“Come on, Evie. Come on.” He prayed to the old gods as well as the Lutheran one when he had the breath, his body fighting the tow for them both, the shoreline distant but in his sights.
Moving forward, he turned his head as much as the weight and struggle would allow, hoping for a flash of blond safely at the sandbar.
He saw nothing.
On the shore, he called as loud as he could for help. He set Evie on the sand, brushing back her curls, ear to her mouth.
No breath.
He rolled her over and pounded on her back. Salt water streamed from her lips and nose, dribbling onto the beach.
People came then. Men from the docks, women from the sea lane. They crowded around, speaking in whispered tones about the girl. They never had nice things to say about her, even with her this way.
The boy told the men that there was one more. Pointed them toward the sandbar and empty waves. Barked orders of rescue. The men listened. Because of the boy’s name.
The boy blew air into the girl’s lungs and pounded her on the back again, moving her hair out of the way to make more impact. More water came forth, this time in a great gush, along with the rasp of a breath.
Her eyes blinked open, dark and worn.
“Nik?”
“Yes! Evie, yes!”
Smiling briefly, he hugged her close then, even if it was inappropriate, with her bare-shouldered in her petticoat and him a prince. But he didn’t care because she was alive. Evie was alive.
“Anna?” she asked.
They turned their eyes to the sea.
8
HAVNESTAD THRUMS WITH ENERGY.
The brightness of summer and the thrill of Urda’s festival combine to create the kind of charge one usually witnesses with a coming storm. It has me up early, feeling light and free after such a black night.
As I walk down to the harbor, amethyst in my pocket, I see Nik’s carriage pass by. I wave my hand, but I can’t tell if he’s seen me. He’s surely headed into the valley to visit the farmers in his father’s stead, a Lithasblot tradition. We give thanks to Urda but also to those who work our fields.
The ships in port are empty, but I run my closed palm along their lengths, spelling them though they won’t be headed anywhere this day or the next. On a morning as glorious as this one, it is not hard to conjure the words for Urda, yet I can’t help but think back to Nik’s speech. No magic can trick her. No words can ply her. No will can sway her. Is my spell a trick? A panic suddenly seizes me. My heart beats fast and my feet feel like lead. The dock begins to spin before my eyes. Is this my punishment? I close my eyes to right my balance. I’m being silly. My magic is not meant to deceive. My words are intended to honor Urda, honor her sea. Bring life. Surely she knows that. My heart rate starts to slow and I leave the docks. I need a distraction.
Nik isn’t supposed to return from the farms until midafternoon, and while the streets will soon be alive with festival visitors, the real party doesn’t get started until suppertime, when Nik will have to judge the livestock. So I walk down Market Street and gather a late breakfast, paid for on Father’s account—fat strawberries, a stinky half-wedge of sams?, a jar of pickled herring we call slid, and a crusty loaf of rye bread so dense it could pass as a sea stone—and return to the Havnestad Cove.
It’s quiet here, just a few couples trailing along the rocks, none taking any notice of me. I remove my shoes and stockings and place them in the same spot as yesterday, and I hop between the smaller footstep islands to the big one, Picnic Rock earning its name yet again. The strong sun and calm tide has made the rock almost completely dry, so I lie on my back, face to the sky, and shut my eyes.
Though I don’t want it to, my mind shifts to Iker. He still hasn’t returned. I am already anxious, and the same panicky feeling quickly returns.
What if something’s gone wrong?
What if the steam stack exploded?
What if the whale crashed into the ship’s hull upon capture?
Am I at fault?
I know I’m being ridiculous, but worst of all, we would never know. All of us are here, for once our eyes inward instead of turned to the sea.
That sends my mind into a downward spiral about Father, and then suddenly a shadow falls across the backs of my eyelids, the direct sun blotted out by a passing cloud. It’s as if the weather worries too— “Excuse me, miss?”
That voice.
My eyes pop open, searching for the face of a friend who I know in my heart is long gone.
But there, leaning over me, is the girl.
The girl from the porthole.
The one who rescued Nik.
Yet that can’t be right, either. I really am losing my senses today.
I sit up and rapidly blink my eyes in the sun, but when they refocus, the same girl remains. She shifts back, long blond hair swinging.
Her face is like the singsong of her voice—so much like Anna’s, but more mature. The smattering of freckles around her nose is familiar too. She wears a gown that’s nicer than all of mine put together, and her shoes shine with new leather.
Shoes. Feet. No fin—she can’t be what I saw. My stomach sinks, but I don’t know why.
“This is quite embarrassing, but . . .” The girl’s eyes fall to the strawberry in my hand. “I haven’t eaten in more than a day.”
I’m so stunned, I just hand over the strawberry. She isn’t ready for it and bobbles it in her fingertips before taking a bite. I shove my whole meal toward her.
Anna loved cheese and fruit.
“Oh, no, you don’t have to, I—”
“I insist,” I say, and I’m surprised that’s what comes out because there are so many other words on my tongue. So many questions. But I’m almost terrified to ask them because I know what word will fall out—Anna.
The girl eats, and I try to figure out what to say next.
Did you save Nik?
Were you a mermaid?
Are you Anna?
Don’t you remember me?
All would make me run if I were her. So, as she chews a hunk of rye bread, I open the jar of slid.
“Do you feel better?” I ask.
“Yes, much. Thank you. I’m so sorry. I’m done.”
I shake my head and tilt the open jar toward her, the little herring bobbing in their brine. “Eat, please.”
She sees the fish and recoils, waving her hands in front of her face. I pull out a herring and eat it myself, yanking the bones out by the tail before discarding them into the cove. She looks at me as if I’ve just bitten off her ear.
I used to do the same thing to Anna. She didn’t like slid either. I smile, but on the inside, the sadness is suffocating. I have to stop looking for the dead in the living.
“Are you sure you aren’t still hungry?” I try. “There’s more cheese.”
“No. I’ll be fine.” A sob swallows the word fine. Her brow furrows and the skin under her lashes reddens; there are no tears, but she looks exactly like she should be weeping.
My hand flies to her shoulder to comfort her. When the girl catches her breath, she begins talking again, her voice almost a whisper. She doesn’t seem to mind me touching her. “I ran away from home.”
“Oh, Anna—”
The girl’s eyes fly to mine. “Annemette. How’d you—”
“I didn’t . . . I just . . . you remind me of someone I used to know.”
She coughs out a sob-laugh. “I wish I were that girl.”
“No you don’t,” I say quickly as this girl—Annemette—wipes her nose.
“Was her father a liar? Weaving tales about where he’s been and what he’s done, selling off all our livestock and not bringing a coin home?”
I shake my head because I don’t know what to say.
“I’ve had to sell half our fine things to pay his debt and put food on the table. I couldn’t take it anymore. I took off running over Lille Bjerg a day ago.”