Sea Witch Rising

by Sarah Henning

  “Fœra, Runa.”

  40

  Runa

  DAWN COMES LIKE A CHAPTER ENDING—ONE PIECE resolved, the rest of the story still going.

  The clouds have gone, and the sun rises pink and promising, the sea a shimmering jewel beneath it, waters calm, glistening, at peace.

  But beyond the waters’ touch, much of Havnestad is a rubbish heap.

  The docks are destroyed, ships tangled together. They gape with wounds, their bellies scraped, some taking on water, soon to sink to the bottom of the harbor. The lowest roads have washed away, ancient cobblestones littering the shore while others have been swallowed out to sea. From the top of the rock wall, we can just barely see the vœrtshus and the attached shops—everything is yawning open, windows and doors, the sea cresting the sandbags and claiming them for its own.

  But the people are safe, the homes and shops up the hill untouched. Below, my people are safe too. For now—the immediate U-boat threat is gone, but more than that, Father’s war is over.

  And so is he.

  No one needs to deliver the news. I know it as a certainty within my bones, the magic tying us together shifted into something new within me. One day I may learn what happened, but with Alia’s voice still ringing in my ears, I feel at peace.

  The magical balance is still sorting itself out; the atmosphere here on land is weightier than before. What was dried up and near dead is flush with life again, finding its way into the sunlight.

  Behind me, Will places his hand on my shoulder. “Runa, it’s time.”

  We must go. Because dawn also brings something else—the danger of being discovered.

  In the new light we’re still fugitives.

  Witches.

  Thieves.

  Rebels.

  And for me—a murderer.

  The guards we dispatched last night will be regrouping, no greater mission for them than to catch us and make us pay. They don’t care about our motives, only what we did because of them.

  There’s a twinge in my heart as I think about Niklas—I placed judgment on him just like it’s being placed on my head, motives misunderstood, only the outcome visible. I have to live with that blood on my hands, just like I live with my failure to save Alia. But that won’t keep me from doing as much good as possible until the end.

  Alone for a moment as Sofie and Agnata scale the rock wall down to the waterlogged sand, I take Will’s hand. He turns to me, the toes of our boots touching. The pink light flatters him, erasing the exhaustion in his blue eyes.

  “Do you remember what you told me when you recruited me,” I whisper, “about what would happen if we failed?”

  Will raises his brows, picking through the memories of that morning Alia died and we stood in the countryside, edging around the sharper points of recognizing each other’s magic. “Something about how we’d be hunted by angry Germans before the Danes could banish us for witchcraft?”

  “Yes. That. Well, what happens now that we’ve succeeded?”

  “We do it all over again.”

  He grins, and I can’t help myself: I have to kiss him—quick and hard enough that he has to take a steadying step, nearly losing his balance on our sliver of rock. I grab hold of him, and once we’re both solid again, we laugh.

  “Will you two please come on?” Sofie whisper-shouts from yards away, clearly not wanting to face another round of guards because we’re found nuzzling in broad daylight.

  It doesn’t take much to climb down, and when we set foot on the black sands of the cove’s beach, the earth beneath us is soaked but solid. Will takes my hand again, and we slog through the sideways sands to the mouth of the cove, where Sofie is propping up the fallen historical marker as best she can against the boulders bracketing the entrance.

  We make a collective decision to leave Freyja and walk back—she’s so sodden with seawater that she likely won’t start, even with magic. We start up the sea lane, and toward the abandoned cabin in the woods below Øldenburg Castle.

  The little cottage watches us silently, its windows drooping as we pass. The scent of magic haunts this place, and though it’s only lived in my periphery, I almost feel at home here. In this place smaller than Katrine’s cabin, smaller than the bedroom I shared with my sisters, for sure. I crave the chance to linger and explore, to sit inside and let its walls tell me what they’ve seen. Hopefully it will still be standing when—if—I get the chance to return to Havnestad without a price on my head.

  The stairway carved of stone curves down to the lagoon below, melting hailstones crunching beneath our boots with each step. The switchbacks pile onto each other until we’ve made it down the side of the cliff and to the rough-hewn sand below, the beach packed and wet, the water still receding.

