Sea Witch(21)

“Sorry to disappoint you,” she says. “Born a mermaid, hopefully not forever one.” She dances gracefully into an arabesque pose.

I stop walking. My brows pull together. My courage rises. “But is it possible, for a human to drown and become a merperson?”

She shakes her head and I reset.

“How long can you stay like that?”

Annemette glances down for a moment and then her eyes are up and locked with mine. “A few minutes,” she says, her back leg still high in the air.

“No, I mean, how long can you stay human?”

Her eyes shift at the word. She stands up straight and stretches. “Not long,” she says after a pause. “At least not as I am. But it depends.”

“Depends on what?” I push back.

“I promise to tell you,” she says, though I can see in her hesitation that she doesn’t quite trust me. Her face turns pale and she almost looks scared—lost, even. “It’s just that I have to see Nik first, or none of it will matter.”

The little pearl pulses against my neck—líf. Her magic is strong, but good. She saved his life. The least I can do is make an introduction. I glance quickly at the sun on its descent toward the mountains. “We should get going. The Lithasblot festivities will start soon,” I say. “It’s our harvest festival. People come from all over. They’ve even heard of us in Copenhagen, I swear.”

“Sounds fun,” Annemette says. “And Nik will be there?”

I nod yes. If she tries anything, I have Tante Hansa’s and my mother’s magic in my blood. She grasps my hand tight.

“Let’s go.”

When we come upon the beach where tonight’s festivities are, the palace staff and some local villagers are still setting up. We’re a little early. The livestock stage is being nailed together, and a hundred or so people are milling about fixing decorations, laying out food, and tending the bonfire, where soon a giant hog will be trussed up on a spit.

“It’s not Copenhagen, but it is a kingdom, I suppose. As the sun goes down, the beach will be so full you can barely see a grain of sand.”

“We have some pretty good parties on the sand where I come from too.”

I laugh. “I’m sure you do.”

Suddenly Annemette walks up to the fire and holds out her hands. I forget that she’s never seen fire like this before.

“Whoa there, young lady,” says Herre Olsen, the tailor, pushing Annemette back before I can get to her. “Any closer and you’ll soon be roasting with the hog.”

“Thank you,” Annemette says with a curtsy. “I’m sorry.”

“Who are you here with?” he asks.

“I’m visiting for the festival with—”

“Me,” I interject, steering her away from the scowl on the tailor’s face. “Thank you, Herre Olsen.

“We need to give you a better backstory,” I whisper, guiding her toward the castle grounds.

The townspeople like to talk, especially about me, but the king and queen will need something substantial if their son is going to be seen speaking to her. A lowly girl without a house name is not good enough; I would know.

We decide to give her the title of a baron’s daughter, the same title Anna had: friherrinde. A friherrinde from far away—Odense—come to see our unusual Lithasblot. Her chaperone has fallen ill, and Tante Hansa is tending to her. I’m filling in as her chaperone and guide. Yes. It’ll work. Another lie added to the list. I suppose there’s some truth behind the town gossips whispering that I spread falsehoods, saying the prince should not trust me. But telling the truth to gain their approval is not a risk I’m willing to take.

“When will we see Nik?” Annemette asks, tired of reciting her story to me.

“Don’t worry.” I point to the giant stone monstrosity on the hill. “He’s waiting for me up there.”

Annemette follows my finger.

“?ldenburg Castle,” I say. “Five hundred years old and as drafty as a sailboat.”

I guide her to the queen’s garden, which is rich with tulips of every color. Annemette proclaims each one the most beautiful thing she’s ever seen until she gets to the next one. And the next. “I love to garden,” she says.

Her mouth drops with a gasp when we get to the queen’s pride and joy—statutes of her family, each taller than a horse, circled up among the tulips. The king and queen are fashioned as they were on their wedding day, the marble smooth and glistening from the years. And there, next to them, is the latest version of Nik—eleven feet tall and chiseled as if lunging across the bow of a great sea vessel.

“Is that . . . him?”

She stands on her tippy toes, fingertips not even getting so far as his tastefully unbuttoned collar.

“Yes, yes, that’s him.”

“He looks different than I remember. Drier, I guess.” She laughs.

We crest the steps and there, already waiting and watching Havnestad Harbor, is Nik. He’s freshly washed after his trip to the farms, the light crown he’s forced to wear for festival days pressed down over his wet hair. I always think he looks ridiculous all fancy in Havnestad’s customary blue-and-gold suit, but Queen Charlotte is from the fjords up north and very traditional. She insists he emulate his official portrait for the high holidays of the Old Norse.