Sea Witch

by Sarah Henning

  “Hardly.” Iker leans into me, breath warm in my ear. “I was just planning to impress you in other ways this evening.”

  Before I can roll my eyes—or better yet, slap him—Nik tugs Iker away from me and regains his voice. “Iker, if you want a night to ourselves, I suggest we leave now.” Nik points his chin up at the stairs, where a flock of beribboned girls and the queen are working their way down.

  “Well spotted, Cousin.” Iker grabs my hand and nudges Nik forward. “Let us away.”

  22

  I LOUNGE UPON THE SAND OF HAVNESTAD COVE.

  Above, the stars twinkle, the Lithasblot moon full on this, the fourth night, the shimmering light strong only thanks to the reflection off the smooth waters of the cove. But it is the perfect lantern for the night—bathing everything in a pool of silver.

  Iker is lying beside me. The cut of his stubbled chin, the laughing light of his eyes, the sun-kissed pieces of hair curling at his temples fill my gaze. All of it in close relief and profile—my view coming from where I’m snuggled against his chest. It’s a perfect moment, and yet my mind drifts to the other side of the cove’s rock wall. Where Nik and Annemette are. She is singing, her ethereal soprano lifting toward the stars.

  Please Nik, just kiss her.

  I don’t want it to, but her voice takes me back to that day Anna drowned, the song we were singing before we dove into the sea. Fru Liesel’s words play in my mind: Bad things follow her. Black death. Minnows . . . No. I stop myself from falling deeper into that hole. I’ve come too far from that day to take the blame for it and everything that followed. I have enough to live with.

  I shift my attention back to Iker. He’s talking about our whaling trip. The cities we’ll dock in; the sea life we’ll catch. Apparently, I haven’t been the only one fantasizing.

  “What do you think?” he says, his hand tilting my chin so our eyes meet.

  “What’s that?” I ask.

  “Hirsholmene or Voerså Havn?”

  “Oh, whichever you think best,” I say.

  “Where are you, Evie? Don’t you want this?” The vulnerability in his voice is a shock, but strangely comforting to hear.

  “Of course I do!” I say, and I mean it. “I’m just thinking of how to tell Father and Tante. You know how they can be.”

  “Tell them a prince wants to sweep you away. That should suffice.” Iker’s lips lower until they hover a breath from mine.

  “If only,” I whisper. He closes the distance and I sink into him, all of him. The pad of his thumb runs the length of my cheekbone and he shifts again until both hands are holding my face to his, our breath mingling and eyes closed to anything but this kiss.

  Annemette falls into bed in a shower of blond waves. Flecks of sand fall too, bouncing mildly into the air, just forceful enough that I can see them leap and settle in the candlelight as I shake the beach out of my own curls at the vanity table. But something is off. Her eyes are red and her face has gone pale.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask. “We left when things grew quiet on your side. I thought maybe . . .”

  Her shoes are off, her hands running the length of her feet, her face wincing in pain.

  “Can I get you anything? Is there a spell that can ease the burning? I may have found something in Hansa’s book. Here, I’ll show you—”

  But when Annemette looks up, I can see that her feet are not what truly pains her.

  “I’ve failed, Evie. I’m going to fail. I know it!”

  I swallow hard, because deep down inside, down in the snake pit of my belly, I fear that I know it too. I’ve been carrying it with me all day. “But there’s still tomorrow,” I offer, holding out hope. “You can’t give up, Mette.”

  But she shakes her head, almost as if I’ve made it worse with my insistence.

  “We’re not supposed to come to land. I should never have done this! How could I have been so stupid?”

  I start to cry, the tears pouring from my eyes. I hold my throat tight so the maids won’t hear my sobs. I look up at her—a lost expression on her face, her eyes puffy and dry. And suddenly I realize that she can’t cry.

  No soul. No tears. No way to truly feel. How is that a way to live?

  But if we don’t succeed, she won’t live at all. And time is running out.

  One day left.

  FOUR YEARS BEFORE

  The one who survived was starting to feel as if she had life left in her.

