The lanterns went up at dusk, one for every house on Harbor Street. Mara counted them twice from the lighthouse steps. Forty-one. There should have been forty-two.
She knew which one was missing before she reached the bottom of the hill. The Pelletier house sat dark at the end of the row, its porch light off, its curtains drawn. Nobody on Harbor Street skipped the festival. Not even old Henri, who complained about it every year and then stayed up later than anyone.
Biscuit, her one-eyed cat, wound between her ankles and refused to go any farther. Mara took that as a bad sign. She also took the spare key from under the third flowerpot, because Henri had shown her where it was, and because somebody had to.