Sea Witch

by Sarah Henning

  His cousin had grown tall of late, at least six feet already, but he’d seen tulips thicker than his arms, harpoons wider than his legs. The visitor was the same height but built with all the vigor of the Vikings. He was strong. He could help.

  Still, he stayed rooted to the spot. Holding his breath as his cousin finally surfaced, a black-haired rag doll drooping in his arms. Strong and steady, Nik swam for the beach.

  As the two landed in the sand, the visitor breathed again, watching in awe as the boy of twelve did all the right things to expel water from her lungs. Citizens gathered around their prince now, Lithasblot preparations halted, all of them getting a good look at the latest near tragedy in a history full of them, the sea well fed in the whale-wild Øresund Strait.

  All the relief he’d felt fled the second his cousin began barking orders to the men standing around, their inaction frustrating him. The men finally dove into the water, but Iker knew his cousin. Knew his heart. Knew what he would do. He was going back too.

  These girls had been a part of him for years, one the left arm, one the right. They were both beauties—even Nik had admitted it during his last visit. The raven-haired girl was more his cousin’s style, but the visitor knew the blonde was the one who saw Nik in that way—it was obvious.

  The visitor watched the prince dive back into the waves, and then he ran, all the strength of his Viking blood carrying him as he tore across the sand.

  He yelled at the men swimming back to shore empty-handed, soggy from their attempts at finding the girl. “You there, men, don’t leave your crown prince to do the dirty work alone. Back in the water with you—your hope does not fade until Prince Niklas’s does.”

  Immediately, the men turned for the waves, diving in, hope the last thing set in their features. Every cut of jaw locked with the knowledge that this was just how things went in the Øresund Kingdoms. The sea took as much as she gave.

  But he wanted them there in case Nik faltered. These men were insurance for the prince. Their shared family could not suffer this blow, no matter how heroic.

  “Evelyn, are you all right?” He crashed to her side, palms cupping her elegant shoulders.

  “Iker?” She blinked at him as if he were a ghost, those midnight eyes of hers dark with terror. “Anna. Nik—”

  “I know,” he said in his best prince voice, the one he’d been perfecting in front of the looking glass when stranded in the castle, his heart yearning for the sea.

  Iker turned back to Evelyn. Tears welled in her eyes, gratitude in the curve of her lips. He knew enough about the girl to know how she felt about him, how she wanted to kiss him right there. He knew enough about her class—the fishermen, the worker bees—to know that she wouldn’t.

  Instead, her fingers tightened on his forearm as if she were still fodder for the undertow and he’d rescued her himself.

  “It’d kill me to lose either of them.”

  She glanced down at her hands as if the answer were there, hidden in the web of lines—heart, life, and fate.

  “There is so much I wish I could do,” she said, her voice still so weak.

  That was it. There was so much he could do. Nik was his cousin, true, but he had always felt like a brother. And no matter the correct name for their relationship, he was family. And family did what had to be done.

  Iker squeezed Evelyn’s shoulders for the barest of moments, and then he was gone, yanking off his boots as he ran toward the foaming undertow.

  15

  “OH, EVIE, IT WAS WONDERFUL,” ANNEMETTE SAYS after half falling into the window seat in our room. Her blond waves are as wild as the tide in a storm, spilling at all angles around her shoulders. The cream of her face is flushed with pure joy, deep-blue eyes sparkling.

  I’m so happy to see her like this. Iker and I spent the afternoon swirled together in a rush of touches and sweet words, two pebbles in a whirlpool, and I can only hope that she and Nik did as well.

  “Nik is wonderful,” I confirm, but she grabs my hand.

  “More wonderful than I could have ever dreamed, but so are you. There is no way I would have had the day I just had without you.” Her eyes swell, the skin there growing pink.

  I squeeze her fingers. “It’s nothing,” I say, though I can’t imagine the last few hours with Iker would’ve happened without her either. I can’t picture him arriving at the castle and then hiking into its shadow to find me in the tiny house at the end of the lane. It’s difficult to imagine grand Iker confined by a home smaller than this entire palace bedroom—even when he’s on his little schooner, his personality still has room to burst into the open air of the sea.

