He stands.
A charge of lightning rips across the sky.
The ship tips, pulled down with the weight of the wave, rocking Nik headfirst into the deep.
4
“NIK!”
I scream his name as loudly as I can. The boat rights itself, but there’s no sign of him along the portside. Only wet wood and sea foam where he once was.
“NIK!” I wail again and let go of the wheel, passing Iker and sprinting toward the stairs to the main deck.
My mind moves faster than my wind-battered body, a string of thoughts running together in the murk as I dash forward, not caring or paying attention to the wind, the rain, the course, or even Iker.
No.
You CANNOT have him, you wicked sea.
Your mermaids will have to take someone else.
Nik belongs to me.
“Evie!” Iker yells. “Don’t! Come back! It’s not—”
“NIK!” I lunge down the stairs. The deck boards are slick under my boots, but I race to the spot where Nik fell. The wind whips my curls about my face as I squint through the rain and night at the churning sea below. “NIK!”
I yell his name over and over, my voice becoming raw and weak, to the point where it’s barely a whisper. Finally, we reach the royal dock. I drop onto the wood before Iker and the coal man even have time to anchor. I scan the horizon for any sign of a long arm, a flop of hair, or a piece of boot.
Iker heaves himself over the railing and onto the dock next to me, leaving the coal man to free the rest of the passengers from the captain’s quarters. “Evie,” he says, his voice much calmer than it should be—the sea captain in him overruling his bloodline. “Look there.” He points to just this side of the horizon, where the stars have returned, unhidden by the clouds. “The storm’s almost over. Nik’s a strong swimmer.”
I nod, my hopes pinned on the reason in his eyes. “But we still need to find him,” I say. Everything my father taught me about the sea kicks in, and I point to a spot in the churning waves. “We were about there.” I move my outstretched fingers in a sloping line in the direction of the wind, following the line until it lands on the cove side of Havnestad Beach. “Which means he will most likely be . . . there.”
I don’t look to Iker for confirmation—I just take off down the dock, tear onto the sand, and race across the shoreline in that direction.
“Nik!” I choke, my voice still raspy and hopeless against the wind. Iker is on my heels for a few strides and then ahead of me in a few more.
Havnestad Cove is part jutting rock, part silty beach. There’s a rolling W shape to it, and a few large boulders form footstep islands toward its center, before the waters become too deep. In good weather, it’s a beautiful escape from the rest of the harbor. In bad weather, it’s a hurricane in a birdbath.
Iker points to the biggest island—Picnic Rock. “I’m going there to see what I can.”
The wind is already calming, the rain tapering off. Even the lightning seems to be behind us, disappearing with the storm into the mountains. The swiftness of such a powerful storm confounds me. The magic in my blood prickles at the strangeness, but I have no time to think of things beyond this world.
I tilt my chin toward a mass of rocks farther along the shore, the point that makes the W by jutting deep into the middle of the cove. It’s just tall enough that it blinds us from the remainder of the beach.
“I’ll climb up there and take a look on the other side.”
“Wait!” Iker says, his face weary. For once, he doesn’t seem to know what to say. He reaches his hand through my hair and pulls me close. My heart is pounding.
“Iker, we ca—” The words are whispers on my tongue—that we can’t delay, that he shouldn’t slow me down—when he tips my chin up and his lips are on mine.
I breathe him in, long and deep, and for a moment we’re not on a gritty beach, soaked to the bone, searching for Nik. We’re somewhere far from here. A place where class, title—none of that matters. Somewhere that surely doesn’t exist outside of this instant. Another trick of the gods.
He pulls back, and I’m stunned still, staring into his cool eyes.
“Be careful,” he says.
Shaken back to reality, I pick up my waterlogged skirts and run along the coastline to the wall of stone. The swift clouds have almost reached their end, their tail nearly directly above the cove entrance. Starry night reigns above the massive sea beyond, calm waters with it. My eyes are constantly scanning the waves, looking for any sign of Nik.
But there’s nothing.
