Sea Witch(40)

“Unsteady so soon, Cousin?” Iker laughs in the background.

I can’t see him, but I’m sure Nik is smiling right back. “Jeer me, and you only serve to anger me.”

In the time it’s taken him to steady himself and answer Iker’s ribbing, I’ve already made it five steps. The logs are slicked over, but mine is the perfect size for my feet. Planting each foot in a turnout à la the French ballet, I can move quickly to the center point with shallow steps. Beside me, Nik hasn’t altered his stride, daring gravity to take him with every long step, but using his strength and coordination to stay steady.

I make it to the end of my log and tag the ground on the other side, earning me a flag raise from Ruyven’s counterpart.

“Excellent, Evie!” Annemette cheers.

I get both feet back onto my log just as Nik lunges off the end of his and safely into the dirt.

“Mette, you traitor,” Nik yells, mounting his log a bit too quickly. His arms windmill through my periphery in a grand arc—the crowd gasps.

“Less jawing, more movement, Cousin. Evie’s smoking you!”

“You only root for me because you’re stupid enough to think you can beat me in the next round. Against her you won’t have a chance, and you know it.”

I’m still in the lead but just barely, my steps slower and more careful now. Over the years, I’ve seen many a competitor fall in the river a yard from the finish because his mind was already on land. I could easily whisper one of Tante Hansa’s spells and dry the log without any notice, but I won’t do that. I’m not a cheat. So my heart stills as I concentrate on the log before me, the sound of rushing water the only thing in my ears.

Nik is beside me, but my tunnel vision has drowned him out—if his arms are flailing or if he is steady and slowing too, I don’t know. All I know is that when I touch dirt, Ruyven raises my arm, and when I look over, Nik is there too, hands on his hips, breathing at a good clip.

“The lady, by an inch!” Ruyven says. Annemette is clapping and Iker, too, though his game face is already sliding into place. The rest of the crowd is mostly silent until Nik raises his hands above his head in thanks—then they go wild.

“Well done, Evie.” Nik squeezes my shoulder. Then he leans in, for my ears only. “Ignore them. They only cheer because they have to.” Then, to the crowd, he says, “Let’s hear it for Evie!”

Slightly heartier applause chases his exclamation, but—not shockingly—also some boos. And then all eyes swing to Iker. His gaze is locked on my face, the glee in the blue of his eyes already hardening to concentration. If Iker competes in the grand way that he does everything else, I’m going to need much more than an inch.

I turn and place my foot on the log.

“Are you sure you’re ready to exert yourself again so quickly, Evelyn?”

“Quit stalling, Romeo. Let’s go.”

I glance over to Ruyven, who is having a fine time laughing at our expense. Ruyven meets my eyes, his normally dough-pale face now plum red, and raises his flag for a start. Iker is still a step or two away from his log, turned around, playing to the crowd. I settle my footing, calf muscles tense beneath my dress.

“On your marks . . .” It takes Iker almost a second too long to register the words. Ruyven is onto the next part before the crown prince of Rigeby Bay has time to turn. “Get set . . .” Iker is a yard from his log. “Go!”

I dash onto my log, keeping my chest low, hips square and knees bent. I’m five feet in front when Iker finally mounts his log, but in true Iker form, he takes the lead with just two grand steps.

The surrounding wood is alive with voices, so strong that they rise above my concentration and the babbling of the stream—Iker is always one to bring out the rowdiness in any situation.

“Go get him!” Annemette yells.

“You’ve got this, Evie!” Nik cheers.

But I don’t have it. Iker is already a yard from touching down on the other side of the log, his bold steps risky but not without reward. I am still at least ten careful steps from the bank and the chance to turn around. When Iker’s feet hit the dirt, he immediately spins and points to the flagman on the other side and then raises his arms, grand and proud as he addresses the crowd.

“Will no one cheer for the first-place horse? Am I so hideous?”

At this, every girl in the crowd, save Annemette, screams his name. It’s the same chorus that I picture when he lands aground anywhere in the ?resund Kingdoms.

Iker’s grandstanding costs him, though, and I touch down on the dirt just after he’s mounted his log. He calculates that he’s made an error in timing and immediately sprints for the other side, half leaping to stay in front of me.

I’m tempted to speed up and take longer steps, but I hold back, the log even slicker than before.

So I take my time. Quick steps, eyes only for the log, breath steady and calm.

I’m in the lead at the midpoint, a second victory in my sights. And that’s exactly when someone in the crowd decides a prince can’t lose yet again, and a branch whizzes through the air, catching me across the neck.

The pain is sharp, and I lose my balance. I’m falling toward the water and Iker’s log before I can do anything physically or magically to stop it. As I’m falling, I think for a split second of Annemette’s floating spell, and I almost say the command, but I can’t do that here. Still, I hang in the air for the slightest of seconds before I catch Annemette’s eyes. I see them shift to the look of concentration I saw in Greta’s Lagoon. Don’t do it, I glare. Not here.