At the fork in the road, Andrew slowed the car. To the left, according to the neat sign, Broken Harbor Business District and Harbor. To the right, Coastal Road and Rowan Lighthouse.

"House first?" he asked quietly.

Lily nodded. "Yes, please." She rolled her window down and leaned forward, like a child, eager for her first glimpse of the ocean.

He turned north. Within a mile, the ocean became visible on their right. The road rolled lightly over hills and around curves, running parallel to the shoreline. The ground was thick with prairie grasses, strewn with rocks. An occasional scraggly bush broke the plain, and here and there a stand of tall pines braved the ocean wind. A little later the top of the new lighthouse came into view. It was bright white and clean, thoroughly modern.

A few more hills and curves brought the entire lighthouse into view. Beyond it, perhaps five hundred yards further on, stood the ruin of the old stone lighthouse and the Octagon House.

The grass near the new lighthouse was neatly trimmed, and there was a small concrete parking pad at its base, empty. Beyond that, though, the prairie grass grew wild around the ruins. And the house, Andrew decided, was pretty much in ruins.

A low stone wall encircled the house, creating a wide yard on all sides. No, Andrew realized, not encircled; the wall had corners, eight of them, just like the house. The driveway wound through an opening; there was an old steel gate sagging on its hinges to one side. He drove through and parked the car on the broken concrete driveway. "Well," he said slowly, "it's abandoned, all right."

The house was far bigger than he'd thought from the picture. Each of the eight sides, he guessed, was more than twenty feet long. It stood two stories high, with soaring tall windows on both floors. There was a wide stone porch around the ground floor; its wood railing was broken in a dozen places. A wide widow's walk circled the second floor; its white paint had chipped and faded to gray, and its ornate railing was also broken in several places. The gray stones of the walls looked weathered but solid. Every window was covered with dull, weathered plywood. The double-width front door was similarly secured. There was no apparent way to get inside, or even to get a glimpse of the interior.

At the north edge of the lawn, forming a part of the low wall that circled the yard, stood the remnants of the old lighthouse. There was a door in the base, but it too was covered with aged plywood. The tower was higher than the pointed roof of the house. The top of the lighthouse was jagged and blackened, scorched by lightening. In the tall grass below, Andrew could see large pieces of stone left where they had fallen.

It crossed his mind that a man with a good rifle at the top of that tower could hold the entire area for a very long time.

Lily got out of the car. Andrew scrambled out his side. "Be careful here, this ground is rough," he began. Then he tripped and nearly fell.

At his feet was a 'For Sale' sign, rusted, dented, and faded with age. He shook his head. Woman's intuition. He never should have doubted it. "Wait a minute," he called. "Let me get this number."

Andrew got out his notebook and scrawled down the name and number from the sign. When he looked up, Lily was gone.

He snapped around. She hadn't gone far; she was over the wall and making her way clumsily through the high grass towards the sea.

Growling, he followed her. "Damn it, Lily …"

By the time he caught up with her, she was at the edge of the grass. To the south, the slope to the ocean grew steadily higher, breaking below the modern lighthouse into an actual cliff. To the north, the slope grew gentler, rolling down to a small beach on a small cove. There was a wooden structure there, the remains of an octagonal boat house. Where they stood, directly behind the house, the hill was steep but climbable.

Before them, the Atlantic Ocean stretched uninterrupted to England.

Lily stood and looked, absolutely motionless. The wind off the sea caressed her gently, tugging at her clothes, ruffling through her hair.

Andrew walked up behind her, slid his arms around her and their child. "Well, my lady," he said, softly and seriously, "is this the ocean you wanted?"

She wrapped her arms over his. "If you will be here with me, then it is."

"I will be with you always. And this shall be your ocean."

Their daughter wriggled and stretched in approval.

They drove back to the little town of Broken Harbor. There was only one diner; they went in and ordered lunch. Andrew called the real estate agent while they waited.

