Sea Witch(43)

The old woman ignores me. As she always does. “Anneke, come, give Oma a hug. It’s been too long,” she repeats.

Annemette takes a step toward Anna’s grandmother.

Just as I’ve felt so many times this week, it’s as if I’m glancing through a looking glass at another present. One where Anna is alive, well, beautiful, and singing about boys and strawberries before embracing her beloved grandmother in the street.

But for Annemette, this is not a reunion scene.

“Fru Liesel, my name is Annemette, it’s so lovely to—”

Stronger than she looks, Fru Liesel ditches the cane and hauls Annemette to her chest with the force of both knotty hands. Annemette goes along without a fight, her face buried against the old woman’s heartbeat.

“Anna, my Anneke, why haven’t you visited? Where have you been? Your father is worried sick—I’m worried sick.”

Annemette pulls herself up and places her hands gently on the old woman’s shoulders. Kindness wraps her features. “I’ve been away, Oma. I’m so sorry. How have you been?”

My throat tightens as I watch Annemette give the old woman what no one in Havnestad ever allows her—compassion.

“Oh, I’m trying to be good, but at my age, I’d rather fly with the witches.”

“A safe bet, Oma.”

Fru Liesel is still clutching onto Annemette with both hands. Annemette bends a bit and picks up the woman’s cane and holds it out for her.

“Here you are, Oma. Now, where were you off to?”

Fru Liesel grabs the cane with her right hand but stays grasping Annemette with her left, all her weight pressed into the girl’s side.

“Home, dear. I was headed home.”

Annemette catches my eye. “Let us help you, Oma.”

I walk a few steps behind as Annemette and Fru Liesel walk arm in arm down the sea lane, up to the castle and around to a row of grand manor houses on the sunny side of the ?ldenburg Castle grounds. Fru Liesel is surely guiding Annemette, the way home being one of the few things she likely hasn’t forgotten, but Annemette seems so at ease, it’s hard not to think there’s something else calling her forward.

Anna’s childhood home is three down to the right—red brick and clean lines. It was Fru Liesel’s childhood home, and she refused to leave it when the rest of her family fled to the Jutland. I watch Annemette’s face as Fru Liesel points to it, and I tamp down the little flutter inside me that hopes she will recognize it—that this girl born of the sea really is my old friend in a shiny, impossible package. But if Annemette recognizes the grand lines of the home, it doesn’t flash across her features.

“Here we are, Oma.” Annemette’s voice is clear and sweet as they maneuver the foot stones to the front door.

“Thank you, child, my Anneke.” She rests her cane against the threshold and opens the door. “Let us have some portvin and talk of your travels. I want to hear it all, especially about the young men queuing for your hand.”

Annemette laughs gently. “Yes, Oma, we shall. But can we do it later? I have plans with Evie.”

“Oh, you and Evie, always running around. Only two fish in your school. Asger’s boy always did try to join, but even a crown can be a third wheel.” She chuckles to herself.

“That’s right, Oma.” Annemette pats Fru Liesel’s arm, finally freeing herself completely from the woman’s grasp in the process. But that freedom lasts only a moment before Fru Liesel snags her hand yet again.

“But you be careful with that girl, Anneke. Bad things follow her. Black death. Minnows floating at her feet.” Annemette catches my eye, and I don’t know what to say. “That little witch will be the death of you if you’re not careful.”





20


WE ARE NOT EVEN OUT OF VIEW FROM ANNA’S HOUSE when Annemette stops me short by grabbing both my hands, tugging me to a thatch of trees just outside the queen’s tulip garden.

“The first time you saw me, you called me Anna. And Tante Hansa mentioned an Anna too. Now this woman insists I’m her grandchild. Who is this girl? How do you know her?”

“Knew her. She’s dead.”

Annemette’s gaze softens.

I swallow but hold her eyes. The tug-of-war in my heart has ended—the little voice in my head has received a chance to be heard.

“She’s the person I think you were before you were a mermaid.”

She pitches a brow. “What do you mean before I was a mermaid? Like my soul? What is it that they believe in the spice lands . . . reincarnation?”

“No, not reincarnation—the person you were before, the person you were made from.”

“I was only made of my mother and father,” she says with certainty. “There’s no other way to make a mermaid.”

“But what if there is?” I flip our grip, and I’m now grasping her wrists. “I know it’s crazy, but my best friend, Anna Liesel Kamp, drowned four years ago. She resembled every inch of you but younger—blond hair, deep-blue eyes, freckles across the bridge of her nose. Beyond looks, she loved to sing. She was spirited, she was—”

“Evie, how many blondes have we seen here these past few days? A hundred? A thousand? I’m sure that Malvina has three blond sisters of her own. There are more blondes in Havnestad than under the entire sea. How many girls have blue eyes? Like to sing? Give cheeky answers?”