Sea Witch(49)

23


THREE HOURS LATER, ONLY THE SILVER MOON AND I are still awake. Midnight came and passed long ago, but sleep remains elusive, my mind churning like the angriest of seas. Less than twenty-four hours remain until Annemette’s time is up, but I refuse to stand by and watch her become more foam in the sea. I will not be left powerless again.

I slide from the sheets and tiptoe over to my trunk. I open it slowly, revealing my petticoats. Tucked underneath are the amethyst and the vial of black octopus ink. They were in the pocket of the dress I wore at the log race, and I stashed them in here so the dress could be sent to the maids and cleaned—Nik insisted. I gather the two items and close the trunk, dress quickly, then snatch up my boots by the door. Rather than put them on, I pad out into the hall, feeling the cool marble on my bare feet.

I shut the door as quietly as possible and head outside to the tulip garden. Despite the full guest wing, not a soul passes me, and Nik, Iker, and the king and queen are thankfully two wings away.

Outside, the air is warm, but the sky is black, clouds now covering the moon. Up ahead a guard stands watch at the archway. I can’t let him see me. I don’t even want to think of the rumors that would spread if word got out that I left in the dead of the night, so I’ve come prepared. With my hand clasped around the amethyst in my pocket, I focus inward, letting the magic rise in my blood. When I’m ready, I take the octopus ink and pull out the small cork stopper. The smell of the sea fills my nose, and I pause before bringing the vial to my lips. Greíma, I think, then pour the vial’s contents down my throat, the briny liquid making my tongue tingle.

I stand as quiet and still as possible, waiting for the spell to take hold. But nothing happens. It didn’t work. My stomach sinks. I spent the whole night in bed going over and over this spell, trying to do it just the way I know Annemette would. And now I’ve drunk the whole vial of ink, and I can’t try again. I turn to go back inside, but now my body won’t move. My heart begins to pound, and I feel a great pressure crushing my chest. My legs go numb and my vision blurs. When the sun rises, Nik will surely find me lying here dead, another friend gone.

Then, in a split second, it all stops just as quickly as it started. I suck in a breath of air and bring my hands to my face to collect myself, but I realize I can see right through them. It worked! I wiggle my fingers before my eyes, but all I see are the queen’s tulips on the other side. I’m invisible—or rather, I’m blending in, my body and clothes camouflaging with the world around me.

I hold my breath and walk as quietly as I can past the guard and out the gate, not risking a glance behind me. Once I leave the castle grounds, I head straight toward my lane, only pausing to put my boots on, a satisfied smile resting on my lips.

At home, I slide off my boots on the stoop, bare feet yet again much more efficient for what I must do. On tiptoe, shoes in hand, I step over the threshold and into the house. Familiar smells of coffee, Tante Hansa’s pickling brine, and remnants of boiled octopus ink greet my nose. From Tante’s room I can hear her thunderous snores. Father’s door is open, his bed still empty until tomorrow night. My room is opposite his, the door shut tight, but that is not where I need to go.

I press myself against Tante’s door, the scent of dried roses seeping out with an even heavier round of sound. The knob turns, and I push the door just wide enough for my body. I place a foot soundlessly on each side, sandwiching the door open for a crevice of light.

Eyes adjusting, I step into the room. Tante Hansa is lying faceup toward the heavens. Her eyes are closed and her snores unchanged, so I turn my attention to the reason I am there.

Her trunk.

For Annemette to stay, I must give the magic and Mother Urda something in return—words, gifts, or the perfect combination of both. I just need the right knowledge to guide me.

Tante’s trunk is in the corner, ancient moose hide over the top, exactly like it was when I found my amethyst—if she’s noticed the stone missing, she’s kept it to herself. Just as she has since Anna’s death, most likely aware that I’ve tiptoed in nearly every week, borrowing books to educate myself on all she has refused to teach me.

With careful fingers, I lift off the hide and lift open the trunk. The hinges squeak with a yawn, and the snores hiccup off rhythm. I freeze for a moment before slowly turning to check Tante Hansa. She shifts a bit toward the wall, the weak light from the doorway catching the silver strands of hair braided tightly against her crown.

When the correct rhythm returns, I move again, opening the trunk farther until the lid leans against the wall.

The contents are just as I remember them—bottles of potions on the right, gemstones piled high to the left. And below both of them, what I need.

Magical tomes.

I pick out the bottles one by one, placing them on the hide, then the gemstones, too. As the trunk empties slowly, the books come into view.

I’m unsure which one may have the wisdom I need to keep Annemette here permanently, but I have a decent guess—the one Tante Hansa keeps tucked away at the very bottom. I pull out four books on potions—all near the top, given Hansa’s proclivities—before the books with the older, more delicate spines appear. I lean into the trunk from the shoulders on up, my nose a few inches from the covers so that I can read their titles.

The Spliid Grimoire.

I pull the tome onto my lap and I can feel its dense weight on my thighs. It is heavy with pages, but also with power. Inside are hundreds of spells collected through generations. I run my hands along the cover, grazing over the flowers, plants, and symbols that have been etched into its surface. I close my eyes and breathe in deeply, the smell of aged leather, parchment, and ancient inks filling my nose. There’s a rush of white-hot heat up my neck, and it’s the same delicious feeling that pulsed through my veins when Annemette taught me to spell the oysters—líf. The book is pulling me in, calling me, taunting me to open it, when suddenly, I realize the room has gone silent. Tante Hansa’s snoring has quieted.