  “Do you think he’s falling in love?” I ask as I change dresses for tonight’s Lithasblot festivities.

  “I think so,” she says. “I hope. More time would help.” She smiles weakly.

  “The sooner we get going, the more you’ll have. Almost ready?”

  She fastens up the last few pearl buttons on her pink silk gown. “Almost,” she says and then looks at my worn navy dress. “Is that what you’re wearing?”

  I nod. I could probably conjure up a range of dresses too if I put my mind to it, but that would really send the town chirping. Everyone knows what’s in my wardrobe.

  “No, no. Wear this,” she insists, and hands me a deep purple gown embroidered with golden tulips. “I made it for you. Iker will love it.”

  I take the dress, running the lush silk between my fingers. “Thank you,” I say. “It’s beautiful, but I couldn’t. Can you imagine everyone’s faces? Me in this? What will the townspeople say?”

  “Maybe something nice, for once,” Annemette replies with a smirk.

  I know she’s wrong, but I can barely take my eyes off the dress. It’s stunning, the workmanship so intricate, it truly could only have been achieved with a spell. And then it hits me. We have magic. “Annemette . . .”

  “Yes?” she says, weaving her golden strands into an ornate bun.

  “Can’t you use your magic . . . on Nik? I mean, only if things don’t go as planned. He can love you; I can see it. It’s just . . . three days—now almost two—there’s no t—”

  “No,” she says, sticking the last pin in her hair. “It has to be real when the clock strikes midnight after the ball. That’s it. Magic can masquerade as love, but none has ever satisfied Urda before. These little things, dresses and such, are as far as I’ll go. He has to love me as me. No tricks. Promise me you won’t do anything to interfere, Evie.”

  I nod, my lips closed tight. Of course she’s right. I don’t want to manipulate Nik’s feelings either, but the consequences are just so steep.

  I step into her gown, the cool fabric sliding over my skin, its shape fitting me perfectly. I barely recognize myself as I stare in the mirror, looking so much like one of the nobles. Perhaps a costume is all I ever needed.

  “You look like a princess,” Annemette says, giving me a kiss on the cheek. “Let’s go. Our princes await.”

  I grab her hand, and we walk down through the palace and out the gates. This night, the third night, is what everyone always mentions when Lithasblot comes up. When it is perfectly normal, possibly even a compliment, to toss a slice of rye or a dense roll at your neighbor.

  Predictably, Malvina Christensen lives for this night. It gives her a chance to show off, and gods know she would never shy away from that. Not one for needlepoint or whatever komtesses are supposed to learn, Malvina chose to take up baking instead, always underfoot of her cook as a girl. I’ll admit, she became rather good, that blue monstrosity aside, though I’ll take partial responsibility for its demise. She’s eager to tell anyone questioning her that baking is a hobby, even though it’s beneath her, an activity more befitting someone like me. “If you feed a man right, he’ll be true to you for life,” I’ve heard her say many times. It’s strange, she so wants me out of her way, too crude for her class, and yet here she is parading her lowbrow achievements. I guess when you have power, you can be whoever you
want.

  Though the sun has yet to set and the townspeople are still wandering the offering tables in search of their suppers, Malvina has snagged herself a prominent spot by the bonfire. Around her is a literal sea of treats—petits fours, scones à la Brighton, out-of-season fried aebleskiver, and crusty rolls of rye and soft rolls of sweet Russian wheat, both in the shape of the sun wheel. There’s a massive blueberry pie as well, juices glistening from under a golden lattice crust.

  “Malvina, my, you’ve outdone yourself yet again,” Nik says with a royal smile as we come upon her.

  The girl beams at him. “Why thank you, Nik. It would be an honor if you enjoyed something before the throwing begins.”

  Nik waves her off. “That’s not—”

  “I insist. Please take something, there is more than enough here for Urda.”

  Training and practice with Malvina’s forcibly charitable nature are enough to keep Nik from fighting her one word more. “If that is the case, then yes. Something small would be greatly appreciated.”

