Sea Witch(33)

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 ?ldenburg kings on both sides of the ?resund 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.”