  “Oh, look!” Sofie says, pointing. “Please, God, let it be undamaged.”

  I glance up to see a little boat that somehow shimmied its way through the narrow mouth made between cliffs and lodged itself into the lagoon. This may be the best way to journey back to Katrine’s, the guards chasing us unlikely to be on the water with the condition of Havnestad’s docks.

  I’m reminded of our promise to remove the floating mines so the fishermen’s trade can flourish and Havnestad can survive without the profits from the U-boat sale. With a boat and our magic, we could begin that process on the way to safety.

  I take a step to run after them, but then my eyes snag on a gift even more amazing, and I freeze on the spot.

  Red flowers.

  They’re floating a few feet from me in the lagoon, but they are not of this place. They are something only Alia could produce.

  Hands shaking, I fish them out of the water. Tendrils of magic bleed off their prickly stems. I can’t believe I’m holding these. A piece of my sister, in my hands, her talent a tangible thing.

  Oh, Alia.

  I press the two fingers on my right hand together, our sign—one, Alia; two, Runa.

  There’s no me without her.

  “You aren’t taking flowers from another wizard, are you?” Will asks, his voice a near whisper. He’s trying to joke, but I know it’s only because he can see my face wavering between grief and joy.

  “Never.” My voice quivers, my chin wobbles, and then tears—real human tears—stream hot down my face.

  The release is both what I need and not entirely enough.

  My eyes flash to him as he places his steadying hands on my waist, waiting for what else I may say. He’s patient, and it takes me some time to gather the right words. “Alia. She brought these flowers to the sea witch as payment before she knew the cost would be her voice.” I draw in a long, shaking breath, the meaning of their appearance suddenly thick in my chest. “I think the sea witch returned these to me as a gift.”

  Will glances toward the girls, righting the boat and inspecting it for damage. “Why don’t you take a moment?”

  I nod, grateful I didn’t have to ask.

  Clutching the flowers to my chest, I strike back into the shadows of the cliff above. Between two boulders is the little cave I saw that first day when I came here to change, its doorway beckoning.

  The confines are small, dark. But they swell with magic. Near the entrance, I find a stub of a taper and light it. “Kveykva.”

  A flame erupts and the space reveals itself—a tiny haven stuffed full of books, bottles, jars, and a crate of oyster shells, toppled by the lagoon waters that visited during the storm. The magic here has the same signature as the little house above.

  The same signature as the flowers.

  This place was the sea witch’s. The house too. Before she became what she is. I don’t even know her name, but now I wish I did. Maybe someday I’ll learn it.

  “Alia, you would’ve loved this place,” I say both to the flowers and to no one at all. Fingertips drifting over the dusty contents.

  Flowers pressed against my chest, I bend over to scoop up the oyster shells and their spilled pearls—it doesn’t do to leave something of the se
a witch’s a mess. The sand shifts beneath the crate, and through a crevice in the rock, a book slips out onto the sand.

  The candlelight finds the title immediately. The Spliid Grimoire.

  The binding is different from the one at Katrine’s—crumbling with love and use. I lift the book and place it on a small table fashioned from rough wood and rocks. The book yawns open to a passage marked with the triton. Father’s symbol. Below it is the passage I’d found at Katrine’s, the one that gave me the chance to go home.

  The sea is forever defined by its tide, give and take the measure of its barter. In magic, as in life, the sea does not give its subjects lightly—payment is required, the value equivalent, no matter the ask. A shell, a fish, a pearl of the greatest brilliance—none can be taken without debt to be paid.

  We have paid dearly, Alia most of all. Father and Niklas too, despite their motivations.

  I set the candle on the table, the flowers, the book. The past, present, and future fuzzy behind my eyes.

  It’s then that I realize I can take both Alia and the sea witch with me into this new life. I pluck the petals gently from each flower and lay them along the open page in the grimoire, from spine to edge, Alia’s flowers touching every word.

  My sister and the sea witch with me. Encased in a reminder of who I am now—an heiress and keeper of magic as it still lives on this earth.

