Nik hugs me close and dips down to my ear. “You’re such a ravishingly loyal friend.”
“Always have been. Always will be.”
“’Tis true.” Nik grins before waving a long arm above his head. “Well, if it isn’t the crown prince of Rigeby Bay!”
“And here I hoped to surprise you,” Iker says, laughing. “Can’t surprise a lighthouse of a man on his own boat, I suppose.”
Nik laughs, standing even taller. “Not if I’m turned the right way.”
Iker laughs even deeper. There is salt in his hair and few days’ worth of scruff lining his strong jawline, but he strides across his deck with the elegance of a prince. He glances up at me, his eyes briefly betraying a hint of doubt about the sturdiness of my frame, but tosses the line to me anyway. I catch it, securing it with a knot I learned from Father.
Iker hauls himself up the rope and onto the ship. He manages to land on the small patch of deck just between Nik and myself. Behind us a crowd has gathered.
“Happy birthday, Cousin.” Eyes laughing, Iker claps Nik on the back and brings him in for a hug, his toned arms fully encasing Nik’s spindly-yet-strong form.
When they release, Iker’s eyes go right to me. They’re the clearest of blues—like ancient ice in the fjords of the north.
“Evelyn,” he says, still retaining an air of formality from his upbringing, but he then shockingly pulls me into a hug.
I freeze, eyes on Nik as he and everyone else on the ship stares. Iker doesn’t seem to notice or care and pulls me tighter, his arms wrapped around my waist. Warm from ship work, he smells of salt and limes. His shirt is freckled with water droplets, onyx on the starched gray fabric—the sea leaving her mark.
When the moment is over and he lets me go, an arm lingers across my shoulders. I try to ignore the question nagging me, the one I’m sure everyone else is asking too. Why me? We’ve known each other since we were children, but he’s never shown me this kind of affection before. I’m not his type. I’m not anyone’s type. Yet Iker continues to act as if it’s all completely normal. He turns to Nik, to the crowd, and grins that perfect smile.
“Good people of Havnestad,” he says, his voice commanding yet sincere. Then the grin grows wider. “Let’s give the prince a celebration so hearty, he’ll never forget it.”
2
I FEEL AS IF I’M LIVING IN A DREAM.
Still warm from Iker’s strong embrace, I twirl across the dance floor in his arms.
I tried to tell Iker we shouldn’t, but he wouldn’t hear of it. “Let them talk,” Iker said. If only he knew how much they already did.
I can sense Malvina’s eyes following me. Yes, Malvina, this is what it looks like when someone dances without fearing for his life. But I try not to think about her. I want to remember this moment, even the smallest details. Everything about him wears like oiled leather and loved muslin. His hands are rough and worn from the sea, and yet they are gentle, his thumb delicately caressing mine.
My twelve-year-old fantasies were never this detailed—hardly anything beyond me in a grand purple gown and Iker in his royal finery hand-in-hand on a stroll through the palace gardens. The reality is so different, so intense, and I’m not sure I’m handling it well. I know I’m not. Can he feel my palms sweating? My heart beating loudly against his chest?
“I saw you from my deck, you know,” he whispers in my ear. “Before coming aboard. You’ve never looked more beautiful, Evie. And I’ve never begged the gods to steer my ship faster.”
I don’t know what to say, my voice seizing in my throat. I look around instead, trying to organize my thoughts. The sun has completely set, the last strands of light gone with our plates in a rush and clatter of tiny quail bones, torsk tails, pea pods, and strawberry hulls. And though the entire ship deck is still lit by a ring of miniature lanterns, the remaining shadow is enough that it almost feels as if we’re alone.
Just a boy, a girl, and the sea.
The song ends and he hugs me tight. When he pulls back, he runs his fingers along my jawbone. “I shouldn’t have stayed away from Havnestad so long,” he says, capturing one of my curls between his fingers. “You have the same hair you did as a child.” His gaze lifts to mine. “The same starry-night eyes.”
I struggle not to look down—down to where he’s still wound a lock of my hair lightly between his fingers. I bite my lip to silence the sigh there. His fingers wind tighter around the curl. It almost seems as if he doesn’t know he’s doing it—this boy made of smiles and grand gestures doing something so small it’s escaped him.
