Chapter 6: Madeline

By the time we get back to the house, the wind’s picked up and the kitchen is already starting to smell like home. Or at least, someone’s home. Garlic, onion, and that rich, roasted tomato scent that always makes my stomach go a little traitorous.

Charlie tosses her coat over a hook by the door and immediately starts moving like she’s on autopilot—grabbing pans, flicking on burners, pulling a playlist up on her phone that starts with a Stevie Nicks song and segues into Haim. There’s something soothing about the way she moves in the kitchen, like she knows it by muscle memory. She hums along to the music, sways a little as she layers pasta and sauce, cheese and herbs, then repeats it all like a ritual.

“Wanna help?” she asks, tossing me a dishtowel and pointing toward a stack of zucchini that need slicing.

I nod, roll up my sleeves, and settle in beside her. It’s not long before we fall into that easy rhythm you only get when two people are working toward the same thing without really talking about it. She builds the lasagna. I prep the garlic bread. We both sneak cheese when we think the other one’s not looking.

At one point, she flicks flour at me and I make a scandalized face and she nearly drops the spatula from laughing so hard.

Eventually, both trays are tucked into the oven and the kitchen smells heavenly—comforting, rich, a little like victory.

Charlie glances at the time on the stove. “Okay. Almost seven. You’ve got time to shower and all that before the crew gets here, if you want.”

“Yeah,” I say, stretching my arms overhead and blinking the warmth from my eyes. “I probably smell like cheese and minor anxiety.”

She snorts. “Honestly, same. But you go. I’ll finish up here.”

I slip upstairs, the wooden floor creaking beneath my steps, and grab my shower caddy from where I left it. The hallway’s dim but warm, the light from my small lamp casting golden pools across the worn rug. I slip into a change of clothes—something soft and clean—and pad barefoot to the bathroom.

The moment I step inside, the air feels different. Like stepping into a secret.

The bathroom is warmer than the rest of the house, like it’s been soaking up heat all day and storing it just for me. The lighting is soft, mostly from a vintage sconce and a tiny shaded lamp on the counter. Everything’s wood and stone and steam-ready.

The clawfoot tub stands beneath the window like it belongs in a novel, with iron legs and enamel that gleams softly under the light. There’s a shelf nearby stocked with handmade soaps and lotions, some of them half-used and clearly communal. A woven rug under my feet keeps the chill away.

I set my things down, hang my towel, and start the water.

It takes a second, then rushes out strong and hot, steam billowing instantly and fogging the panes of the old window. I step in, pull the curtain, and just stand there for a minute, letting the water pour over my shoulders like it's rinsing off more than just the flour and road dust. It's rinsing off the nerves, the salt, the weight of arrival.

My muscles sigh.

I close my eyes and let myself pretend—just for a second—that this is my home. That I’ve lived here for years and know the sound of this house in the wind, that I’ve walked these cliffs a hundred times, that this isn’t all brand new and terrifying and beautiful.

A soft chime breaks the silence—ping—and I blink through the steam.

It’s my phone, face-up on the windowsill.

I wipe my hand dry on a towel and check it, heart speeding up automatically because—what if it’s bad news? I don’t know why that’s where my brain goes, but it always does.

It’s an email. From Samantha McNeil—the woman who interviewed me for the research institute.

Subject: Hope You Made It Safely!

Hi Madeline,

Just checking in to see if you arrived in Northhaven okay!

Your placement officially begins Tuesday. You’ll meet the crew down at the harbor that morning. The owner of SWMRI will be there to assess your experience and see where you’ll be most useful this season. He's a bit... rough at times, just to warn you.

Don’t stress—it’s a formality, just helps him get to know you better.

Enjoy the weekend and settle in!

See you soon,

—Sam

I stare at the screen, reading it twice.

Tuesday.

That’s two days from now.

The familiar twist of nerves coils low in my stomach. The owner’s going to assess me? What does that even mean? It feels like a pop quiz I didn’t know I was signed up for. I start running through everything I’ve ever known about whales, boats, coastal ecosystems, emergency protocols—like I’ll forget them all before morning.

But then I take a deep breath. And another.

I’m okay. I’m here. I’ve worked for this. This is what I came for.

I tuck my phone away, finish rinsing off, and step out into the warmth of the bathroom with my skin flushed and pink from the steam. I dry off quickly, pulling on the outfit I’d laid out: thick socks, worn jeans, a knit sweater that’s slightly too big but always makes me feel grounded. I rub some lotion into my hands, part my damp hair with my fingers, and take one last look at myself in the mirror.

You’ve got this, I tell myself. You’re not just visiting. You belong here.

I open the bathroom door—and laughter spills up the stairs.

It’s loud and real and layered—multiple voices, someone’s low chuckle, someone else’s bright cackle, a chair scraping back from the table, the clink of glass.

I hesitate at the top step, hand still on the knob, heart hammering a little.

They're here. The rest of the house.

The people I’ll be living with.

I tuck my hands into my sleeves, press my lips together, and start down the stairs.