  “I’ll do you proud,” I say, to both of them, pressing the book to my heart as I step out of the cave and into the light—the past at my heels and the future laid out wide as far as the eye can see.

  I was a princess. A mermaid. A twin.

  I am a witch. A human. A rebel.

  And I have only just begun.

  Acknowledgments

  Sea Witch Rising, at its heart, is about the people behind the journey. There’s always a support network, and I’m so glad I get a chance to thank mine. Because though it’s my name on the cover, there’s a whole (fully sentient, non-polypi) army at my back, and I couldn’t have done this without them.

  First and foremost: This book would not be here without my readers. To everyone who loved Sea Witch—bought it, shared it, went to the library to check it out: thank you. Thank you for every Instagram post, Amazon review, and coo of “Ooooh, what a pretty cover!” in public. And thank you to the booksellers and librarians who got it into the hands of anyone who you thought would love it. All of it made a difference.

  To everyone who asked me if there would be more, thank you too. It was a privilege and a pleasure to return to Evie’s world. I loved coming back to her and exploring the sea witch’s point of view during the little mermaid’s big journey. I hope you enjoyed meeting the new characters as well—Runa and Will were so fun to write—and savored the flashbacks to Nik as much as I did.

  This book would not exist without the vision, guidance, and enthusiasm of my editor, Maria Barbo of Katherine Tegen Books. Maria, thank you so much for believing in me and believing in continuing Evie’s story.

  Thank you to Rachel Abrams, who totally got where I was trying to go; and Stephanie Guerdan, who worked so hard behind the scenes. To my copy editor, Maya Myers, thank you for your careful eye and thoughtful research on everything from 1914-era rearview mirrors to the origins of the term “face plant.” To the production editorial team: Emily Rader, Shona McCarthy, and Mark Rifkin, thank you for your support at the very end. And, of course, thank you to Katherine Tegen and the other wonderful booklovers at her imprint; EpicReads; and HarperCollins as a whole.

  Once again, I was floored by the incredible work of my cover artist, Anna Dittmann. Anna, I don’t know how you did it, but you captured my sisters in gorgeous, stunning detail. My books are better simply because of how you see the world in them. Thank you.

  To my agent, Whitney Ross of IGLA: you have been the most delightful partner through this process. Thank you for your guidance and thoughtful analysis of all things publishing. If I’ve made this bonkers year look easy, it’s only because I’ve got you in my corner.

  Also in my corner are my wonderful writer friends. Some are far-flung—Joy Callaway, Renée Ahdieh, Sarah Nicole Lemon, Kellye Garrett, Ricki Schultz, Zoraida Córdova, Dhonielle Clayton—but nevertheless wonderful and there when I need them.

  But this book in particular is one that was bolstered by those closest to home—my Kansas Writers team. It was they who held me up and made sure I was stocked with chocolate, LaCroix, and heart emojis while working on three books at once. Particularly, huge hugs and thank-yous to Rebecca Coffindaffer, Natalie Parker, Tessa Gratton, Megan Bannen, Adib Khorram (you’re in Missouri, but we still love you), and Julie Tollefson. Love to all of you and the rest of our ever-growing group.

  To my running buddies, but most especially Nicole Green, Sharah Davis, and Dorian Logan, for logging so many miles with me while I dove back into Evie’s world. And for keeping me calm when my plate was overflowing. The same to Randy Shemanski, though digitally.

  Thank you to my day job family for your understanding and pride. And to my “Bunco” moms, who coax me out of my writing cave once a month with wine and tales of hilarity (but surprisingly little Bunco).

  Also, I want to give a shout-out to the local businesses that support the writing community in #LFK, but especially to Danny Caine and The Raven Book Store for all the love; and to T. Loft, for buoying my creative efforts with green juice, protein balls, and natural light.

  And finally, to my family, thank you for, well, everything. Thank you to my parents, Craig and Mary Warren, for listening to me babble endlessly about all my projects—I’m sure that’s exactly how you expected to spend retirement—and for the pinch-hit babysitting that allowed me to squeeze in a few more minutes of work. To my niece, Emmie, for your bright smile and infectious laugh. To Nate and Amalia, for being proud of what I do and reminding me every so often to “Save your work, Mom!” and go to the park. And to Justin, who is always my answer when people ask me how I manage it all—writing, day job, family, running. You keep me and this whole “big dream” thing afloat. Love you.