Iker’s eyes drift to the band members who have circled around a bench where someone has begun to play a guitaren. Though we can’t see him, the shiny, precise plucks are a dead giveaway that the musician is Nik. He’s always been the kind to pick up any instrument and immediately know exactly how to play it, ever since we were children. He’s strumming the song I used to sing on the docks as a girl to wish my father safe travels on his fishing trips. Nik said it always got stuck in his head.
Iker drops the curl.
Clears his throat.
Adjusts his body so that we’re not touching in so many places.
It’s over. I know it. Perhaps fantasies are only meant to come true for a moment. Surely a trick of the gods.
His eyes linger on the band when he eventually speaks, but his tone has changed. “Evie, I love visiting Havnestad, but I don’t like to step on my cousin’s toes.”
Now my voice isn’t right. Why did Nik have to play that song? I swallow. “But you aren’t,” I say, hoping he can’t hear the pleading in my tone. “Besides, I don’t think Nik would mind seeing more of you, and there is the Lithasblot festival coming up in a few days.”
“Ah, yes, when you people go nuts for Urda, throw bread at anyone without a double chin, and run in circles until you pass out.”
“You people?” I say and give him a jab. Iker may be from across the strait, but he’s just as much an Øldenburg as Nik. Their family has ruled Denmark and Sweden for four hundred years. They know better than anyone not to discount the harvest the goddess has bestowed on us. “Don’t poke fun at the games. We take them very seriously.”
“Oh yes, a life-or-death game of carrying around the heaviest rock.”
“Or running the length of a log. All useful skills.” I laugh, happy to have lightened the mood again.
Iker turns to me. “If I stay for this Lithasblot extravaganza, you must promise you will scramble across some recently murdered tree for my entertainment.”
“If that’s what it takes, then I promise,” I say, dipping in a mock curtsy.
A laugh escapes from my lips, but Iker’s attention is locked on my face. Almost as if he can’t help himself, his thumb grazes my cheekbone again, down my jaw and to my mouth. The touch of his finger to my lips sends color rising in my cheeks as I meet the glacier blue of his eyes.
“Iker, I—”
“Gooooooood people of Havnestad!” Our heads whip around as Nik’s voice booms across the length of the ship. He is still holding the guitaren, but now he has a crown fashioned of lemon wedges squashed on his wavy flop of hair. There’s a huge smile tugging at his cheeks, and his long arms are thrust high into the air. He’s actually doing quite the unintentional impression of Iker, though only after a few mugs of King Asger’s special brew. “As your crown prince, I hereby issue a royal decree that we sing for me on this, the sixteenth year of my life.”
“Hear, HEAR,” yells Iker, followed by the rest of the crowd, which has suddenly crept back into the corners of my vision.
“Excellent. Ruyven has sent the signal for fireworks. But first, a so—” Nik’s voice cuts out as Malvina’s strong hand jerks him down so her lips can meet his ear. The other hand is gesturing behind them, toward the cake. Nik stands back up slowly and resets the guitaren. “The lovely lady Malvina has informed me we are at a loss for candles.” Nik points the instrument’s neck at me, feigned formality still thick in his thr
oat. “Evelyn?” He raises a brow.
I raise one back.
“Come on, I know you know where they are.”
And I do. Exactly where Nik left them when he “borrowed” the king’s boat for the first warm day after a long, ice-filled winter.
“Yes, I do, good prince.”
As much as I don’t want to leave Iker’s side, I step away, the warmth of him clinging to my skin for a ghost of a second as we separate. I snag a lantern that’s dipped low on the line ringing the deck and move away from the crowd.
Boots clomping on the stairs, I disappear belowdecks to the captain’s quarters. The space is much larger than something that should be a captain’s anything—the whole place is nearly bigger than the home I share with Father and Tante Hansa. The miniature lantern struggles to keep up with the vastness, illuminating a halo barely beyond the hem of my party dress. It’s utterly annoying.
