounding the reproduction Fresnel lens. Chloe made another cerebral jotting: Study the mechanics of light mechanisms before any lighthouse junkies show up for a tour.
    She edged around the light so she could stand at the northern-most window. The view was spectacular. A million stars glittered in the sky. The silhouettes of trees showed black against the paler midnight tones of the lake and sky.
    The modern Pottawatomie light blinked in the eastern sky, offering automated guidance. And some kind of boat was in the channel. Chloe squinted. Not as big as a freighter, but definitely bigger than your average motorboat. Was it in Wisconsin waters? Across the invisible line into Michigan? She squinted, letting the boat’s bright lights blur in her vision, imagining a sloop or steamer instead—as Emily would have seen.
    She stood right here , Chloe thought. She liked that notion, even though she knew Emily probably didn’t have much time to stand idle and appreciate the night.
    “Good-night,” Chloe said to whomever might be listening. Then she backed carefully down the stairs, and got ready for bed.
    She dreamed of laughter again. Children’s laughter. More than one child, this time. And this time, she was sure she’d come awake before the laughter faded into the silence of night.

Eleven: October, 1873
    Emily woke and saw at once that the light needed tending. The bed she shared with William faced north; she knew what the light should look like, shining on the honeysuckle bushes on the edge of the bluff. She eased from the bed and tiptoed to the cradle. In the moonlight she saw her infant, Jane, sleeping on her back, one thumb in her mouth. Her dream of bringing children and their laughter and games and joy to Pottawatomie was coming true. Emily blew the baby a silent kiss, slipped on her shoes, crept from the room, and lit the lantern kept always ready.
    After deeming that whale oil was too expensive for the Great Lakes, the U.S. Lighthouse Service had decreed that tenders use lard instead, hauled smelly and cheap from the Chicago stockyards. She and William always kept a kettle of rendered lard on the back of the second-story stove. I’d like to see one of those officials manage that, Emily thought. Lard congealed quickly. On cold nights she and William made endless trips up the steep stairs to the tower with buckets of hot fat in hand. She’d hemmed her nightdress high so she wouldn’t trip while navigating the ladder-like steps with lantern and fuel.
    Now she added wood to the stove, filled a pail with liquid fat, and climbed carefully to the tower. The light was burning, but not well. She replaced viscous lard with fresh, and adjusted the vents to improve circulation. There, now. That was better.
    I should go down, Emily thought. She’d need to feed Jane before dawn, and she had a full day ahead. Still she paused. The view was spectacular, and she never tired of drinking it in. Above the light’s beam, a million stars glittered in the sky. The silhouettes of trees showed black against the paler midnight tones of the lake and sky.
    And—thanks to her—the channel was safe for any schooner captain making for Green Bay. It was a privilege to guard the channel, but an enormous responsibility as well.
    Emily smiled. Her husband and daughter slept peacefully below, and she had friends nearby. Spending time with Ragna was a special pleasure, but Emily knew all the village women. They called on her when someone was ill or ready to deliver a child. Emily taught school for their children, too. She loved seeing the sons and daughters of fishermen—Yankee, Irish, German, Scandinavian—troop from the woods on schooldays. She had set up a schoolroom in the lighthouse cellar.
    Emily took one last look at the night. Sometimes she thought her heart might simply burst with