In addition to the mermaid, The Cliff House had a surprising amount of ocean lore and fantasy art. Hazel also found a fair amount of pirate history, items from colonial times and a very boring explanation of how tourism in Bermuda affected the main port in the city around the late nineteenth century. The museum was nearly silent save for her mother’s loud conversation at the front desk, so it caught her by surprise when another teen rounded a corner and walked directly into her.

They fell on the floor just next to a shelf full of china- a close call. A tall, muscular boy with friendly green eyes got up quickly, extending a hand and apologizing profusely. He seemed very energetic and held a book with pictures of underwater ruins on the cover almost hidden behind his back. A lanyard identified him as “Tristan: Interpreter/Tour Guide” and in pen on the back, which was visible as the ID card spun, “Professional Alpaca.”

A nervous thought formed in the back of her mind- was this the guy who’d been texting her with questions about sea creatures? “I usually get called to the front when there are visitors,” he explained, helping her up. “And you were so quiet…”

Hazel nodded. “You were pretty quiet too.” She tried not to be too obvious eyeing the book, but Tristan picked up on social cues fast.

“I’m not supposed to read on my shift but there’s nobody here most mornings,” he whispered. “Don’t tell Steve!” He motioned in the direction of the front desk.

Hazel gestured zipped lips and gave him a thumbs up. “So what were you… not reading about?” She asked politely.

Tristan’s eyes widened for a moment and he immediately cracked an awkward smile. Holding the book in both hands, obscuring the title and bending it horribly, he started to dismiss it as vaguely as possible until a loud crash from across the room interrupted him.

“What was that?” A loud voice immediately shot from the other room. Both Hazel and Tristan flinched. The mysterious book hit the floor.

“Wasn’t us- I’ll go check,” he answered almost instantly.

Hazel scooped up the book and followed about six feet behind as he darted through the maze to check every window, display case and light near the source of the sound. The chance it might be Octa was the first thing she’d considered, and she didn’t feel like hanging back to meet Steve when he was on edge, although his footsteps were rapidly closing in.

Eventually, out of shelves, Tristan and Hazel reached the bottom of a winding set of stairs- the tower. Steve and Mrs. Wilson caught up in the blink of an eye. “What was it?” Steve bellowed at Tristan, who was intentionally avoiding eye contact and inspecting every inch of a window that was obviously fine.

“I went through the collection but nothing downstairs was down,” he said, scratching at a crusty stain on the window frame. “Didn’t sound like it came from upstairs. Maybe it was the basement.”

Steve scowled. “Whadda ya mean ‘check the basement?’ If that was the basement I’d hear it way better out front and it’d sound like it was under us, kid!” Steve looked back at the shelves behind him, looking again for obvious damage. He strained his eyes and balled his hands into fists. “Show these people around; I’m gonna have to go through everything…”

Steve left, exasperated, to search for the source of the noise. Tristan pulled away from the window as he walked away, turning to face the new tour group. “This happens all the time,” he assured Mrs. Wilson. “Boss just never believes me.”

Hazel held out the book, having had a chance to peek at the title- Did Atlantis Really Sink? Minoan Influence in Rome, The Americas and the Pacific. Who wouldn’t be embarrassed to be caught with that? Within an instant it was undetectable in a pocket Hazel didn’t even see. Tristan was like a secret ninja.

The tour began. “We’re going to be skipping the main display room ‘til Steve figures out what that crash was, but that just means we start with the really fun part. This tower was built in 1798 when the Cobb family owned a lotta land around…” There were many stairs to climb, with very little to look at on the way up. Here and there, Tristan would point out a rock with a memorial engraving, explaining that before the formal memorial site became popular, the rocks would be thrown into the ocean and sometimes ended up in unexpected places, like stone buildings.

All the way up the winding stairs, they passed weathered names, occasional informational posters and a painting or two. Cold, gray stone and a sense of obsoleteness followed the group from the first step to the last, even as the tour speech ran on like an irrelevant radio talk show. To call it boring was an understatement, but it was good exercise.

“The view at the top is normally awesome,” Tristan explained, as a room hidden behind yellow tape just barely came into view. “But there’s some damage that won’t be repaired until later this week so the top floor is closed.” Hazel narrowed her eyes, meeting a nervous, forced smile while her mother calmly stared past the tape.