Glancing up the stairs, I confirm that I am alone; no one followed me below. My back to the door, I reach a hand into the lantern. Softly muttered words of old fall from my lips as my fingers pinch the tip of the candle. “Brenna bjartr aldrnari. Brenna bjartr aldrari. Pakka Glöð.”
The candle begins to glow with the full force of one three times its size.
It’s a small act—something so subtle I probably could’ve done it in full view of everyone above. But even something as run-of-the-mill as a strengthening spell is dangerous here.
Women burned for far less under the Øldenburgs of yesteryear.
My relatives burned for far less.
Which means there are things about me Nik and Iker can never know.
Besides, I already took a risk tonight when I silently urged Malvina’s cake to shed its sugary skin. I hadn’t tried something like that since I was a child, but it worked well enough. Strengthening the candle in the open would have been pushing my luck, though, and I’ve never had much of that to begin with.
Now the cushion of light is more than enough. I ease my way through the vast space and toward the pair of chairs under one of the starboard portholes, a chessboard painted into the oak table between them.
I’d watched Nik stuff the ship’s allotment of extra candles into the table’s drawer while helping him clean up evidence of his warm-weather get-together. Not that his father wouldn’t know about our little celebration—dishonesty has never sat well in Nik’s royal mind—he just hadn’t wanted to leave the castle’s harbor crew with more work.
With rescued candles and matches in hand, I grab the lantern and spin toward the door. But suddenly in my peripheral vision, I catch two flashes of shocking white and blue. I spin back around to where a small halo of light beacons through the porthole.
My heart sputters to a dead halt as I realize I don’t know of any fish with markings like those.
Like human eyes.
Lungs aching for me to remember how to breathe, I raise the lantern to the porthole, my mind churning to account for everyone onboard the ship. Yes, everyone had been there when I descended the stairs.
Yet, when the halo of light reaches the thick glass, a friend’s eyes are there, deep blue and framed by luminous skin, water-darkened blond waves, and a look of surprise on parted lips.
“Anna?”
But in the instant I say her name into the damp cabin, the face vanishes, and I’m left staring into the indigo deep.
My lungs release and draw in a huge gulp of air as I race to the next porthole, my breath coming in rapid spurts as I repeat her name. But there’s no sign of her beautiful face at that porthole or the next two.
I stand in the middle of the king’s great cabin, heart pounding, breath burning in my lungs, as a heavy sob escapes my lips. Tears sting my eyes as I realize that even with Nik’s brotherly friendship and Iker’s new affection, I’m still just a lonely fisherman’s daughter.
A lonely fisherman’s daughter wishing that I could have my sweet friend back. Wishing hard enough that I’m seeing ghosts.
Wishing so very hard that I’m losing my mind.
3
I WIPE MY EYES WITH MY WRIST, THE CANDLES AND matches still clutched in my fingers. A couple of deep breaths, and I will myself through the door and up the stairs, my legs leaden.
“The good lady has returned with the candles!” Nik shouts when he sees me, his voice half-singing in tune with the guitaren.
“And the matches, my prince,” I hear myself say in a much steadier voice than I’d have thought possible.
“My dear Evie, always rescuing her prince from his own lack of forethought.”
“Someone has to, Cousin,” laughs Iker, rising to his feet while Malvina snatches the goods from my arms. Immediately, she bustles behind Nik, spearing the beautiful layers of fondant with the fat ends of the tapers. No thank-you from her, even though for anyone else, her trained manners would require it.
Nik begins the song before they’re all lit. His voice soars above us all, even over Iker’s baritone. As usual, I just mouth along to the words—my singing voice was ruined the day I lost Anna. Tante Hansa says I’m lucky that is all the sea took. Nik has his eyes shut and isn’t even facing his cake, the flames flickering and twisting behind him, manipulated by a strong wind from deep within the Øresund Strait.
My gaze follows the wind into the dark distance. Just past the edge of our wake, the indigo skies go pitch-black, the furrowed edges of an angry line of clouds moving in at a furious pace.
“Iker,” I breathe.