I steal a glance back at Iker. He’s already made it to Picnic Rock, hoisting himself up. I breathe a sigh of relief that the stormy churn didn’t wash him away and turn back to the approaching boulder just steps ahead.
I’ve climbed this giant rock hundreds of times since childhood, as have most of Havnestad’s youth. I know the placement of the fingerholds with my eyes shut; my boots automatically drift to the perfect places to wedge themselves before taking another step up. The rain has all but stopped now, and the crag of stone is mostly damp, not slick.
I lug myself on top and scan the waters again, squinting at every irregularity, struggling to use the limited moonlight to make out what is yet another coastal rock and what might be Nik. I close my eyes, dread piling at my feet as I pivot toward the hidden portion of the cove. When my eyes spring open, I have to blink again to make sure my mind isn’t playing tricks. A flash of bright-white fabric swims on the distant sandy line.
My heart swells with hope. I scramble down the rock and onto the other side of the beach. My feet work overtime to propel my body forward as the wet sand swallows my boots with each step.
Lightning radiates over the mountains, illuminating the sky for a flash—long enough for my brain to register the outline of Nik’s body against the sand.
And the form of a girl hovering over him.
“NIK!” I yell, my voice coming back to me.
In response comes Iker’s baritone from behind, “Evie!”
But I don’t wait for him. I don’t even turn in Iker’s direction, keeping my eyes only on Nik and the girl leaning over him, her body still mostly submerged. Without another stroke of lightning, I can’t make out much more than her long, long hair—so long it drapes over the white of Nik’s shirt.
The girl’s head tilts up in the moonlight as if she’s just now noticed me running toward her at full speed. The lightning returns in a burst, and though my legs keep moving, my heart skids to a stop.
Large blue eyes. Butter-blond curls. Creamy flush of skin.
It’s the girl. The one from the porthole.
Anna?
No, it can’t be.
Recognition seems to fill the girl’s eyes, and her features skip from contented calm to a pure rush of panic. Panic that sends her straight into motion. A gust of wind pushes her hair over the curve of her shoulder as she takes one hasty and last glance at Nik’s face before heaving herself fully into the water.
“Wait!” I yell as best I can, but it’s useless with her ears deep under the waves.
In less than a breath, I get to Nik and crash to the sand next to him, pulling his chest to mine, my ear to his mouth. A rush of air from his lips touches my cheek as Iker yells both our names from behind.
Nik’s lungs work in great rasps, but they work. His eyes are closed, but he seems to be conscious.
“Evie . . .”
“I’m here, Nik. I’m here.”
A ghost of a smile touches his lips. “Evie . . . keep singing, Evie.”
Confused, I begin correcting him. “Nik, I’m not—I don’t . . .”
My mouth goes dry. I scan the waters for any sign of the girl. The girl who looks like Anna all grown up. The girl who must like to sing the way my friend did as a child.
At first, there’s still nothing. Just ever-calming waves and starry night, backlit by the summer solstice moon.
But then, just at the edge of the cove,
I see it.
Blond hair gone silver under the clear moon, peeking up for a swift moment before the girl dives back underwater. A trail of sea spray flies up in her wake—and with it comes something more.
The perfect outline of a tail fin.
FOUR YEARS BEFORE
The sun was out, as fierce and as hot as possible in Havnestad. It wasn’t as fierce or hot as it is in other places, but memorable to those in the mild-mannered Øresund Kingdoms, much more accustomed to Mother Nature’s cold shoulder than her steamy smile, though it was the height of summer.
Two girls, one with waves of blond, one with curls of black, pranced along the shoreline. Their voices lifted toward the naked June sun, carried aloft by a deep wind from within the strait.
A boy, already as tall as a man, trailed them, piccolo to his lips, writing a tune for the girls’ merry lyrics.
Despite the sun, the main beach was clear, the majority of Havnestad hauling fish and hunting whales at sea, the bustle of a modern economy weathering a boom. They would flood the shores with catch and tales soon enough, returning that night for the days-long Lithasblot festival and the midsummer full moon. For now, the whole stretch of sand belonged to the two girls and their boy.
