Sea Witch(39)

Annemette’s cheeks flush, though the pink is tempered by the mountain light. “I’ve done everything I can to show him how I feel, and still no kiss! But I do think he likes me.”

“He does. I know he does!” I push this morning out of my mind entirely. Nik has heeded my words. I know it. It’s going to be all right.

She is quiet for a second, her features mellowing with thought. “My father, the sea king, says that when everything is as you hoped, you are blind to the imperfections.”

Somehow, I’m stunned silent that the sea king in our childhood tales is as real as the mermaid before me. Finally, I nod. “Your father is wise.”

“But I’m not blind. His wise words ring in my ears when I should be enjoying every moment. Instead, I look past the perfect couple we are on the outside and see all the reasons why Nik isn’t in love with me.”

“I know what you mean,” I say.

“No, Iker loves you.”

I shake my head. “I would like Iker to love me. But Iker has a reputation for kissing any girl whose knees go weak at the sight of him—and I’m not the only one in the ?resund Kingdoms with trouble standing. Iker and I are not forever, and I’m trying to be all right with that.”

She looks at her feet. “So, he has other girls he treats like you?”

“Yes. Or he did. I don’t know.” I can feel my face flushing. “The point is, Nik does not! There is only one fish in his sea and it is you . . .”

“That is a ridiculous analogy, Evie.”

“And here I thought it was clever, given your situation.”

Annemette squeezes her eyes shut, and I regret making a stupid joke at a time like this. “My situation. Yes.” She huffs out a sad little laugh. “Such a situation—love at first sight with a boy who won’t even kiss me. I was so sure he was going to lead to a lifetime of happiness, not . . .”

Neither of us wants to say what her life will be otherwise.





18


WHEN NIK AND IKER RETURN, THEY ARE EAGER TO prove who is the strongest, the fastest, the most agile, their egos sorely bruised after both losing the mountain run. It seems the tailor’s son, little Johan Olsen, is not so little anymore.

“I’ve never seen someone run like him,” Nik admits as we make our way over to the Havnestad River, which slices through the mountains before emptying to the sea. “It was a sight to see.”

“You want to see a sight?” says Iker. “Challenge me to a log run, Cousin. I could beat ten of that Olsen boy, and you, too.”

I look over at Annemette, who has plastered a smile on her face and is laughing along with the boys. And, because I’d love to see Iker dunked in the Havnestad River, I am totally encouraging it too.

Nik chuckles—a royal chuckle, but an actual chuckle nonetheless. As we reach the riverbank, he’s still contemplating. He props one foot up on the tail end of the right log. There’s an open one to his left, ready for Iker.

“If I’m not mistaken,” Nik says, “I heard you came to this Lithasblot extravaganza with the promise of a certain raven-haired girl scampering across a log, and it wasn’t me, Cousin.”

Nik! How could he? But I laugh an Iker laugh, head thrown toward the sky. Nik is losing it too—chortling so hard that his foot has slipped off the end of the log and he’s nearly squatted to a sit on the thing.

Annemette, though, has her wits about her. I right myself just as she glances my way with a wicked little grin and a gleam in her eyes. “How about this compromise? Nik and Evie race. The winner faces Iker.”

Iker’s brows climb his forehead and his eyes sparkle, clear and thrilled. He claps his big, strong hands together. “Yes. That’s it. The lady has the perfect idea!”

I shake my head. “Yes, the perfect idea to keep herself dry.”

Annemette shrugs and backs into the small crowd that has gathered, lined along the rocks and logs. “I’m just a spectator.”

Nik laughs and manages a long lunge to nudge her sweetly with his elbow. “That’s what I thought, too, my dear, and now look where it’s got me.”

I cock a brow at him. “Yes, as my first victim.”

“Hey, now, what makes you so sure you’ll win?” Nik says to me, a smile playing at his lips, though his tone is attempting to sound indignant.

“Sometimes you just have a feeling, my prince. You’re sure to be a loser, Asger Niklas Bryniulf ?ldenburg III.”

As the spectators and competitors chant Nik’s name, he plants a foot on the log across from me. Both logs are suspended just above the current, tied by ship ropes on either side to keep them straight and somewhat steady—to keep the competition fair, not to create ease.

It is twenty-five feet from one end to the other. We must race to the other side, touch the bank, and then make a return trip. The first one back or the one to stay out of the water wins. If we both wind up in the river, then it’s a draw, no matter who fell first.

Our classmate, Ruyven Van Horn, squashed ginger hair, elephant ears and all, is there between us, the official start on his lips. “On your marks . . . get set . . . go!”

We lunge onto the logs. Nik’s legs are much longer, and he’s ahead after a step, but his center of gravity is much higher, and he immediately wobbles.