  Her still-beaming smile grows larger as she dips to the blanket and chooses a petit four, done in perfect French style. “There’s plenty for your friends, too,” she adds as an afterthought.

  I’m shocked. Malvina has never offered me anything, and then I realize, she may not recognize me. It’s the dress. It must be sewn with the most powerful sorcery to deceive a shark like Malvina.

  “How kind of you,” I say, taking a scone and watching her pewter eyes for recognition. And then there it is, a slight snarl.

  “Oh, Evie,” she says. “My, that’s quite a dress. Where did you—”

  “It was a gift. From me, Friherrinde Annemette,” Mette interrupts while plucking a sweet roll. “For being a good friend and the most gracious host.” And then she does the unthinkable—she links her arms right through mine and Nik’s, pulling us close on either side.

  Malvina smiles so tightly I can see the veins in her neck. “Well, from a komtesse to a friherrinde, a word of advice. If you treat your help to such finery, they’ll get used to it.”

  “I hope so,” says Annemette. “I have plenty more where that came from. Thank you for the sweets.”

  And then we walk away. Just like that. Nik seems a little stunned, ever the proper prince, but even he can’t help but laugh. “You really do look lovely, Evie.”

  “Seconded,” Iker says, grabbing my hand.

  I thank them both for probably the third time that night, and then we walk the boys to the platform for tonight’s celebration of the grain crop. Annemette and I take our seats in the little white wooden chairs reserved for the nobility—another new view for me, having only sat on the sand before. As the sky darkens, Nik begins to speak, but I can’t focus, my mind on so many things. The Lithasblot festival was always something I knew so well, every year the same, and for a time, I didn’t go at all.

  The Lithasblot after Anna drowned, I never left the house. Nik, Tante Hansa, and Father all tried to draw me from my bed, sure that a measure of festival fun would go a long way toward cheering me up.

  But song and dance cannot close a wound like that. More like it pours salt on it—watching other people sing and dance like nothing had happened, all the while blistered with grief.

  I didn’t go. Not that year nor the next.

  I’d tried to spend the time reading Tante Hansa’s spell books—the only thing that’d kept me sane in those days—but even that took too much effort. All the strength I had went to shutting out laughter and song.

  It was only last year that I agreed to go with Nik again.

  He’d lost his friend too but had to make a show of being at the festival immediately—the day of her death—duty and title forcing him to walk around in his nice clothes and accept the people’s offerings to Urda. He didn’t have to speak as he does yet again tonight, but it was still painful enough just to stand up in front of everyone while so broken.

  We are far from that now—not healed, of course, but with just two days left, this festival has felt like the last one we attended when Anna was alive. Iker came that year, arriving with his parents from Rigeby Bay, fourteen and suddenly very tall. Anna and I mooned over him every night, whispering about his eyes and laughing while huddled up in her mansion bedroom. It would be a year before she told me that she actually preferred Nik to Iker and my mind filled of dreams of us as twin queens, the friherrinde-to-princess and the pauper-to-princess loves of Øldenburg kings on both sides of the Øresund Strait.

  Of course, Annemette is not Anna, but I can’t shake the feeling that this is what we could have had. I glance over at Annemette as she watches Nik speak on the platform in front of the bonfire. Rosebud lips slightly parted, she follows his words with the precision of a predator, so intent on remembering everything he says. I never saw Anna look at Nik like Annemette does, but eleven-year-old girls can hide their feelings as much as any of us.

  Suddenly, Annemette’s lips pull up in a smile, eyes sharpening to something hard, and I follow her gaze up to Nik. He’s watching her back, but then looks to me, doing his best to concentrate on the words. Still, his ears begin to blush. Then Iker hands Nik the ceremonial first loaf of bread—large as a cannonball, crafted of dark rye, and braided in the shape of the sun wheel. Nik holds the loaf above his head.

  “And so, let us give thanks to Urda with the staff of life—bread. Let us share our gifts of grain with our neighbors. Let no person in need go without. Let the loaves fly to them with the gentlest of care, a blessing from Urda by way of a neighbor’s hand.”