The waves, heavy and exuberant, churned in the strong wind, tossing themselves at the girls’ ankles—bare without anyone there to correct them. The boy’s boots were on—his feet were gangly and hairy in a way they hadn’t been last summer, and he didn’t want the girls to see. He stayed on dry sand, just beyond the waves’ reach, coal-dark eyes pinned on the girls’ delicate toes, which also seemed to have changed in a year, but only maybe in the way he couldn’t look away from the flash of skin beneath their skirts.
They went on like that until the girls suddenly stopped—singing, prancing, everything—so suddenly that the boy bumped into the raven-curled girl’s back. She laughed it off, but both girls’ eyes were locked on the sea. Watching the whitecaps with wonder, adventure flashing in their eyes.
The one with the blond waves and ocean-blue eyes spoke first. “She’s angry—foaming at the mouth.”
“Are you calling the sea a rabid dog?” asked the raven-haired one. “She wouldn’t like that much.”
“I suppose not.”
A black brow pitched above eyes blue like midnight. “Touch the sandbar and return to shore?” She smiled, lips pinned in a slight twist. “Dare you.”
The blond girl considered it, chewing on her lip, reading the waves. Finally, in answer, she began unlacing her dress’s bodice.
The boy sat on the sand behind the girls, playing the piccolo so they’d think he was distracted, not paying an inch of attention to them as they stripped to their petticoats. Even in surreptitious glances, their shoulders and arms were things of beauty, smooth as the marble statues his mother had commissioned for the tulip garden. So beautiful they made his cheeks hot. He knew he should not look—it wasn’t right, not at the age they were getting to be—but still, he watched.
The blond girl watched back, her eyes finding him, cheeks pinking as her clothes fell to the sand. The raven-curled girl thwacked her on the shoulder, dark eyes big and knowing. No secrets between friends, except those in plain sight.
When the girls were ready, they stood, dresses neatly folded, and pointed slim fingers toward the sea.
On the count of three, they were gone.
5
I DON’T BELIEVE IN MERMAIDS. I DON’T. THEY ARE JUST an abomination ancients like Tante Hansa dream up to keep children from doing especially dim-witted things. If you touch that hot pot . . . if you eat that whole cake . . . if you take that candy . . . the mermaids will steal you away. We’re superstitious, children of the sea, but we’re not gullible.
Mermaids don’t exist.
But I know what I saw. I know who I saw.
Nik, for his part, doesn’t seem to remember much. He thinks I rescued him. He thinks I sang to him.
It’s been more than a day, and I still haven’t told him that he’s lost his mind if he thinks that’s what happened. Mostly because I don’t have an answer to what really did. None of it makes any sense.
No, I don’t believe in mermaids.
But I do have a strong belief in friendship—more than anything in this world.
I believed it with Anna.
And I believe it with Nik.
Iker—I don’t know what to think of Iker, though he’s standing right before me on the royal dock, borrowed crew packing a borrowed ship behind him.
“Come—the sea calls.” Iker brushes away a few of my curls and cups his hand about my ear as if to amplify the sea’s ancient voice. He leans down, his cheek brushing right against mine, his lips warm next to my skin as he whispers, “Evelynnnnn.”
His enthusiasm makes my heart skip, and I wish I could go, but Father is leaving this morning as well, and he hates the idea of me being aboard a different ship while he is at sea too. He’s superstitious to a fault, even if it’s just for a quick trip up the Jutland and back before Sankt Hans Aften and the opening of the Lithasblot festival. Iker is enchanted by sightings of a large whale—one that would feed Rigeby Bay for weeks in both meals and trade. I hate it, but I know Iker must go—the seafaring season waits for no one, not even a prince.
“I’m so very sorry to disappoint,” I say. And I am. This time with him has been strangely magical, even if all we’ve done is sit with Nik, telling stories to make him smile as he recovers.
