Sea Witch(78)

The girl blanches. Her blue eyes fade to the middle distance. For all the time she spent thinking before making her request, plucking those flowers from her garden, summoning the courage to swim past the polypi and above the turfmoor, this is something that never crossed her mind. I had heard that the sea king had destroyed the ledgers with the story of Queen Mette, hiding history so that it could not become the future. This girl proves that. If she could have researched more, she would have.

After several moments, her eyes return to my face. Resolute.

“I will do it.”

“Very well. But I must be paid also—and it is not a trifle that I ask.”

The girl lights up. “I can give you whatever you want,” she says. “Gems, jewelry, the finest pearls—please.” Privilege and things define the life she hopes to leave.

I don’t need pearls. The one from long ago had held enough false promises for a lifetime.

“I only ask for one thing: your voice.”

The girl’s fingers immediately fly to her throat. “My voice?”

“It is imperative that you do not tell a lie above.”

“I won’t lie.”

I cock a brow at her. “You won’t without a voice, will you? And if you write a lie while above, your fingers shall fall off.”

The girl swallows hard. “If the price is my voice—though I shall not tell a lie—how . . . how . . . ?”

“You’ll have your beautiful form, your graceful walk, and your expressive eyes,” I say, lowering my intonation in the way of Tante Hansa so long ago. “Surely, if you are willing to brave my dark magic and leave your family and friends without a word, you can communicate to your true love without a word as well.”

The little mermaid’s lips snap shut, her mind working furiously for another way.

My brow arches higher. “Unless you fear his love is not true?”

“It is! It is. He is my true love. Take my voice! Take it! It is worth the cost!”

I slither a tentacle to her face and tip up her chin. There is something else in her eyes—not just fear or longing or love. “Do you really love him or do you love the idea of being human?”

The girl’s pupils bloom and her jaw stiffens. Finally, brave thing, she speaks without looking away. “What is it like—to be human?”

I won’t give her a bag of saltlakrids and tell her a magnificent story—I am not her grandmother.

If I were, I could tell her that it’s like the tang of summer wine and the ring of voices as a new ship docks. Like the scent of salt and limes and the twinkle of a boy’s eyes just before a kiss in the moonlight.

But I don’t say that. I can’t.

If she loses her voice in proving her love, then so be it.

“Very well.” I slide my tentacle to her waist and pull her even closer. And suddenly it’s as if the girl’s voice is already gone, her lips dropped open, no sound escaping. I place my fingers to her bare throat, luminous and elegant even in the bleak light of my home—a pearl shining in the murky depths. Her pulse thrums beneath her warm skin, the first true heartbeat I’ve felt since Anna’s faded in my grasp. “Tell me exactly what it is you love about this Niklas.”

“You . . . you just want me to talk?”

“You will have your voice for only a few more moments, my dear. Use the time wisely.”

The girl swallows again and then takes a heavy breath.

“I first saw Niklas on the day I turned fifteen. It could be called love at first sight—but I’d seen his face before. In a statue I’ve had in my castle garden since I turned ten. Those red flowers I brought you, they grow—”

“Yes, the ?ldenburgs love their statues,” I say, sounding again very much like Hansa. “There is yet to be love in this story. Only coincidence and horticulture.”

The girl licks her lips and recasts. “I stayed beside the boat all night, watching this boy. Then, after midnight, a great storm came, waves crashing down so hard, the ship toppled onto its side. The sailors were in the water, but I didn’t see the boy.” Here, her voice hitches. “I dove down until I found him. His limbs were failing him and his eyes were closed. I pulled him up to the surface and held his head above water. We stayed like that the whole night. And when the sun returned and the ocean calmed, I kissed his forehead and swam him to land.”

Reflexively, my tentacle tightens around her waist as I’m reminded of Annemette, even though I’ve read enough to know this story by heart. A storm, a shipwreck, a savior.

“And?” I ask.

“I placed him on a beach beside a great building. I stayed to watch, hiding among some rocks, covered in sea foam. Soon, a beautiful girl found him and sounded the alarm. I knew then that he would live. He awoke, and was smiling at the girl.”

“No smile for you?”

“No.” The determination returns to her voice. “But I wanted that smile—I want it now. I want him to know that I saved him. That I love him. And I want him to love me.”

Ah. She’s lied to me.

“But you said he already does.”

The girl looks away, caught. Finally, she continues. “For the past year, I’ve watched him. And I know if I could just be human, he would love me. He thinks he’s in love with the girl from the beach, but I saved him. I saved Niklas.”