“. . . Hun skal leve højt hurra . . .” Nik hits the final line of the traditional birthday song and turns to blow out the candles, opening his eyes just as the first of the fireworks shoots off from the beach. Bursts of white and red stream across the sky in quick succession, illuminating Havnestad below and the ring of mountains surrounding the city proper.
“Iker,” I repeat, my eyes still upon the clouds closing in. He turns, hand still set heavily about my waist, and I point to the storm line as a tendril of lightning strikes the water just beyond the confines of the harbor.
A flash of recognition hits his eyes as they read the distance between the rain and the ship. “Storm!” he yells, a clap of thunder cutting off the end of the word. “Everyone belowdecks! Now!”
But, of course, our party turns toward the storm rather than away, human curiosity flying in the face of safety. Iker, Nik, and I rush into motion as the first fat drops of rain splatter onto the deck.
Nik begins directing the crowd belowdecks. Iker is up at the wheel, working to right the ship toward the harbor after sending its previous driver—the coal man—down below to feed the steam engine.
With the rain already sheeting, the boat tips as I climb the stairs to the stern. I cling to the rail. There is no magic I can do in the open to stop this, which makes me grateful to be the salt of the sea and the daughter of a fisherman. I’m not helpless in the least.
Thunder rumbles deep and rich directly overhead. The cake’s candles and the lanterns ringing the ship have been blown out by the blustery wind, and I’m thankful when a flash of lightning cracks across the sky just long enough to show me the scene.
Iker—getting the boat going in the right direction, his feet planted and muscles straining.
Nik—trudging up the stairs after barring the door down below, his crown of lemons fed to the sea by the flying wind.
The cake—tipped over and beached on its massive side as the boat lurches starboard.
Another clap of thunder sounds as I reach Iker and help him hold the wheel. Iker is strong enough to steer it by himself, but the boat’s line noticeably straightens when I help him maintain control.
“A birthday pleasure cruise!” Iker yells across the booming skies as I smile at him through clenched teeth. His eyes dance even as every tendon in his neck strains to keep our course. “All clear skies and fancy drinks. Isn’t that what Nik promised?”
Muscles already screaming, we both focus on the lighthouse at the edge of the harbor, still minutes away. A heavy w
ave crashes along the deck, taking the remainder of the cake with it. Nik manages to hold tight to the stair railing, his white dress shirt plastered against his skin.
“We’re too slow,” Iker yells into my ear between peals of thunder.
I nod and grit my teeth further as a gust of wind pulls the ship portside, yanking the wheel with it. “I’ve got it,” I say. “But we won’t go any faster unless—” I nod toward his prized craft, a present from his father.
Iker nods, heeding my suggestion. “Nik!” he yells over the whipping wind and angry waves. “My schooner! Help me cut it loose!”
Somehow Nik hears him and immediately pulls himself portside, where Iker’s little boat is adding too much weight.
Another wave tips up the ship, sending us starboard. Boots sliding, I manage to keep us steady, pinning the wheel in place with all my weight. On the main deck, Nik has made his way over to the portside rail. He hooks one long arm around the rail to steady himself, and then works furiously with his free hand on my knot. Iker is on his way there.
The boat lurches again, and I close my eyes, willing land to get closer. When my eyes open, we might be closer to Havnestad’s docks, but only by a few feet. I twist my head to the side and see that Nik nearly has the knot free.
A whitecap splashes over the side, drenching Nik. He shakes his head, wavy hair splaying out to the side. He rights himself, the slick railing and new floorboards doing him no favors in traction or leverage. With one final pull, the rope is completely loose, and slides over the side of the ship. Nik, much stronger than he looks, hangs on as the steamer’s equilibrium changes with the loss of Iker’s schooner.
“Three hundred yards to the royal dock!” Iker yells, making his way to the wheel. I look from Nik back to land. The lighthouse is indeed finally closing in, the blaze atop the tower looming just below the steely thatch of clouds.
But not as fast as the biggest wave we’ve seen yet.
Black as the sky above, the wall of water splashes hard on the portside, sending Nik to his knees. I call out for him to stay down—a lower center of gravity is safer—but my small voice is swallowed up in the storm.
Sea Witch Page 2