Sea Witch. Сара Хеннинг
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That girl—thinks herself more than a passing fancy for the playboy prince.
I meet the first rocks of the cove and stand there, letting the salt air toss my curls about my face. The wind here always seems so cleansing—like it sweeps away grime both physical and mental with one exhale from the Øresund Strait.
Tonight the cove is calm. The waves lap gently about the shore, kissing both the sand and the rock formations with the same delicate precision. There is no one else in sight, and this dress isn’t anything special—nothing I have is special—so I yank off my boots and stockings and place them carefully on a patch of beach not likely to be touched by the tide. The sand sticking to my toes, I hop onto the first footstep island and leap from stone to stone until I make it to Picnic Rock.
Though it’s damp from the recent high tide, the slab isn’t so wet it’s uncomfortable. I gather my skirts, pull my knees to my chest, and sit there with my eyes closed, letting the sea’s charge wash over me.
Finally, my heartbeat slows, and I can feel exhaustion creeping in. But I can’t sleep here. I force myself to stand on stiff legs and grab my things. There’s barely a breeze, but a tingle runs up my spine. I cross my arms over my chest, but I can’t get rid of the cold. I squint into the night, at the shadow where the sea meets the rock formation splitting the cove, when I swear I see a flash of white skin.
“Hello?” I call, my body shivering.
Only the wind answers, gently gaining strength from well past the harbor and deep within the sea.
I am suddenly awake, and I turn my attention again to the rock wall. But there’s nothing to see but shadow and waves.
Maybe it was the octopus who’s made the cove his home, taunting me the same way he taunts Tante Hansa, who would like nothing more than to bottle every last drop of his ink.
But probably not. My eyes are playing tricks on me again.
Just as they must have on Nik’s birthday.
“Perhaps you need to avoid the cove when the moon is strong, Evelyn,” I mutter. The moon can do funny things to a witch.
I can hear it now, another strain in the chorus of pity: That girl—seeing apparitions in the moonlight.
FOUR YEARS BEFORE
The boy heard the splashes, one right after another, and stood, piccolo forgotten, eyes only on the sea. He held his breath, waiting for the first one to surface. They were both strong swimmers, but the raven-curled girl made a habit of winning.
It was a hundred yards to the sandbar. A worthy swim on any day, but as the boy surveyed the sea again, he knew this was not just any sea. These were not just any waves.
The sea was angry.
The boy held his breath and took a step toward the water, careful not to get too close—his mother had often lectured him on the damage salt water could do to his fine leather boots.
The blond girl surfaced first. She pulled in a deep breath and then went back under, the sandbar in her sights, still seventy-five yards away.
The boy scanned the water for dark hair. Took a breath. Squinted right at the spot where she should’ve surfaced. Still nothing.
The blonde bobbed up again. Now ten yards closer to the sandbar and not looking back.
No dark hair to be seen.
He took another step forward. A wave took full advantage and marked his foot. On reflex, he glanced down. Yes, the
There. In the distance, thirty yards out. Not the crown of a raven-haired head.
A single hand, reaching for air.
The boy dove in, full breath cinched in his lungs, and opened his eyes. Nothing but the murky deep and the sting of salt.
Thinking of the girls, of the hand, he surfaced early. He would keep his stroke above the waves, his head close to the surface. He was a strong swimmer, and his new height had not diminished his natural strength, but the undertow was fiercer than he’d ever felt, constantly tugging at his pant legs. A force from the deep pulling him toward the harem of mermaids all Havnestad children were told lived at the bottom of the sea.
At the surface, he saw nothing. Not a strand of hair, nor a flash of hand. But he knew where they were. He knew where he must go.
Twenty more yards and he opened his eyes to the sea again. Looked down. Where the undertow had pulled him.
Black hair curled up like a cloud of ink, pale fingers stretched toward him. Her face hidden. He dove, hoping it wasn’t too late.
Lungs burning for air, he surfaced, one arm hooked under her shoulders. The force of the swim had pushed the curls from her face. Her features bordered on blue, and he couldn’t tell if she was breathing.
“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!”