“What is it that you would want, Margrethe?”
She thought for a moment. “I would like to read, and to study, the way we always did. I’d like to be a scholar. But I know my place is in the world. Imagine what our kingdom might be, if we succeed, if I could unite the North and South again. I can do that. I have the power to do that, to make peace among us.”
He sat back, and she could see that she had moved him to hope for something he’d not dared to hope for before. “You are not unconvincing,” he said. “I regret now teaching you rhetoric.”
“So we must write a letter to the Southern king and wait for his response. Yes?”
“Yes.”
“You can send a messenger, can’t you? Someone you trust?”
He nodded. “Yes, I can arrange that without too much problem. What will be trickier is getting you there safely.”
“I will be fine,” she said, with a bit of false bravado, spurred by her excitement. “I can ride a horse and wear a disguise as well as anyone.”
He laughed. “You are so young, and so confident.” And she detected a hint of nostalgia, even envy in his voice. “I remember having that kind of confidence, when I was a young man.”
“Maybe this will give you a reason to be confident again, Gregor,” she said.
“I hope so, dear girl.”
She smiled, and a new kind of energy coursed through her. For the first time, the prophecy surrounding her birth felt like something that was a part of her.
Who she was.
MARGRETHE FELT LIKE a new person as she stepped into the hallway, overwhelmed by what she had just decided.
She would go to the Southern kingdom to marry Prince Christopher. Her father would acknowledge the union, and there would be peace. One kingdom. An end to this war.
She was woozy suddenly, and she stopped, leaned against the wall.
She felt so strongly that this was meant to be, it was as if she and he were already married. The prophecies, the mermaid, Gregor’s own past, the convent, the prince arriving battered and nearly drowned on the shore, there at the end of the world, the way he’d looked at her as they stood together in the garden … all of it came together then, so perfectly, and she knew that her life had a purpose beyond herself.
It was what the nuns felt, as they rose in the middle of the night for Matins.
Just then, Pieter turned the corner, having come from the banquet hall. He was with Lens and another guardsman.
“Margrethe?” he asked, rushing to her side. “Are you feeling unwell?”
“No,” she said. She cleared her throat and tried to collect herself.
“You are so flushed.”
“I am just a bit tired, Pieter. I was going to get some air.”
“You were with Gregor, yes?” he said, and his look was not friendly, she realized.
“Yes,” she said. “We were just going over some Greek.”
Pieter gave her a tight smile. “I have not known any other lady to be so schooled.”
She stared at him, astonished at his insolence.
“It was my mother’s wish,” she said. “As you well know.”
“Forgive me, my lady,” he said, bowing. “I mean you no dishonor.”
She swept past him, down the corridor, her heart racing in her chest.
She thought of her mother—pictured her, dark-haired, smiling, soft. Rarely did Margrethe allow herself the luxury of thinking about her mother anymore, but now a feeling of longing passed over her, and she missed her with all the rawness she’d felt at the time of her death.
She stopped in the corridor, overcome. She’d stopped visiting her mother’s quarters shortly after her death, two years earlier, around the time the king had banned all mention or memory of the queen in the castle, except for her perfectly maintained chambers, which no one but the maids were supposed to enter. It had been easier for everyone that way.
Now, steeled by her new sense of purpose, she found a torch and walked determinedly to the former queen’s apartments: through the great hall, past guardsmen who watched her and turned to whisper as she went by, past her father’s offices, into the south wing, quiet as a grave. She walked more slowly, remembering rumors that the south wing was haunted, and then she shook them away. These were the rooms of her beloved mother, that was all. But when she caught a glimpse of her reflection in some polished wood, she started and cried out. The tall, slim woman with long dark hair, her skin pale in the flickering light of her torch. It was herself, of course, but she had not realized how much she’d become the image of her mother.
She paused to calm her racing heart before pushing open the heavy door and entering the outer chamber of her mother’s rooms, the parlor where the queen’s friends used to spend hours talking together, listening to her stories, working on embroidery, playing games, and drinking wine. Now Margrethe walked the length of the parlor, smiling as she remembered all the time she’d spent here as a child, sitting at her mother’s side and watching her laughing face, her graceful hands punctuating her speech or deftly moving a needle through fabric. Her hands had seemed magical to Margrethe then, able to conjure whole scenes out of almost nothing at all.
As she walked through to her mother’s private bedroom, it was as if a veil of grief dropped down over Margrethe, and she remembered the morning her mother refused to wake up. She walked to that ancient bed now, touching the same linens her mother had slept on that last day, the same pillow her mother’s head had rested on. Remembering how, after hearing her own nurse whispering to another servant, she’d run through the castle and into the queen’s bedroom, where the king stood over her and the physician was packing up his bags and there was her mother, never more beautiful, her dark hair spread across the pillow, peacefully asleep in her bed. Margrethe had never before seen her father overcome by grief, and that had made everything even more terrible. The thought that this impermeable man could be brought down by a simple stroke of fate. No one had ever known the cause of death. And to this day Margrethe did not understand why everyone—her nurse, her father, the servants—had made her leave the room before she could reach her mother’s bed to say good-bye. She felt a fresh stab of grief as she remembered.
