The Lantern Price and the Little Door

The gift shop sat at the bottom of the lighthouse, with its back against the tower wall. Mika had worked there for exactly four days. She knew where the postcards lived, and she knew how to wrap a glass boat in paper. She did not yet know why the shop had such a small door.

It stood behind the postcard stand. The door was no higher than her shoulder, and it was painted the same blue as the sea. A brass key hung from a hook beside it. When she asked about it on her first day, the owner just laughed.

"That door goes to the old oil cellar," the owner said. "Behind it, there is a short stair up to the tower. It was made for the lamp boys, a hundred years ago. We keep it shut because only a child can use it."

Mirza, who had worked in the shop for two summers, told her the rest. "She also keeps notes in there," he whispered. "Nobody knows what kind. Don't ask."

On Friday morning, the owner left for the mainland to collect a delivery. She gave them a long list and a short speech. "The new lanterns arrive today. They go on the front shelf, and each one costs fourteen pounds. Mika, you make the price tags. Mirza, you are in charge of the till. Please do not burn the place down."

The lanterns were beautiful. They were made of wood and coloured glass. Each one had a tiny white tower painted by hand. Mika unpacked them carefully, one by one. She lined them up on the front shelf, where the morning light made the glass glow like sweets.

Then she sat at the counter with a pen and a pile of little paper tags. She wrote the price on the first one and then the second. She felt proud of her neat numbers. The shop was quiet, the sea was blue, and nothing could go wrong on a day like this.

At noon, a tour group came in from the tower path. They were laughing and tired from the wind, and they wanted something to take home. Mirza stood at the till, and Mika wrapped. Within an hour, six of the new lanterns left the shelf. The people thanked her warmly.

At two o'clock, the shop was empty again. Mirza opened the till and started to count. He counted once and frowned. He counted again, slowly, and his frown became a long silence. Then he walked over to the shelf and picked up one of the remaining tags.

"Mika," he said. "Come here, please."

She came over, wiping her hands on her apron. Mirza held the tag out to her. On the little piece of paper, in her own neat handwriting, it said four pounds.

"It should be fourteen," Mirza said. "You forgot the one."

Mika stared at the number. Her stomach felt like a stone. Then she looked at the shelf and counted the gaps. "Six lanterns," she whispered. "I sold six lanterns for four pounds each. That is sixty pounds the shop has lost."

"Don't panic yet," said Mirza. He looked at the clock. "The tour group climbed the tower at half past one. The tour is forty-five minutes. Then they walk straight down the cliff path to their boat."

"So they are still up there."

"Almost certainly." Mirza picked up a pen. "Write down what you remember. Who bought a lantern? What did they look like?"

Mika closed her eyes. She saw a woman with a yellow scarf and a young man with a camera. She saw a boy holding a toy dog. She saw two women in matching blue coats, and a tall older man with a walking stick. She wrote them all down. The list was clear.

There was only one problem. The tower stairs were narrow, with a rope across the bottom. Mirza was the only person who could stand by the till. Mika would need to climb two hundred steps to meet the group. The guide would stop her at the rope.

Mika turned slowly and looked at the little blue door.

"No," said Mirza at once. "The owner said never. She said it twice."

"She said it is only for children," Mika said. "I am small. I am nearly a child." She took the brass key off the hook. "The stair goes to the first balcony. The group stops there for photographs. Mirza, I will be back in ten minutes."

She had to kneel to go in. The door opened onto a dark, cold space that smelled of old oil and dust. A narrow stone stair curled upward in front of her. She climbed with her hands on the walls. Somewhere above, she heard voices.

At the top, a second little door opened into the light. Mika crawled out onto the balcony and stood up. Twelve people turned to stare at her. The guide opened his mouth, but she was faster.

"Excuse me," she said. "I am so sorry. I work in the shop at the bottom. I made a big mistake with the price of the lanterns, and I need to tell you."

Nobody said anything. Then the woman with the yellow scarf started to laugh. "You came up through the wall to tell us the price of a lantern?"

"Yes," Mika said. "It should be fourteen pounds, not four. If you can pay the difference at the shop, I will be very grateful. If you cannot, you can give the lantern back and I will return your money."

She waited for the shouting. Instead, the boy with the toy dog said, "She was brave." The others laughed and nodded.

Back in the shop, the line was long, and everyone was friendly. Five of the people paid the ten extra pounds with a smile. They said the lanterns were worth it. Nobody had ever climbed a wall to be honest with them before. The woman with the yellow scarf gave Mika an extra coin for her courage.

The last buyer was the tall man with the walking stick. He turned the lantern in his hands and sighed. "It is lovely," he said. "But I am a retired man, and fourteen pounds is more than I planned. May I return it?"

"Of course," said Mika. She gave him his four pounds. Mirza put the lantern back on the shelf. She wrote a brand new tag with a clear, careful fourteen. She checked it three times.

The owner returned at five o'clock with a van full of boxes. She listened to the whole story with her arms crossed. At the end, she looked at the little blue door. Then she looked at the key in Mika's hand.

"The money is all here," she said slowly. "And the door was not locked for half an hour."

"I am sorry," Mika said. "I will put a note inside."

"A note?" said the owner.

Mirza coughed. "She means in the door. The notes."

The owner smiled for the first time that day. She took the key and opened the little door wide. Inside, on the first step, lay a huge heap of folded paper. Hundreds of pieces, yellow and soft with age. "Thirty years of my own mistakes," she said. "Every one of them goes in here. Now you have your first."

Mika wrote four short lines, folded the paper twice and pushed it carefully onto the pile. Then she looked up. "Is there still room?"

"Barely," said the owner. "But yours will keep the others company."

Mirza leaned against the postcard stand. "So that is why the door is so small," he said. "It was never too small for people. It was too small for all her mistakes."