Part 53: Day Three- Page 52
Hermetian posted:
Might as well go to the lighthouse and see if we can put that mirror where it's supposed to go.
Also see if we can smudge it up a bit.
Yeah, you all want the oil on the mirror, but you didn't say which one!
So I'm gonna put oil on all of them and you're gonna sit there and read it.
>open tin
(first taking the old tin)
You open the old tin, revealing a smelly quantity of fish oil.
>put calipers in coat
You slip the calipers into the pocket of your trenchcoat.
>take mirror 1
Taken.
>smear oil onto mirror 1
(first getting some fish oil)
You dip your finger in and come up with a small glob of pungent fish oil.
You rub a small bit of fish oil onto the reflective surface of the mirror, leaving a barely perceptible smear.
The cold wind cuts through your clothes, chilling you to the bone.
Just hang on, Michael! I'm do'n something!
>put mirror 1 in coat
You slip the mirror labeled #1 into the pocket of your trenchcoat.
>take mirror 2
Taken.
>smear oil on mirror 2
(first getting some fish oil)
You dip your finger in and come up with a small glob of pungent fish oil.
You rub a small bit of fish oil onto the reflective surface of the mirror, leaving a barely perceptible smear.
This is important!
This MEANS something!
>put mirror 2 in coat
You slip the mirror labeled #2 into the pocket of your trenchcoat.
>take mirror 3
Taken.
In the distance, you can hear the lonesome keening of a train whistle drifting on the wind. You look to the west in time to see the train go by, rolling southwest past the mill toward less melancholy climes.
>smear oil onto mirror 3
(first getting some fish oil)
You dip your finger in and come up with a small glob of pungent fish oil.
You rub a small bit of fish oil onto the reflective surface of the mirror, leaving a barely perceptible smear.
>put mirror 3 into coat
You slip the mirror labeled #3 into the pocket of your trenchcoat.
Almost done, Husband!
Hang on! Hang on!
>take mirror 4
Taken.
>put oil onto mirror 4
(the old tin onto the mirror labeled #4)
Putting things on the mirror labeled #4 would achieve nothing.
What, seriously?
>smear oil onto mirror 4
(first getting some fish oil)
You dip your finger in and come up with a small glob of pungent fish oil.
You rub a small bit of fish oil onto the reflective surface of the mirror, leaving a barely perceptible smear.
>put mirror 4 into coat
You slip the mirror labeled #4 into the pocket of your trenchcoat.
>close tin
You close the old tin.
>put tin in coat
You slip the old tin into the pocket of your trenchcoat.
There! OK, HUSBAND! READY OR NOT, HERE I COME!
>e
The road heads out over a narrow breakwater jutting out into the ocean.
Breakwater
>ne
At the Foot of the Lighthouse
The great bronze door of the lighthouse stands slightly ajar, revealing a narrow rectangle of blackness within.
The cold wind cuts through your clothes, chilling you to the bone.
Oh! Seems like Michael has opened the door for us!
Makes me wonder why Miranda got this bronze key.
>look
At the Foot of the Lighthouse
You stand in a circular clearing among the stones, surrounded on nearly every side by the sea. Before you looms the ancient, massive lighthouse, a vertiginous pillar of pale brick jabbing defiantly up at the sky. The road from the southwest ends here, although it looks as though you could pick your way down the rocks to the southeast, around the structure's base.
The great bronze door of the lighthouse stands slightly ajar, revealing a narrow rectangle of blackness within.
If you look, you'll notice there's nothing that says which direction the light house is.
I don't know if that means anything, but I thought I would point it out.
>east
Bottom of the Lighthouse
The sound of the ocean is muffled behind the thick cinderblock walls, and the air is damp and heavy. You can almost feel the weight of two hundred feet of hoary old whitewashed brick pressing down on you from above. To the west, a narrow strip of dim light marks the exit. Cracked concrete steps lead up.
>up
You climb the winding stairs in a gradual spiral around the inner circumference of the tower, and finally emerge, breathless, at the top.
Michael? Are you up here?
Top of the Lighthouse
The stairs give onto a wide, circular chamber surrounded by windows. The glass is old and streaked with grime, but you still have to catch your breath at the magnificence of the view. In one direction, the dying heath and the stunted cluster of buildings that is Anchorhead; in the other, the ocean like a vast, undulating blanket.
Sitting in the middle of the room is what looks like a swivel mount of some kind, although nothing is mounted on it now. Looking up, you see that it rests directly below a large, hexagonal skylight.
Oh, this bodes well.
>look at mount
The mounting is ring-shaped, about three feet in diameter, and is designed to allow whatever is to be mounted on it to turn freely in all directions. It was probably originally intended to hold the beacon when the lighthouse was still in operation.
>look at skylight
That big, churning hole in the sky is perfectly framed by the hexagonal skylight.
Hmmm... Mike isn't here. Maybe we passed him, somehow.
>down
You hastily descend the winding steps to the bottom.
Bottom of the Lighthouse
There is a faint scuffing noise from the shadows behind you -- before you can turn around, something slams into the back of your head with brutal force. Sparks go off in front of your eyes, and you fall to the cool concrete floor with the world reeling under you. As you kneel there, dazed and struggling not to pass out, your assailant walks slowly around you. He pauses, as if wondering whether or not to finish you off.
Terror and nausea wash over you in alternating waves. You are too weak to look up and see his face, but you recognize his shoes easily enough. After all, you helped him pick them out not three weeks ago.
More footsteps come down the stairs, and you sense a number of men standing around you. "We'll take care of her, Your Holiness," rasps an old, weathered voice. Rough hands start to drag you to your feet.
"No," says Michael, and the hands pause.
"Your Holiness, she has seen too much," protests the raspy voice. "She must be killed."
"That won't be necessary," Michael says. "Put her somewhere out of the way, where she can't get into any more trouble. I'll deal with her myself... after the Blessed Event."
The horror and pain are too much; the darkness overwhelms you. You try to catch a glimpse of your husband's face as the men drag you away, but in your clouding vision all you can see are a pair of burning, red-rimmed eyes...
...next up, a little of what we missed...