She stretched out on the bed, in the last place she’d seen her mother, imagining she could still feel the indent of her mother’s body. Closing her eyes, feeling an exhaustion move through her, she drifted to sleep and dreamed of her mother deep in the sea, her skin covered with diamonds and her legs curving together into one long silver tail. Waiting, like an angel, for Margrethe to join her.
“ARE YOU FEELING better, Margrethe?” her father asked as she entered the great hall that evening.
“Yes, Sire,” she said, curtsying to him.
The king stood and raised a glass to her. Her heart broke a bit as she sat next to him, and she prayed that her plan would work, that he would, in the end, agree with her and think she had been right.
She looked at Gregor, sitting next to another of her father’s close advisers, who was also watching her intently and talking quietly to her old tutor. Pieter was standing off to the side, looking from her to Gregor. She breathed in sharply. So much was going on, under the surface, that she’d never seen before.
After the meal, the court musicians played, and some of the men and women rose to dance. Gregor came and sat next to her as she watched.
“I have something for you,” she said, smiling over at him as if they were speaking of the day’s hunt.
“Already?”
She pulled a folded letter from her sleeve and casually dropped it into his lap. “Yes,” she said. “If you think it looks appropriate, maybe we can send it right away.”
“Wonderful,” he said. “We must be very careful in these next days to act as if nothing out of the ordinary is happening.”
“Oh, Gregor, I am well used to that, as you know.”
He smiled. “Good. It is in God’s hands now.”
BACK IN THE silence of her room, l
ate that night, Margrethe sent her ladies away. She wanted to savor this moment, the way she felt now. If her plan failed, she might never feel this full of possibility again. But right now, anything at all could happen. She walked to the window, threw it open, stared out at the snow and the stars. Wondered if he was staring at the same stars right then. Thinking of her.
She lay back on her bed. She closed her eyes and tried to conjure him up before her. The dark room in the convent where he lay wounded. His skin shimmering in the pale firelight. His yellow-brown eyes, like weeds.
She sighed, relaxed into the mattress.
She imagined him in the garden, kissing not only her hand but her hair, her eyelids, her cheeks. His lips pressing against her, the snow falling around them. The two of them slipping into the water. Her legs covered in scales, her perfect breasts exposed to the air as she leaned over him.
An ache moved through her. The idea was shocking, exciting.
Being in the water wearing nothing but a long, sleek silver tail that flared from her lower belly and curved down to a fin. Holding him in her arms, his skin against her skin, his mouth open and warm and soft.
She turned onto her belly, pushed herself into the bed. She could smell the sea, his skin, feel his palm sliding down her back. Keeping her legs pressed together, she rubbed against the sheets. A deep ache extended from the center of her body. Until she broke open and everything seemed to slip into dream.
She sat up then, covered her mouth. Horrified at what she had done. And then she knelt down by the side of the bed and prayed for forgiveness.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The Mermaid
WHEN LENIA OPENED HER EYES, AN OLD WOMAN stood over her, peering down. The sun was bright behind the woman’s wrinkled face.
“Are you hurt?” the woman asked. “Can you sit up?”
Lenia opened her mouth to speak, but she had no words, no tongue. Under her back, she felt rocks cutting her skin. Was she dreaming? The air on her skin felt strange, like nothing she’d ever felt before. She was … cold. She had never been cold in her life.
“Are you from the court?”
Lenia just blinked up at the woman.
“Are you visiting here? Can you sit up?”
The woman leaned down and put her hand on Lenia’s arm. It felt like an iron on her skin. Lenia sat up, automatically, backing away in pain. The sand seemed to move under her, scraping at her bare skin.
And then she felt the strangest thing—the sensation of rocks and earth at the end of her body, where her tail should be.
She looked down and gasped.
Legs. She had human legs.
Wildly, she looked back up at the woman, at the world around her, and everything hit her. Off to the side, leaning against a rock, was the bottle the potion had been in.
The sun was so bright. It had not been this bright before. It burned against her eyes, made everything seem like it could turn to flame at any minute.
From a distance came more voices, and the woman called to them. “Help us!” she said. “There is a woman here who’s been hurt.”
She looked back at Lenia. “Here, cover yourself, dear. They are soldiers from the king’s castle.” She took off the fabric wrapped around her shoulders and handed it to Lenia. After Lenia did not respond, the woman knelt down and carefully wrapped the shawl around Lenia’s torso, tying it, to cover her breasts.
“What a strange necklace you have,” she said. “It looks very rich.”
To Lenia’s surprise, the fabric felt soothing on her skin. She remembered how Margrethe had been covered in furs to ward off the cold.
“Can you stand up?”
Lenia looked from the woman to her own body.
She looked down again, at her legs. Her smooth, flat skin, her arched feet, her curved calves, her knees, and the thighs that met at the center of her body. Everything hurt. She felt everything. Her scales and skin had been stripped away, and now she was raw blood and bone. A clam or a mussel that had lost its shell.