  Nik tears a hunk of bread off the loaf and hands it to King Asger. Another piece goes to Queen Charlotte, and a third to Iker, whose parents stayed home this year. Together, the royal family lines up in front of the fire, bread in hand.

  Nik lifts his piece above his crowned head.

  “Let the sharing begin.”

  With that, all four of them toss the bread in the direction of the crowd. Nik’s lands gently in Annemette’s lap. She laughs, and I’m so busy laughing too that I’m not paying attention when a crusty hunk of rye thwacks me square in the chest, bouncing off my bodice and into my lap. I glance up and see Iker with a vicious grin, hovering over the royal table, snatching more.

  I grab a loaf from the table next to me and stand. I rip it in half and give the remainder to Annemette. “Aim for Iker.”

  Her brows pull together with a moment of confusion. “I thought the bread was for the less fortunate?”

  I gesture toward the sky. “It’s raining bread. No one will go hungry, I promise.”

  Annemette looks up to see that, yes, bread of every make and shape is flying through the air. She ducks as a sweet roll screams in from Malvina’s direction. It bounces off Fru Ulla with a honeyed thud before a toddler snags it with two chubby hands.

  “It’s all in good fun,” I assure her, and chuck the bread Iker’s way. He puts his arms up to shield his face but drops them too quickly and gets clobbered right in the nose by Annemette’s piece.

  This only serves to make him grin and seize two cherry tarts from the table. He thrusts one into Nik’s hands, and they advance on us, eyes glinting.

  “Run!” I screech, and grab Annemette’s hand.

  We snake through the crowd and onto an open stretch of beach. Twined together, we run along the shoreline. But the boys are faster, and tarts whack us each in the back. We fall to the sand in hysterics—something I haven’t done in four years.

  The boys pull us up—Iker hooking one arm under my knees and the other at my shoulders. He runs a finger along my back until my once class-defying gown is slick with beach-ruined cherry filling and aims it toward my mouth. “Sandy tart for the lady.”

  I seal my lips and shake my head.

  “For Urda, you must.”

  The absurdity of the look on his face pulls my lips apart, and he seizes his opportunity to drop the filling onto my tongue. I gag and buck, coughing with laughter, and tumble out of his arms and into the sand.
>
  Iker goes down too, landing beside me. His eyes seem to glow as he leans over my body and lowers his lips to mine. I enjoy the kiss, his newly shaven skin baby soft against my chin. I guess Iker doesn’t defy all royal protocols; Queen Charlotte won this round.

  “Mmmm,” he says, licking cherry filling from his lips. “Delicious, though a bit . . . gritty.”

  I laugh. “Sandy tarts always are.”

  “Odd bit of cuisine, you Havnestaders.”

  “Eat up. Nik will expect you at full strength tomorrow,” I say.

  Iker raises a brow, mischief on his lips. “What if I told him I was saving my strength for you?”

  I push him away from me and stand, my back to him, arms crossed.

  “I was kidding,” he pleads. “Are all the games tomorrow?”

  I nod, dusting myself off while he still lies in the sand.

  “Does this mean tomorrow is when you will shimmy across a log?”

  When I don’t respond, he stands and wraps his arms around me from behind, trailing two fingers across my navel, having them mimic a stiff jog.

  “As promised, my prince,” I say, laughing a little. Why do I always give in?

  “Yes—”

  A scream cuts off Iker’s answer. Annemette. Both Iker and I whip our heads toward Annemette and Nik. They are closer to the crowd, Annemette crouching in the sand, Nik staggering a bit before falling to his knees, clutching his stomach. Standing before both of them is Malvina, hands in front of her body as if they’d just released a dagger.

  Iker stiffens, his whole body suddenly rigid with tension. “Cousin?”

  Nik staggers to a stand and raises a hand to wave him off, turning toward us. His white shirt and dazzling royal coat are a mess of black, like the tears I’ve cried twice before.

  Iker takes a step toward the scene, fists forming.

  But then Nik points toward his boots. Toward the pie plate lying facedown in the sand.

  “Urda has been quite generous with Malvina’s blueberry pie. The goddess must have decided that my wardrobe and the beach were in particular need of nourishment.” With that, Nik begins to laugh.