"Gary Barnes," the man said briskly.

"Hello. My name is Andrew Rowan. I'm interested in a property you have listed."

"Sure thing. Which property?"

"The house at Rowan Light."

There was a long pause. "Ahhhh … is this a joke? Marty, is that you?"

"It's not a joke," Andrew answered. "My wife and I were out looking at it, and I'd like to know more about it."

"The Octagon House, right?"

"Right. What's the asking price?"

The man named a price. It was less than half of what Andrew and Lily had already decided they were willing to pay, and a fraction of what the house would have been worth in New York. That wasn't necessarily a good thing; it probably meant that the interior was a disaster.

The realtor said, "You still with me, friend?"

"I'm still with you," Andrew assured him. "That price is negotiable, of course?"

"Of course. But listen, here's the thing. The house is a historical landmark. They won't let you tear it down until it falls down. So if you're looking at the land …"

"We want to restore the house and live in it."

"Ahhh." The man paused again, and Andrew could hear him wondering if this was a joke after all. "Rowan, huh? Are you any relation to the family?"

"Not that I know of. But of course it was the name that got my attention."

"Uh-huh. And, uh, do you think you can get the financing?"

"It'll be a cash deal."

Barnes' tone warmed considerably. "When would you like to see the house?"

"As soon as possible. When would be convenient for you?"

"For a cash deal on that house, you tell me when, I'll be there."

"This afternoon? We're in town now …"

"Where at?"

"Gertie's Diner."

"Did you order yet?"

"Yes."

"Not the chicken-fried steak, I hope."

"Uh … no."

"Okay. Everything else there is pretty good. Tell you what, you have your lunch and I'll find the flyer and meet you in half an hour. Sound good?"

"That would be fine."

"And tell Gertie your tab's on me."

Andrew grinned. "I will do that. Thank you."

Gary Barnes was a man of Andrew's age, and if he was surprised by Rowan's much younger and very pregnant wife, it didn't show. They were cash buyers on a house he'd been trying to sell for ten years. He wouldn't have cared if they were purple.

He paid their bill at the diner and climbed into the back seat of the car, a year-old Mercedes in perfect condition they'd bought two days before. While Andrew drove them out to the house, Barnes leaned over the seat and told them all about the Octagon House.

"Gilbert Rowan built the house in 1895," he said. "He had a smaller house there first, but they kept having children, so he built the Octagon House. He was very big in shipping and business. We're right at the tail end of the Gulf Stream here, you know. The water's as warm here as it is down in Virginia, in the US. Keeps our winters nice and mild, and keeps the port open year-round. Rowan was richer than God. Owned about half the town. He was the mayor for 20 years. The house was a showplace. All the big social events happened there. Then there were four bad storms in one year. The harbor filled with silt, and the big ships couldn't get in any more. Rowan paid to have the harbor dredged out of his own pocket. And it worked, until the next storm. Then it silted up again."

"Broken Harbor," Andrew said quietly.

Barnes nodded. "It used to be Fortunate Harbor. Rowan changed the name of the town. Anyhow, the shipping business all left, but the fishing business took off. Smaller boats, you know, they didn't have any trouble with the harbor, and the train lines were already here to take the catch inland. But Rowan didn't own any of that business. They held on a few more years, but once the kids were grown, Gilbert and his wife packed up and moved to Toronto. One of the boys kept the house, but he fell way behind on the taxes and the province took it. That was about 1960.

"It stood empty for a while, and then the Coast Guard took it over, had a post here. They used the house as barracks." Gary hesitated. "They, uh, they improved a lot of the infrastructure. Electrical, gas, things like that. But they didn't do much for the appearance."

Lily sighed. "Poor old lady."

"Yeah." Barnes swallowed. "I just figure I better tell you now, so you're not too disappointed. The house is sound as a pound, but … it's not beautiful."

Andrew reached across the seat and squeezed his wife's hand. "Go on."

