Sea Witch(35)

Our games aren’t exactly as sophisticated as the ancient Olympics Fru Seraphine taught us about in school, but they are more than enough for the people of Havnestad.

Palm out and full, I close my eyes and run the amethyst along the docked ship hulls one by one, mumbling aloud the words that seem to work, mostly because, with no one around, I don’t have to say them in my head.

“Knorr yfir haf, knorr yfir haf, sigla tryggr, fanga trír.

Knorr yfir haf, knorr yfir haf, sigla tryggr, fanga trír.”

The words hit my ear as childish, so much more sophisticated when spoken only in the space of my mind. I suddenly wish I’d trusted my magic enough to create a simple and strong Old Norse command—like something Annemette would do. I’d do it now but I’m afraid of what the change will bring.

My words are like a nursery rhyme—but they will do.

When I’m finished with every ship in port, I stand on the edge of the royal dock—the longest pier in Havnestad Harbor—and face the strait.

“Urda, if you will, bring my words to Father, wherever in the ?resund he may be. Keep him safe; leave him to me. You do not need him. Please don’t take him simply because you can.”

Anna’s face crosses my mind, open and free with laughter before she was taken by the waves. But I push it down as far as it will go, along with my dark thoughts of the morning. I need to live like Annemette, like Iker, and enjoy the day to its fullest.

I turn and head back to the castle.

I don’t see him at first, my eyes on the clouds the sun has tinged pink with the rising dawn. But then I hear the soft plink of a guitaren being strummed ever so lightly in the tulip garden. That song again, from the party.

“Nik?” His chin tilts my way, eyes swinging away from the sea. He is on the stone bench under the shade tree, the wrinkled version of his strapping statue across the garden—muslin nightclothes rumpled, unbrushed hair shoved out of his eyes with his fingertips. “Did you come out here this morning to let the birds clean the last bit of pie from behind your ears?”

“I ran a bath last night, but thanks for noticing.”

“Then you must have risen early to meditate on a plan to best Iker in the rock carry.”

Nik raises an arm and pats his lean bicep. “The only plan I need, my lady.”

I punch him on the arm, and we sit quietly for a few moments. The pink of dawn has shifted to salmon, the tone already rumbling toward the golden yellow it turns just before the classic blue sky wins out and the sun is fully over the horizon.

Fingers scrabble Nik’s hair back again from his brow, and his face turns toward the stones at our feet. After a breath, he raises his eyes to mine, and I have a feeling I might learn the real answer to his morning meditation.

“Evie . . . ,” he starts, and my heart sinks at the mournful tone. Oh no. “Evie, have you really kissed Iker?”

My heart skids to a halt and I sit there, jaw tense. I don’t know what to say. I’m not ready to talk about me and Iker. Not to Nik, anyway.

I laugh and elbow him in the ribs, hoping a joke can mend whatever is in his voice. “The real question is, have you kissed Annemette?”

I hope he’ll turn red. Say yes. Admit to it so that maybe Annemette has a chance to stay—to live!—and fill the hole in our hearts.

Instead, his face squishes up as if he’s smelled something spoiled. “Of course not. I’m a romantic, but I’m not a cad—I’m not, not . . .”

“Iker?” My voice is angrier than I intended, but there’s something in the pit of my stomach. Something hot like disappointment, not only at him for his clear disdain for Iker but for anything I do with him.

He stops and starts, and I can tell he doesn’t know where to begin. It’s rare that I ever get angry with him. Rare that he can’t bring order with a princely smile or a knowing glance, his only tools of conflict the royal formalities his mother has ingrained in him.

“I realize it’s stupid,” he says finally. “I’m sixteen and a prince to boot—I should be having fun. Mother would never let something wrongheaded get so far along. She has plans for me, besides. It’s just . . . I like Annemette. But it’s not . . . it’s not”—he looks at me, and there’s something else in his eyes—“as it is in the storybooks.” Then he glances up at me, the change in his focus clear in the set of his jaw. “And for him to kiss you . . .” Nik shakes his head, his posture withering. “God, I must sound a mess—”

“No,” I say, air rushing into my lungs just enough to get the word out.

He laughs softly under his breath. “Yes, I do. I sound crazed.”

“You sound confused. You can find ‘crazed’ in those lovesick books we read as children. Those princes who lock girls up in a tower to get their way—those are the crazy ones.”

Nik nods to himself. “Yes, Mette is a nice girl, lovely really, and beautiful, and I regret that she’ll have to return to Odense, but I don’t think I’ll ever love her enough to be . . . to be . . . her fairy-tale prince.”

My stomach practically collapses. But Nik is just speaking from the heart. He doesn’t know there is no Odense for Annemette. No . . . nothing. She’s just another girl his mother has forced upon him. What if I told him the truth? Maybe that would change things. Evie, what are you talking about? Tell him she’s a mermaid? But maybe he’d see how wonderful she is and would want to save her, just like he tried to save Anna. But then this truly would all be on his shoulders. All that guilt. Can love spring from guilt? Is that true love? I don’t know . . . how should I know what true love is? No, if I told him the truth, it might ruin any further time she has to win him over. This is all my fault, for trouncing around with Iker while Nik spends precious time worrying about me, taking his mind off Annemette. I have to try something else.