“You’re shaking,” the woman said, crouching next to Lenia. “What happened to you?”
The woman was carrying a basket with bread in it. The smell of yeast, of egg, was so strong it almost made Lenia gag. She could smell the cloth of the woman’s dress. The wet salt of the sea, the perfume of flowers in the breeze. The smells swirled around her, sliding in and out of each other. This new body was so weak, she could do nothing to stop the assault on it.
Footsteps were approaching. Two human men, dressed from head to toe in matching green and gold uniforms, appeared in front of her.
“I found her lying here,” the woman explained. “She seems confused. I think she might have wandered down from the castle. She must be wealthy—look at that necklace.”
The men peered at her, nodding. “The king and queen have some visitors from the East. She might be one of them,” the darker of the two men said. He spoke loudly to Lenia, overpronouncing every word. “Can you stand?”
“I’d love to have been at whatever party she was at last night,” the other one said, more coarsely. His eyes swept up her legs, over her center, her torso. “My God, I’ve never seen a woman more beautiful.”
The old woman coughed disapprovingly. “Perhaps you might lend her your jacket.”
“Of course,” the first soldier said, slipping off his jacket and handing it to the woman to hold. He turned to Lenia. “I’m just going to put my arm around you to help you up, okay?”
Lenia nodded.
“So you understand me but you cannot speak?” he asked.
She nodded again.
“I think she has been hurt,” the old woman said. “I think something terrible has happened to this girl. You must get her to the castle so someone can tend to her.”
“We will take her to the head of the king’s household.”
The two soldiers positioned themselves on either side of Lenia and lifted her from the ground. Her legs uncurled, stretched out, and it was as if blades were shooting through her. She tried moving one foot in front of the other and it was excruciating, just as the sea witch had promised.
Water dripped down her cheeks, and she realized she was crying. An image flashed before her through the haze of pain: Margrethe, with tears on her face as the two of them sat on the shore.
Slowly, the soldiers helped Lenia into the jacket, and they were surprised at how awkward she was, as if she did not understand where to put her arms. Then they half led and half carried her to the castle. She tried putting her feet down, stumbling and then walking as they moved alongside her, their hands under her arms. The sand cut into her bare feet. It was all a blur now—the pain, the smells, the blinding light, the sounds moving toward her from all directions. She concentrated on the movement of her own body, trying to get used to the feeling of being wide open, all blood and muscle and bone.
The castle was quiet now, and the paths leading up to it were empty. Just a few guards paced around in front.
“It is early. They might still be at Mass,” the woman said.
Just then, a beautiful auburn-haired girl in a white dress stepped outside, holding a stringed, wooden instrument and a bow in one hand. She stopped and stared down at the scene in front of her. “And who is this?” she asked, in a high, lilting voice. Behind her, a few other girls hovered quietly, all also holding instruments.
The old woman bowed deeply to the girl.
“Princess Katrina,” one of the soldiers said, also bowing. “We have come across this woman on the beach. We thought she might be a friend of your family’s?”
“Why do you talk of her as if she is not there?”
“She doesn’t seem to be able to speak, Your Highness. We think she is wounded.”
“How strange,” Katrina said, walking right up to Lenia and looking into her face. “You cannot speak?”
Lenia stared at the girl, frightened. She could see the prince in her features—the same lips and green-yellow eyes. She shook her head.
&nb
sp; “Can you write?”
Lenia shook her head again.
Katrina’s eyes dropped to Lenia’s neck. She visibly started. “How—” Katrina reached out her hand and touched Lenia’s necklace, her fingertips grazing Lenia’s skin, tickling her. “Where did you get this necklace? I know it.”
Lenia willed her thoughts into the air. Because I was meant to be here, with him. Because I found your treasures at the bottom of the sea.
Katrina looked back up at Lenia, and they stood like that, watching each other. For a moment, Lenia wondered if the girl had understood her.
“Do you know my family?” Katrina asked, finally. “Are you some relation? You look familiar somehow.”
“She was not here with the other guests?” one of the soldiers asked.
“I have not seen her before,” Katrina said. “Not here, anyway. I wonder if I have met her at another court, though. Does she not seem familiar?” She turned, asking the question of her three ladies standing behind her. At that cue, they streamed onto the steps, surrounding her.
“Oh yes, she does,” one of them said. “I might have met her once. I’m quite sure I have, actually, when I was traveling in the East.” She smiled at Katrina, blinking her long lashes.
Katrina reached out again to Lenia, running her fingertip along the gold of her necklace.
“Does she need help?” another lady asked.
“Yes,” Katrina said, with a nod of her head. She turned and signaled to the servant. “Put her in the room next to mine. Pauline, you will need to take one of the outer apartments for now.” The long-lashed girl sighed loudly as Katrina turned back to Lenia. “Now let’s get you dressed properly, and maybe someone can figure out where you came from.”
The old woman who’d found Lenia slipped away, bowing all the while.
“How interesting,” Katrina said then, not acknowledging the old woman in any way but turning back to the door, “to have someone new here. Everything lately has been so boring.”
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