  Excerpt from Sea Witch

  DISCOVER EVIE’S ORIGIN STORY IN

  THE SEA IS A FICKLE WITCH.

  She is just as likely to bestow a kiss as to steal the breath from your lips. Beautiful and cruel, and every glimmering wrinkle in between. Filling our bellies and our coffers when she is generous. Coolly watching as we don black and add tears to her waters when she is wicked.

  Only the tide follows her moods—giving and taking at the same salty rate.

  Still, she is more than our witch—she’s our queen.

  In all her spells and tantrums, she is one of us. The crown jewel of Havnestad, nuzzled against our shores—for better or worse.

  Tonight, dressed in her best party finery, she appears calm, anger buried well below her brilliant surface. Still, there’s a charge in the air as the stars wink with the coming summer solstice and the close of Nik’s sixteenth birthday.

  Formally: Crown Prince Asger Niklas Bryniulf Øldenburg III, first in line to the throne of the sovereign kingdom of Havnestad.

  Informally: just Nik.

  But “just Nik” isn’t quite right either. He’s not just anything to me. He’s my best friend. My only friend, really.

  And now he’s dancing with Malvina across the deck of his father’s grand steamship. That is, if you can call her violent tossing and whirling “dancing.” My stomach lurches as Nik comes within inches of tipping over the rail after she forces an overenthusiastic spin. I wish she’d just give it up.

  Malvina, formally Komtesse Malvina Christensen, is a perpetual royal suitor. She and her father have been vying for King Asger’s attention for years, hoping he will make the match. Yet despite Nik’s good-natured patience for her dancing, I have my doubts there will be a royal wedding in their future.

  I want to look away from the pink silk blur of Malvina, but Nik’s eyes are begging me to rescue him. Pleading. Silently calling my name across the distance—Ev
vvvvvieee.

  I am the only one who can save him. Every youth in town is here, but no one else can cut in on a girl like Malvina. For the others, there would be consequences—lost invitations to galas, the oldest horse on the weekend hunt, a seat at the table next to one’s senile great-tante instead of the Komtesse. For me, there are none of those things. You can’t fall far in society if you’re not part of it to begin with.

  After another aggressive turn, I finally stride onto the makeshift dance floor, ignoring a chorus of smirks as I go—they’ve seen this play before. Malvina will be the victim, I’ll be the villain, and Nik will let it happen. It can be a messy business, being the crown prince’s confidante; enduring small humiliations is only a fraction of the cost. But I won’t apologize for helping him. We all make compromises in friendships, and having Nik’s loyalty when no one else will even look me in the eye is worth every criticism I face.

  I tap the girl on one sturdy shoulder, screw my face into exaggerated panic, and point to the eight-layered, blue-sugar-spackled monstrosity she insisted on crafting.

  “Oh, angels, Evie! What is it?” Malvina barks.

  “The cake’s icing—”

  “Fondant,” she corrects, as if I’ve spit on her oma’s grave.

  “The fondant—it’s bulging.”

  True panic colors her features as her feet refuse to move. Torn between dancing with Nik and rescuing her masterpiece from a bulbous fate, her eyes skip to my face for a moment, incredulous. She fears I’ve purposely stolen her turn. It’s just the sort of thing the girls of Havnestad think I would do—the ones whispering in the shadows about us now. Except in this case, they’re right.

  “Do your duty, Malvina. It was lovely dancing with you.” Nik bends into a slight bow, royal manners on display, not a hint of displeasure in his features.

  When his eyes cut away, Malvina sneaks a glare my way, her disdain for me as clear as her worry that I’m actually telling the truth. She doesn’t need to say what she’s thinking, and she won’t—not if she ever wants to dance with Nik again. So, when Nik completes his bow, she simply plasters on a trained smile and leaves him with the most perfect curtsy before running off in a rush of golden hair and intent.