Sea Witch
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 throat. “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 wave 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.
He stands.
A charge of lightning rips across the sky.
The ship tips, pulled down with the weight of the wave, rocking Nik headfirst into the deep.
4
“NIK!”
I scream his name as loudly as I can. The boat rights itself, but there’s no sign of him along the portside. Only wet wood and sea foam where he once was.
“NIK!” I wail again and let go of the wheel, passing Iker and sprinting toward the stairs to the main deck.
My mind moves faster than my wind-battered body, a string of thoughts running together in the murk as I dash forward, not caring or paying attention to the wind, the rain, the course, or even Iker.
No.
You CANNOT have him, you wicked sea.
Your mermaids will have to take someone else.
Nik belongs to me.
“Evie!” Iker yells. “Don’t! Come back! It’s not—”
“NIK!” I lunge down the stairs. The deck boards are slick under my boots, but I race to the spot where Nik fell. The wind whips my curls about my face as I squint through the rain and night at the churning sea below. “NIK!”
I yell his name over and over, my voice becoming raw and weak, to the point where it’s barely a whisper. Finally, we reach the royal dock. I drop onto the wood before Iker and the coal man even have time to anchor. I scan the horizon for any sign of a long arm, a flop of hair, or a piece of boot.
Iker heaves himself over the railing and onto the dock next to me, leaving the coal man to free the rest of the passengers from the captain’s quarters. “Evie,” he says, his voice much calmer than it should be—the sea captain in him overruling his bloodline. “Look there.” He points to just this side of the horizon, where the stars have returned, unhidden by the clouds. “The storm’s almost over. Nik’s a strong swimmer.”
I nod, my hopes pinned on the reason in his eyes. “But we still need to find him,” I say. Everything my father taught me about the sea kicks in, and I point to a spot in the churning waves. “We were about there.” I move my outstretched fingers in a sloping line in the direction of the wind, following the line until it lands on the cove side of Havnestad Beach. “Which means he will most likely be . . . there.”
I don’t look to Iker for confirmation—I just take off down the dock, tear onto the sand, and race across the shoreline in that direction.
“Nik!” I choke, my voice still raspy and hopeless against the wind. Iker is on my heels for a few strides and then ahead of me in a few more.
Havnestad Cove is part jutting rock, part silty beach. There’s a rolling W shape to it, and a few large boulders form footstep islands toward its center, before the waters become too deep. In good weather, it’s a beautiful escape from the rest of the harbor. In bad weather, it’s a hurricane in a birdbath.
Iker points to the biggest island—Picnic Rock. “I’m going there to see what I can.”
The wind is already calming, the rain tapering off. Even the lightning seems to be behind us, disappearing with the storm into the mountains. The swiftness of such a powerful storm confounds me. The magic in my blood prickles at the strangeness, but I have no time to think of things beyond this world.
I tilt my chin toward a mass of rocks farther along the shore, the point that makes the W by jutting deep into the middle of the cove. It’s just tall enough that it blinds us from the remainder of the beach.
“I’ll climb up there and take a look on the other side.”
“Wait!” Iker says, his face weary. For once, he doesn’t seem to know what to say. He reaches his hand through my hair and pulls me close. My heart is pounding.
“Iker, we ca—” The words are whispers on my tongue—that we can’t delay, that he shouldn’t slow me down—when he tips my chin up and his lips are on mine.
I breathe him in, long and deep, and for a moment we’re not on a gritty beach, soaked to the bone, searching for Nik. We’re somewhere far from here. A place where class, title—none of that matters. Somewhere that surely doesn’t exist outside of this instant. Another trick of the gods.
He pulls back, and I’m stunned still, staring into his cool eyes.
“Be careful,” he says.
Shaken back to reality, I pick up my waterlogged skirts and run along the coastline to the wall of stone. The swift clouds have almost reached their end, their tail nearly directly above the cove entrance. Starry night reigns above the massive sea beyond, calm waters with it. My eyes are constantly scanning the waves, looking for any sign of Nik.
But there’s nothing.
I steal a glance back at Iker. He’s already made it to Picnic Rock, hoisting himself up. I breathe a sigh of relief that the stormy churn didn’t wash him away and turn back to the approaching boulder just steps ahead.
I’ve climbed this giant rock hundreds of times since childhood, as have most of Havnestad’s youth. I know the placement of the fingerholds with my eyes shut; my boots automatically drift to the perfect places to wedge themselves before taking another step up. The rain has all but stopped now, and the crag of stone is mostly damp, not slick.
I lug myself on top and scan the waters again, squinting at every irregularity, struggling to use the limited moonlight to make out what is yet another coastal rock and what might be Nik. I close my eyes, dread piling at my feet as I pivot toward the hidden portion of the cove. When my eyes spring open, I have to blink again to make sure my mind isn’t playing tricks. A flash of bright-white fabric swims on the distant sandy line.
My heart swells with hope. I scramble down the rock and onto the other side of the beach. My feet work overtime to propel my body forward as the wet sand swallows my boots with each step.
Lightning radiates over the mountains, illuminating the sky for a flash—long enough for my brain to register the outline of Nik’s body against the sand.
And the form of a girl hovering over him.
“NIK!” I yell, my voice coming back to me.
In response comes Iker’s baritone from behind, “Evie!”
But I don’t wait for him. I don’t even turn in Iker’s direction, keeping my eyes only on Nik and the girl leaning over him, her body still mostly submerged. Without another stroke of lightning, I can’t make out much more than her long, long hair—so long it drapes over the white of Nik’s shirt.
The girl’s head tilts up in the moonlight as if she’s just now noticed me running toward her at full speed. The lightning returns in a burst, and though my legs keep moving, my heart skids to a stop.
Large blue eyes. Butter-blond curls. Creamy flush of skin.
It’s the girl. The one from the porthole.
Anna?
No, it can’t be.
Recognition seems to fill the girl’s eyes, and her features skip from contented calm to a pure rush of panic. Panic that sends her straight into motion. A gust of wind pushes her hair over the curve of her shoulder as she takes one hasty and last glance at Nik’s face before heaving herself fully into the water.
“Wait!” I yell as best I can, but it’s useless with her ears deep under the waves.
In less than a breath, I get to Nik and crash to the sand next to him, pulling his chest to mine, my ear to his mouth. A rush of air from his lips touches my cheek as Iker yells both our names from behind.
Nik’s lungs work in great rasps, but they work. His eyes are closed, but he seems to be conscious.
“Evie . . .”
“I’m here, Nik. I’m here.”
A ghost of a smile touches his lips. “Evie . . . keep singing, Evie.”
Confused, I begin correcting him. “Nik, I’m not—I don’t . . .”
My mouth goes dry. I scan the waters for any sign of the girl. The girl who looks like Anna all grown up. The girl who must like to sing the way my friend did as a child.