The letter had been filed under W, for weather, which was the first thing about it that was wrong.
Ines found it on her third morning on Pell, when the generator coughed out and she worked by the grey light from the archive's one window. The keeper's letters were bundled in string, forty-one of them, each stiff with old salt, each signed the same way: Yours, against the dark, T. Aske. She had read thirty-nine. They were about fog signals and tinned peaches and a gull he had named the Bishop.
The fortieth was dated 14 November 1974.
She checked it against the register twice. Thomas Aske had gone into the water on the eleventh. The coroner's notes were in the drawer behind her, and they did not hedge. The handwriting did not hedge either. It leaned hard to the right, the way it always had, as if the words were walking into wind.
It began with her name. Not Dear Sir, not To whom it may concern. Ines, in a dead man's hand, fifty years before she had come to read it.
Outside, the lamp room turned its blind eye toward the mainland, and the sea went on with its filing.