  Most of that was thanks to the boy dragging her out into the sun, to school, up into the mountains.

  But there was more to the change of things.

  Time. People. Herself.

  Winter was at the door, the whaling season at an end, her father home for good, drinking coffee and reading in his chair. They would talk sailing, the young survivor’s head spinning with ways to make it easier, ways to make next year more prosperous. Ways for her future self to be successful on her own ship in her own time, far away from the memories of this place.

  She spent time with her tante too, soaking up every bit of magical knowledge the old woman thought to share, and stealing any she didn’t—tiptoeing into her room and taking one book at a time from her well-worn chest. The lessons could not come fast enough for all she wanted to know about what she would eventually be able to do.

  Sometimes she found herself staring at her hands, wishing, as she had that awful day, that she could’ve saved her lost friend with magic. The failure still ate away at her.

  Still, even with Havnestad’s archaic rules against magic—set in place by the same generation of Øldenburgs who’d sent witches fleeing from Ribe more than two hundred years before—the survivor felt it necessary to arm herself so that she would never feel so helpless again.

  She knew that with power, the bravery to act would come. The right magic would come at the right time.

  And so she read all she could. Begged her aunt for more lessons, more spells. That winter and beyond, her magical education deepened anew, propelled by a desire not just to know herself and her power but what she could do.

  The girl even tried to find her mother’s words and the history behind them. Digging through the chests for books her father had put away for years. Her tante eventually found out about them and added them to her extensive collection of magical tomes. And then the girl stole them back, one at a time, their dusty covers warped enough that they could easily be hidden within the wrinkles of her sickbed sheets.

  And so she studied. And at night, she practiced quick spells with her tante as they made dinner. And then, cozied before a roaring fire, she listened to tales at her father’s feet.

  23

  THREE HOURS LATER, ONLY THE SILVER MOON AND I are still awake. Midnight came and passed long ago, but sleep remains elusive, my mind churning like the angriest of seas. Less than twenty-four hours remain until Annemette’s time is up, but I refuse to stand by and watch her become more foam in the sea. I will not be left powerless again.

  I slide from the sheets and tiptoe over to my trunk. I open it slowly, revealing my petticoats. Tucked underneath are the amethyst and the vial of black octopus ink. They were in the pocket of the dress I wore at the log race, and I stashed them in here so the dress could be sent to the maids and cleaned—Nik insisted. I gather the two items and close the trunk, dress quickly, then snatch up my boots by the door. Rather than put them on, I pad out into the hall, feeling the cool marble on my bare feet.

  I shut the door as quietly as possible and head outside to the tulip garden. Despite the full guest wing, not a soul passes me, and Nik, Iker, and the king and queen are thankfully two wings away.

  Outside, the air is warm, but the sky is black, clouds now covering the moon. Up ahead a guard stands watch at the archway. I can’t let him see me. I don’t even want to think of the rumors that would spread if word got out that I left in the dead of the night, so I’ve come prepared. With my hand clasped around the amethyst in my pocket, I focus inward, letting the magic rise in my blood. Whe
n I’m ready, I take the octopus ink and pull out the small cork stopper. The smell of the sea fills my nose, and I pause before bringing the vial to my lips. Greíma, I think, then pour the vial’s contents down my throat, the briny liquid making my tongue tingle.

  I stand as quiet and still as possible, waiting for the spell to take hold. But nothing happens. It didn’t work. My stomach sinks. I spent the whole night in bed going over and over this spell, trying to do it just the way I know Annemette would. And now I’ve drunk the whole vial of ink, and I can’t try again. I turn to go back inside, but now my body won’t move. My heart begins to pound, and I feel a great pressure crushing my chest. My legs go numb and my vision blurs. When the sun rises, Nik will surely find me lying here dead, another friend gone.

  Then, in a split second, it all stops just as quickly as it started. I suck in a breath of air and bring my hands to my face to collect myself, but I realize I can see right through them. It worked! I wiggle my fingers before my eyes, but all I see are the queen’s tulips on the other side. I’m invisible—or rather, I’m blending in, my body and clothes camouflaging with the world around me.