“Too late, the sea is already disappointed—your skills during the storm were top-notch. You’re a sailor she needs upon her waves.” His eyes flash, the curve of his mouth serious. Vulnerable, even, as strange as that is. But I don’t—I can’t—let myself think that it’s he who needs me and not the sea. Reality doesn’t work that way.
“The sea will have to wait.”
“And so will I.” He bends down to kiss me then, and though it’s the second time, it’s still a shock—a deep dive into ice-capped waters.
“You don’t have to go,” I say when we part, my voice small and slurred.
“What’s that?” he says, pretending not to have heard. “You don’t have to stay?”
He grabs my hand in both of his and begins to tug me toward the ship, full of crew waiting for his instruction. “Splendid, let’s get going—you steer; I’ll sip portvin and keep an eye out for the whale.”
I laugh and let him tug me a little farther up the gangplank than I should. In my heart, I don’t believe in Father’s superstitions. And yet I have superstitions of my own. Nik is still recovering. I can’t leave. What if he took a turn for the worse while I was gone?
No, I must stay.
Iker will come back. He says he will.
I know he will.
Something changed that night on the steamer. More during the storm than in the huddled moments before—we’d seen each other in our element. The salt of the sea, the both of us. And despite choosing to stay, it is the very last thing I want Nik to know about. Most especially the kissing. But it shouldn’t be too hard to keep a secret from my best friend—after all, I’ve been keeping my magic from Nik his whole life.
I step down from the gangplank and onto the dock. With a wave and a shout to his crew, Iker is off, taking our secret leagues away as I tuck it deep within me. I watch as he leaves the harbor, standing there just long enough to glimpse him turning back, my hand ready to wave. And then I set out for one more good-bye and my daily duties, Tante Hansa’s amethyst heavy in my pocket.
No, I don’t believe in mermaids. But I am willing to believe in whatever it is that happens when I kiss the amethyst to the bow of my father’s ship before an expedition. What happens when I cast the spell I created using centuries-old magical wisdom.
It’s only been a few weeks, but already it has worked, bringing in far more catch than by this time last year. I smile when I see the fishermen celebrating on the docks now. After four years of suffering through the Tørhed, a barrenness so severe the town’s fishing flee
t decreased by half, these hearty cheers are welcome sounds. I haven’t heard them since before Anna’s death; the grumbles from tired fishermen coming ashore to restock on salted meat and limes have filled our ears instead.
After three years of the Tørhed, King Asger knew that praying to the gods was no longer enough. Havnestad had to find a new way to stay afloat. The royal steamship was ordered, and any man not at sea was put to work building the boat from late summer to first frost, shaping wood, and fitting sheets of metal to the smokestack.
But even that ship, hammered together by the strength of this fine town, was not enough to keep all of Havnestad’s bellies fed. The steamer was a one-time measure. Even the crown can’t afford a new ship every year.
I had to do something.
So, as I’ve done since the summer of Anna’s death, I stole into Tante Hansa’s room while she was off playing her weekly turn of whist down at Fru Agnata’s shack. Hansa’s bedroom is a stifling place, with the fire lit every night, even in the summer. Dried roses line the walls in a ring as high as she can reach—the hundreds of them a testament to her belief that their scent and beauty are superior to the tulips so popular throughout the Øresund Kingdoms.
Beneath the line of roses, in a corner opposite the flue, there’s a sea chest draped in shadow and an ancient moose hide. Inside is everything the Øldenburgs fear, all they have banished by law: gemstones, age-stained books, cobalt bottles sealed with pinches of cork and wax. The very same items Tante Hansa used on me when I resurfaced in Nik’s arms four years ago, Anna nowhere to be found. When I’d been in bed, nearly dead myself, watched over by Hansa and spoon-fed elixirs tasting of perfume and age. And aged they certainly are, passed down in shadow generations for centuries. Someday they will belong to me, I suppose.
That day I took a purple stone—one so small that I hoped it would escape Hansa’s notice, but big enough to have an impact. I snagged one of the tattered books with crumbling spines, too, fishing it out from where it was packed under a cake of beeswax and a marble mortar and pestle.
Sea Witch Page 3