"Well, then in the early 70's they dismantled the post and gave the house to the city. Like we had any use for it. We let the lighthouse keeper live in it. Statler, his name was. Nice old coot. He closed off most of the house, lived in the kitchen and what used to be the dining room. He never did anything about fixing the place up. Then in '74 the lighthouse got hit by lightning. Blew the whole top off. They built the new lighthouse, which was all automated. But the city kept Statler on as a sort of caretaker, let him stay at the house. Then in '83 he had a stroke, went into a nursing home and never came out. The house has been empty ever since."

Andrew steered onto Costal Road. "Why can't you find a buyer?"

Barnes hesitated. "Couple reasons," he finally said. "One, the house isn't in great shape. It needs windows, probably a roof, a furnace, a water heater. Two, it's a big old house sitting in the middle of nowhere. People who want that kind of house don't want to live way out here. And, uh, the people that have wanted to buy it can't get financed. There was one church group that turned out to be a cult, and there was a man who wanted to start an artists' colony, one who wanted to make it into condominiums …" He shook his head. "But also, you'll see when we get inside, it's a very … eccentric house."

"There are no square rooms," Lily guessed.

"Not a damn one in the whole house."

They stopped in the driveway. "Is it safe?" Andrew wondered, helping Lily out of the car.

"Safe?" Gary asked.

"Structurally sound," Rowan clarified. "Is it safe for her to go in?"

"Oh, oh. Yeah, it should be okay. The floors are all solid. The only thing is, there might be a few critters."

"Critters?"

"Well, we sealed the place up tight, keeps the kids and the vagrants out, but there might be coons or skunks or rats."

"I can cope," Lily assured the men.

"We'll have to go around to the kitchen, it's the only door that opens."

They made their way through the high grass to the side door. The door was covered with plywood as well, but it had been mounted with a hinge and secured with two padlocks. Barnes opened the plywood, then the inner door, and they stepped into the kitchen.

"I had them turn the power back on," Gary said. He threw the switch. "With the windows all blocked, you can't see anything."

The room was wedge-shaped, like a slice of pie with the pointed end flattened off, one bite missing. The outer wall was the width of one side wall of the house, over twenty feet. The inner wall was no more than eight feet wide. One long sidewall had pocket doors, standing open, which led to another room of the same shape. On the opposite side, there were open doors to a half-bath, to a pantry, and then an open space that had probably been the breakfast nook. On the short inner wall was a closed door. The room had more doors than walls.

The appliances and counters were all stainless steel. The formerly white linoleum floor – and every other surface – was thick with dirt. The walls, cupboards, windows, doors and doorframes were all painted a uniform color, a sickly yellow-beige, flat. The light fixtures were institutional.

The room was just plain ugly. Yet it was remarkably large, and well laid out in its irregular shape.

"They painted the woodwork," Andrew said, as a curse. He traced his fingers through his beard and contemplated that challenge.

"Poor old lady," Lily said again.

"Uh-huh," Barnes agreed quietly. "Lots of potential, but lots of work. Wait'll you see the main hall."

"Lead on," Andrew said.

Barnes went and opened the door on the short wall. "Wait there," he suggested. He went further beyond the door and switched on the lights. "Okay, now," he called.

Andrew and Lily stepped into the atrium.

There was, Andrew decided, no other word for it. The center of the house was a perfectly octagonal hall, open all the way to the roof. Two wide staircases followed the angles to the second floor, where a railed balcony formed the upper hall. To the left, the octagon stood open onto a wide living room. To the right, the main hallway and the front door. On other walls, other doors, other rooms. But the atrium, thirty feet high, twenty or more feet across, was breathtaking.

"Hell of a place for a Christmas tree," he murmured.

Lily nodded. "We're going to need more ornaments."