  I hold my breath and walk as quietly as I can past the guard and out the gate, not risking a glance behind me. Once I leave the castle grounds, I head straight toward my lane, only pausing to put my boots on, a satisfied smile resting on my lips.

  At home, I slide off my boots on the stoop, bare feet yet again much more efficient for what I must do. On tiptoe, shoes in hand, I step over the threshold and into the house. Familiar smells of coffee, Tante Hansa’s pickling brine, and remnants of boiled octopus ink greet my nose. From Tante’s room I can hear her thunderous snores. Father’s door is open, his bed still empty until tomorrow night. My room is opposite his, the door shut tight, but that is not where I need to go.

  I press myself against Tante’s door, the scent of dried roses seeping out with an even heavier round of sound. The knob turns, and I push the door just wide enough for my body. I place a foot soundlessly on each side, sandwiching the door open for a crevice of light.

  Eyes adjusting, I step into the room. Tante Hansa is lying faceup toward the heavens. Her eyes are closed and her snores unchanged, so I turn my attention to the reason I am there.

  Her trunk.

  For Annemette to stay, I must give the magic and Mother Urda something in return—words, gifts, or the perfect combination of both. I just need the right knowledge to guide me.

  Tante’s trunk is in the corner, ancient moose hide over the top, exactly like it was when I found my amethyst—if she’s noticed the stone missing, she’s kept it to herself. Just as she has since Anna’s death, most likely aware that I’ve tiptoed in nearly every week, borrowing books to educate myself on all she has refused to teach me.

  With careful fingers, I lift off the hide and lift open the trunk. The hinges squeak with a yawn, and the snores hiccup off rhythm. I freeze for a moment before slowly turning to check Tante Hansa. She shifts a bit toward the wall, the weak light from the doorway catching the silver strands of hair braided tightly against her crown.

  When the correct rhythm returns, I move again, opening the trunk farther until the lid leans against the wall.

  The contents are just as I remember them—bottles of potions on the right, gemstones piled high to the left. And below both of them, what I need.

  Magical tomes.

  I pick out the bottles one by one, placing them on the hide, then the gemstones, too. As the trunk empties slowly, the books come into view.

  I’m unsure which one may have the wisdom I need to keep Annemette here permanently, but I have a decent guess—the one Tante Hansa keeps tucked away at the very bottom. I pull out four books on potions—all near the top, given Hansa’s proclivities—before the books with the older, more delicate spines appear. I lean into the trunk from the shoulders on up, my nose a few inches from the covers so that I can read their titles.

  The Spliid Grimoire.

  I pull the tome onto my lap and I can feel its dense weight on my thighs. It is heavy with pages, but also with power. Inside are hundreds of spells collected through generations. I run my hands along the cover, grazing over the flowers, plants, and symbols that have been etched into its surface. I close my eyes and breathe in deeply, the smell of aged leather, parchment, and ancient inks filling my nose. There’s a rush of white-hot heat up my neck, and it’s the same delicious feeling that pulsed through my veins when Annemette taught me to spell the oysters—líf. The book is pulling me in, calling me, taunting me to open it, when suddenly, I realize the room has gone silent. Tante Hansa’s snoring has quieted.

  I steal a glance behind me. Tante Hansa has rolled to her other side but is still sound asleep. I don’t know how long the masking spell will last, but I’m wasting too much time. I tuck the volume down the front of my bodice, right up against the flat of the ribs under my arm. It bulges, but the darkness should hide it if I become visible. Then I return the other books in order and go to work on the bottles and stones.

  I’m just replacing the last stone when I feel a warm dampness against my ear.

  “You wicked, insolent child. Stealing from me in the middle of the night.”

  I pull back, so stunned that my heart is refusing to beat, but Tante Hansa moves her face closer to mine. Her brows are arched down, and her lips are pulled into a sour scowl, the regal lines of her Roman nose and strong jaw made terrifying by an anger I’ve never seen.

