Sea Witch(52)

Dawn is just minutes away, the indigo night reaching past Havnestad to the west while a shade a tick lighter licks at the horizon. Between the coming light and the glow of the candle, I calm myself and read with eyes bleary from a lack of sleep.

Luckily, I found what I was looking for before my body gave in to rest last night. I can almost recite it—but I don’t want to take any chances, recalling the panic I felt earlier when I thought the masking spell had gone wrong.

In the brighter light, I focus my eyes on the flipping pages, attention on the upper right-hand corner.

Where is it?

After a few minutes, there it is—the triton. Etched into the page, the symbol of the sea king. I huddle over the page and read.

The sea is forever defined by its tide, give and take the measure of its barter. In magic, as in life, the sea does not give its subjects lightly—payment is required, the value equivalent, no matter the ask. A shell, a fish, a pearl of the greatest brilliance—none can be taken without a debt to be paid.

I know magical barter. I’ve known it my whole life. I saw it in my mother’s eyes the moment before she died, giving her life for mine. If there’s a way out of the spell Annemette used to come to land, I’ll find it.

I look up at the sun rising.

In eighteen hours it will be midnight.

In eighteen hours, Annemette’s time is up.

I can’t lose her again.

Blowing out the candle, I hide my book in a crevice in the wall and slide the crate of oysters in front of it.

My fingers dab at the pearl at my throat—Annemette’s pearl—the light that showed me the way to my own magic. I’m grateful to Annemette, and now, hopefully, I can return the favor.

I make my way to the docks, the winds from deep within the ?resund Strait airing out the crowd of ships with fresh breeze and salt brine. Every spot is full, and half the boats will be leaving in the morning. Half the boats, including Iker’s—with me on board. A warmth grows in my heart when his little schooner, towed in and repaired from the storm, comes into view, tied in place to the royal dock.

I press the little amethyst to the hull of Iker’s boat for double the time I do any other ship. But I do touch them all, moving swiftly, repeating my words. This magic needs to be done before I test the kind that will keep Annemette home.

In an hour, I’ve finished. Dawn has risen completely, scarlet and salmon painted in wide swaths about the horizon. It’s just bright enough that I squint into the light as I stand on the edge of the royal dock, the one that leads deepest into the harbor.

My heart begins to pound, a nervous twinge climbing my spine. Seventeen hours. I know how to exchange words for what I want, but not items, so now is the time to work it out. I place one hand on the pearl and hold my amethyst in the other. My two most prized material possessions. Items I’d fight for—though it’s a toss-up as to which one I should use. I squeeze my eyes shut and make my choice.

Then, I summon Annemette’s confidence. Mother’s magic. My own stubbornness.

There’s no reason why this won’t work.

I can do this.

I can do this.

“Skipta.”

From the tips of my toes to the crown of my head, the oldest of magic crackles through me like Nordic ice ripping through a ship’s hull. The sea pours into my veins.

I toss the amethyst into the waters, and I watch it sink.

Then I wait. My heart thuds in my ears, fear mingling with the magic’s chill. At my throat, the pearl throbs, frozen. I tell myself to be patient. Remember last night. This is how it works, but after five breaths, the panic is so great in my heart that I drop to my knees.

Fickle sea with nothing to give.

I haul myself over the side of the dock, fingers straining against the weather-beaten boards as I get my face as close to the surface of the water as possible, vision straining for any sign of my precious gemstone.

But all I see is my reflection. Pale and nervous, exhaustion and worry coating my features.

“What have I done?”

Shame bites at my heart. Heat rises in my cheeks, but a chill runs the length of my spine. I whip my head up and fall back onto the dock, curls snagging in the boards. My fingers dab at the pearl.

Tante Hansa was right—I was a lucky thief, but with cheap parlor tricks. I’m not a witch yet—not like my aunt, my mother or Maren Spliid. I’m just a—

Sea spray cuts off my thoughts, shooting straight up from the water like a whale spout just below the surface. My eyes widen as they scan an object within the stream. I struggle to sit up fast enough to cup my palms into position as it begins its descent.

When it lands, I close my grip, protecting it. Protecting the hope that has risen in my heart.

I take a breath and open my hand.

A stone as blue as the noontime sky and smooth as glass sits there, the same weight and size as my amethyst.

Just as sure as the tide, it worked.

I gave. It took. It gave. I took.

Just as I’d hoped.

Clutching the blue gemstone, I hop to my feet and meet the sea’s gaze.

“Skipta.” Exchange.

I drop the gemstone back in the water and hold my breath, thinking about my amethyst. Hope piling in my heart that I can haggle with the sea to get the exact exchange I want.

“Skipta,” I repeat, and then whisper the only Old Norse word I know that’s close to what I want. “Bjarg.” Stone.