The path was uphill and slippery with sand, so we had to pay attention to each step we took. Maybe it was just the everything-looks-creepier-at-night factor, but it seemed to me as if the surrounding shrubs and tall grasses had doubled in size since we’d come down to the beach. I was getting breathless from the climb—gym class, Morgan, get some—so I was really glad when I saw the lights of the cottage up ahead. There was something odd, though . . . “Didn’t the Seahorse used to be on the other side of the path?” I asked, panting. “No luv, we’re farther up,” Colin replied. He was so fit from playing football (meaning soccer) and rugby that he could have climbed a sheer rock face without breaking a sweat. “That’s the Tip of the Iceberg cottage, where Mr. McAlister lives. Ye hardly notice it in the day because of all the shrubbery, but when the lights are on it jumps out at ye.” He was right about that. At the moment the Tip of the Iceberg was impossible to miss. Unlike the Seahorse, it was spare and clean in design, with circular porthole windows in every wall, like you’d see in the side of a ship.
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