Barnes breathed deeply, as if he was finally assured that these buyers were not going to bolt. "Two half-baths on this floor," he reported, "two full baths on the second. Den, library, dining room, each one wedge – the same size as the kitchen. The living room is two wedges. Oh, and three fire places on this floor, plus one in the master suite upstairs."

"How many bedrooms?" Lily asked.

"How many do you need?" he teased gently.

"Depends on how many I have," she teased back.

Barnes grinned. "Five bedrooms, one wedge each. Master suite, same size as the living room. And then one kinda funny room that Rowan – the original Rowan – used for storage. It could be a bedroom, too, if you need it."

"We'll see," Andrew answered easily. "Can we look around?"

"Help yourself." Barnes took the hint and retreated to the kitchen.

"Eccentric." Lily smiled wryly and took his hand.

"Yes," he agreed. He looked at the industrial carpet that covered the ground floor wall-to-wall. It had been ugly monochrome when it was new; now it was worn black-gray in traffic patterns and filthy. There were, he was certain, beautiful hardwood floors under that carpet. "Miserable bastards."

"They painted all the woodwork," Lily pointed out.

Andrew looked around. The woodwork was wide and ornate around the windows and doors, crown and floor moldings. All of it was painted the same sick off-white as the kitchen. The walls were a flat, pale olive color. The Canadian Coast Guard had made an eccentric house incredibly ugly.

They walked slowly though the ground floor, still holding hands. Every room opened onto the main atrium, but every room also had pocket doors which opened onto the rooms on either side of it. The Rowans shared a look. Multiple escape routes. In addition to the front door and the kitchen door, the living room had French doors. From the outside they had seen the stone porch. The room, once the plywood was gone, probably had a spectacular view of the ocean.

They made their way up an angled staircase. It, too, was horribly carpeted, as was the upper landing. The two of them sighed as one at the abuse of antiquities. The landing was circled by doors, all of them closed. Andrew opened the nearest one and groped for the light switch. A bare bulb glared at them from the ceiling fixture.

The room, of course, was institutionally painted and carpeted. It was bigger than Control's living room in New York had been, but with the windows boarded up, it had the appearance of an irregularly-shaped cell. In the outer wall were two tall windows and a French door. It must open, Andrew realized, onto the widow's walk.

Without the plywood, the room would be light and airy – and have its own escape route.

He nodded to himself, caught Lily doing the same. They shared a small smile; they had grown accustomed to sharing the same thoughts. He took her hand and they walked to the next room.

As Barnes had said, there were five 'small' bedrooms. A sixth segment was divided between a huge full bathroom and a half-sized storage room. The seventh and eighth wedges, at the back of the house, made up the master suite. The room was massive, more than big enough for a bedroom set and a sitting room – and every bit as ugly as the rest of the house. Like the other bedrooms, it had tall windows and double doors onto the widow's walk. It also had a grand fireplace, empty, the bricks painted with the same flat institutional paint as the rest of the house, plywood covering the firebox.

Andrew closed his eyes for a moment and saw the room as it should have been: the warm hardwood floor with thick, inviting area rugs, the soft night breeze floating through white curtains, a deep loveseat in front of the crackling fire in the natural brick fireplace, he and Lily wrapped in each other's arms …

… while the children rumbled past on the widow's walk, running in and out of their private doors in a manic game of hide-and-seek, and roller skated around the massive atrium floor, and raced plastic saucer sleds down the staircases, and hurled rubber balls off the balcony at each other …

He laughed out loud.

"What?" Lily asked.

Andrew shook his head. "It will take ten years to restore this house, you know." The question of whether they would actually buy the house had passed, unspoken.

She shrugged. "You got anything better to do?"

"Well, I might think of a thing or two." He put his arms around her and kissed her deeply, in a manner that reminded both of them that before she had been a mother-to-be, she had been his lover.

"So many bedrooms to fill," Lily mused, her mouth smiling against his.

"At least we got a head start." He drew back, patted her belly fondly. "Shall we go make Gary's day?"