Her tone, her face, his gut—all of it forced him swim forward, a king ruled more often than not by the whims of his daughters. So like their mother in spirit, like his Mette, may she rest in the tide.
The king peered at the girl’s face. Creamy skin. Blonde hair. Her eyes were closed but her lashes were full and dark, and he knew that open they would be enchanting, no matter the color.
He looked upon his daughters, each of them pleading, each of them touching the girl in some way. Their spirits lifting her up, keeping her from becoming bones in their sweet blue sand. He didn’t want to disappoint them but he knew the limits of his magic. He’d reached them when he’d made their mother, Mette, and he hadn’t been able to save anyone since. But maybe, with the girls’ help, they’d have enough energy for success. Maybe.
He hoped they would.
With a sigh, he nodded.
The girls, all but the youngest, cheered. Those closest to him used a hand to pat his arm or shoulder with approval, but never fully let the girl go. The youngest was confused. She kept her attention on the girl, nearly the same age as she, watching the stillness.
“But how?”
Her father smiled. “Magic.”
The littlest didn’t blink—long accustomed to the tricks of the older girls. She knew what her magic could do and it was not this. “Magic?”
The oldest answered for her father, already moving to space the sisters at equal intervals along the girl’s body. They had to be just right. They had to do this perfectly, or the girl would turn to bones despite their effort. Despite the fact that all but the youngest knew the story of their mother and the gift she was from a great storm many years ago. She was worse off than this, but not by much. “Yes, come here.”
The oldest moved to the girl’s head, pointing her father to the girl’s feet. This made him laugh again—the sea king, taking commands. His daughters did not appreciate it, their serious faces unwavering from the difficulty at hand. They didn’t see how much they were like their mother.
When they were set, the oldest finally yielded and he gave the order, gave them the command to say: ver?a. Then he turned his triton upon the girl, touching the tip to her toes. Immediately, light sprang forth, crawling up her legs to her torso, climbing until it reached the crown of her head.
And stopped.
The light blitzed out like it was never there at all.
The sea king sighed. The girl’s pale skin had begun to turn gray. There wasn’t much time. If this was to work, they had only one more chance.
“Let us try again.” He looked to each of them. Tried to put confidence into his features. Though he knew how the magic worked. Barter meant a life for a life unless there was just the right amount of magical energy. If he could complete the transaction by himself so long ago, he could do it with his girls. Surely. Maybe. “Concentrate.”
Again, he touched his triton to the tip of the girl’s toes. Stared until all he could see was the girl’s graying face. “Ver?a.” The girls repeated it, all of them touching the girl, their eyes squeezed shut. Power in their voices.
And again, a light sprang forth, crawling up her legs to her torso, climbing until it reached the crown of her head. Then, as it climbed her cheeks, something dark and old seemed to seep into the water around them, like frigid air hitting the surface and forming ice. The sea king’s triton wavered.
But then it came—a flash of light so crisp and bright that it would’ve been mistaken for lightning up top. And, for the first time since Mette, it was done.
The girl’s chest rose. Her eyes blinked open—blue and beautiful as the sea king suspected. She lifted her head just enough to see their faces, her new body, before confusion and exhaustion took her and she fell into a deep sleep.
The littlest knew she was no longer the youngest. That this girl would be a sister. She ran her fingers along the girl’s tail, marveling at the fresh turquoise scales, shimmering in the deep water.
“What shall we call her, Father?”
“Mette,” he said without missing a beat.
The girls knew what this meant. It made the oldest’s spine tingle and fingers shake. She had to say something.
“On the surface, they call her Anna. The men are yelling her name over and over.”
The sea king read the faces of his daughters. Glanced down at the sea’s newest mermaid. The littlest of his girls. He smiled.
“Annemette. Let us call her Annemette.”
24
THOUGH SOFT AND SUBTLE, THE BLUE LIGHT OF THE morning stuns me awake, and the sound of the sea echoes in my ears. The sea.
My eyes fly open. Candle still flickering. Book splayed pages down in my lap. My back propped against the rock wall.
I fell asleep in my workshop. My lair, I think with a smile. But quickly I snap back to reality. That was not part of the plan.
I grab the grimoire and carefully flip it toward the right page, the parchment delicate and thin. I’m looking for the one with the triton. I thumb through all the pages, but on my first try, I don’t find it. It’s too dark in here. With a frustrated huff, I grab the book and the candle and pad across the dirt floor to the cave’s entrance.
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.