“If only,” I whisper. He closes the distance and I sink into him, all of him. The pad of his thumb runs the length of my cheekbone and he shifts again until both hands are holding my face to his, our breath mingling and eyes closed to anything but this kiss.
Annemette falls into bed in a shower of blond waves. Flecks of sand fall too, bouncing mildly into the air, just forceful enough that I can see them leap and settle in the candlelight as I shake the beach out of my own curls at the vanity table. But something is off. Her eyes are red and her face has gone pale.
“What’s wrong?” I ask. “We left when things grew quiet on your side. I thought maybe . . .”
Her shoes are off, her hands running the length of her feet, her face wincing in pain.
“Can I get you anything? Is there a spell that can ease the burning? I may have found something in Hansa’s book. Here, I’ll show you—”
But when Annemette looks up, I can see that her feet are not what truly pains her.
“I’ve failed, Evie. I’m going to fail. I know it!”
I swallow hard, because deep down inside, down in the snake pit of my belly, I fear that I know it too. I’ve been carrying it with me all day. “But there’s still tomorrow,” I offer, holding out hope. “You can’t give up, Mette.”
But she shakes her head, almost as if I’ve made it worse with my insistence.
“We’re not supposed to come to land. I should never have done this! How could I have been so stupid?”
I start to cry, the tears pouring from my eyes. I hold my throat tight so the maids won’t hear my sobs. I look up at her—a lost expression on her face, her eyes puffy and dry. And suddenly I realize that she can’t cry.
No soul. No tears. No way to truly feel. How is that a way to live?
But if we don’t succeed, she won’t live at all. And time is running out.
One day left.
FOUR YEARS BEFORE
The one who survived was starting to feel as if she had life left in her.
Most of that was thanks to the boy dragging her out into the sun, to school, up into the mountains.
But there was more to the change of things.
Time. People. Herself.
Winter was at the door, the whaling season at an end, her father home for good, drinking coffee and reading in his chair. They would talk sailing, the young survivor’s head spinning with ways to make it easier, ways to make next year more prosperous. Ways for her future self to be successful on her own ship in her own time, far away from the memories of this place.
She spent time with her tante too, soaking up every bit of magical knowledge the old woman thought to share, and stealing any she didn’t—tiptoeing into her room and taking one book at a time from her well-worn chest. The lessons could not come fast enough for all she wanted to know about what she would eventually be able to do.
Sometimes she found herself staring at her hands, wishing, as she had that awful day, that she could’ve saved her lost friend with magic. The failure still ate away at her.
Still, even with Havnestad’s archaic rules against magic—set in place by the same generation of ?ldenburgs who’d sent witches fleeing from Ribe more than two hundred years before—the survivor felt it necessary to arm herself so that she would never feel so helpless again.
She knew that with power, the bravery to act would come. The right magic would come at the right time.
And so she read all she could. Begged her aunt for more lessons, more spells. That winter and beyond, her magical education deepened anew, propelled by a desire not just to know herself and her power but what she could do.
The girl even tried to find her mother’s words and the history behind them. Digging through the chests for books her father had put away for years. Her tante eventually found out about them and added them to her extensive collection of magical tomes. And then the girl stole them back, one at a time, their dusty covers warped enough that they could easily be hidden within the wrinkles of her sickbed sheets.
And so she studied. And at night, she practiced quick spells with her tante as they made dinner. And then, cozied before a roaring fire, she listened to tales at her father’s feet.
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.