Every Ashworth who has guided Mount Coronet has had one season, once in a career, where a full party goes up and only one person comes down. It's always the guide.Marin Ashworth has survived three.She's told herself it's what happens to the best guide on the hardest mountain in the Washington Cascades - a hundred and thirty-seven years of Ashworths bringing clients up Coronet, and a record thin enough to call coincidence if nobody in Larkin actually said it out loud. Then Isla Renner walks into her shop asking for the one thing Marin should refuse: a memorial climb retracing the 1889 survey expedition that killed four men, made Marin's great-great-grandfather the town's first sole survivor, and started all of it.The family keeps a logbook. It behaves normally for years at a stretch - route notes, weather, client rosters, three generations of handwriting. Then, in the weeks before a black season, it doesn't. Entries in a hand nobody remembers writing. Pages damp when the book has been dry in a drawer. The same sentence, unfinished, across sixty years of different guides, always breaking off at the same word.As the ascent retraces 1889 pitch for pitch - a beacon that tests clean and then doesn't, a forecast that holds until it can't, a rope with wear it shouldn't have - Marin has to reckon with a possibility worse than bad luck: that the deaths were never happening to her. That survival isn't what her family has been doing on this mountain for five generations. It's a job, and it's her turn to finish it.Pinned at the same unfinished pitch that broke the original party, with the weather closing the way it did a hundred and thirty-seven years ago, Marin has to make the one call her license, her training, and eleven years of competence were built for - without being sure, anymore, that the call is hers to make.Something has been choosing an Ashworth every generation. This is the season it might not let her choose back.