  “I’m just borrowing. How can you see—”

  She grabs my wrist hard, and I drop the stone to the floor. “Borrowing is stealing in the eyes of an owner left in the dark.”

  In her aging hands, my skin flashes in and out, visible to invisible, until finally my pale arm and my whole body stand out from the darkness as stark as the moonlight. The spell has lifted.

  “A witch can always sense the magic that stems from her own blood.”

  Guilt tugs at my throat. Her room and things aren’t a sweetshop, and I’m old enough not to presume so. “I would never steal from you, Tante. I’m just trying to do good—to use your knowledge for good.”

  “If there’s good to be done, I will do it myself. Pride and ignorance cannot learn a spell and save the world; they can only combine for damage.” Her fingers twist the skin at my wrist as she goes on. “Why are you here? What are you trying to do?”

  I can’t tell her. I know she’ll believe me, but that’s the problem. I promised Annemette I’d never tell anyone who she is. “I told you, I’m trying to do good!”

  “No.” Tante shakes her head. “This has to do with that girl. The girl who smells more of dark magic than a sailor smells of fish. Annemette, is it?”

  I don’t say anything. I don’t even breathe because it would feel like a betrayal.

  I try to stand, but she resists. “You are not blind, child, nor idiotic—though I still believe you to be wicked and insolent in plan tonight. And I believe it has much to do with her. Who is she?” Her eyes crinkle at the corners as she self-corrects. “What is she?”

  “I—”

  “You cannot hide much from this old witch, Evelyn.”

  No, I can’t. But I can deflect. “I just don’t want her to go.”

  “Loneliness is the weakest excuse for magic there is, and it mixes horribly with pride and ignorance.” I wince. She nods at the stone by my side on the floor. The one that dropped. “Just because you believe you’ve stolen from me before and had success does not make you a witch; it makes you a lucky thief.”

  I should be reeling from her knowledge of all the magic I’ve done—and the fact that she knowingly let me do it—but my mind is stuck on a single word in that sentence.

  Success.

  What I’ve been doing at the docks has actually worked! It was true magic. My magic. Made without anyone’s lessons.

  I did that.

  And I can do it again.

  My heart swells. Confidence zips through my veins. The grimoire burns against
my skin.

  I can do this.

  I can save Annemette. If I can reverse the Tørhed, if I can go invisible, I can do anything. I just need the right means.

  I press my lips to Tante Hansa’s dry cheek and place the fallen stone in her hand. “Tante, I’m sorry. I promise I won’t treat your things with such little respect ever again.”

  “Oh yes, you will, child. They are familiar. One cannot hold respect with the familiar. We forget our boundaries.” She moves both hands to my face, snatching my cheeks and forcing me to look deeply into her eyes. “We forget our boundaries with familiar people, too.”

  I nod. “I am sorry.”

  “As am I, child.”

  She lets me go, and it’s not until I’m slipping on my boots in the moonlight outside that I realize she didn’t mean only herself when discussing the familiar.

  She meant everyone familiar at play—Iker, Nik, and, most especially, Annemette.

  FOUR YEARS BEFORE

  Deep under the splashes at the surface, where the men came in one after another spurred by the boy’s orders, five girls with golden hair circled ’round a curiosity from above.

  A little girl, tall but with no telltale signs of womanhood, floated between them. Eyes closed. She was beautiful. Just like they were.

  One of the five, the oldest, had snagged the girl by her foot as the tow brought her under. There was no way to bring her up safely. Not with the men above. Not with the chance of being seen.

  She could only bring the girl down.

  The commotion rallied her sisters. Soon, their father would follow. And it would take every one of them if they were going to save her.

  “Lida, you must take her back up,” the second oldest said. “The sandbar is just there and—”

  “It’s too dangerous.”

  The youngest didn’t understand. Mermaids could not shed tears but this one tested the boundary, her small hand wrapped around the girl’s finger. “You brought her here to die?”

  The oldest shook her head in her determined way. “She is already gone. I brought her here to live.”