Sea Witch. Сара Хеннинг

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СКАЧАТЬ above. But even something as run-of-the-mill as a strengthening spell is dangerous here.

      Women burned for far less under the Øldenburgs of yesteryear.

      My relatives burned for far less.

      Which means there are things about me Nik and Iker can never know.

      Besides, I already took a risk tonight when I silently urged Malvina’s cake to shed its sugary skin. I hadn’t tried something like that since I was a child, but it worked well enough. Strengthening the candle in the open would have been pushing my luck, though, and I’ve never had much of that to begin with.

      Now the cushion of light is more than enough. I ease my way through the vast space and toward the pair of chairs under one of the starboard portholes, a chessboard painted into the oak table between them.

      I’d watched Nik stuff the ship’s allotment of extra candles into the table’s drawer while helping him clean up evidence of his warm-weather get-together. Not that his father wouldn’t know about our little celebration—dishonesty has never sat well in Nik’s royal mind—he just hadn’t wanted to leave the castle’s harbor crew with more work.

      With rescued candles and matches in hand, I grab the lantern and spin toward the door. But suddenly in my peripheral vision, I catch two flashes of shocking white and blue. I spin back around to where a small halo of light beacons through the porthole.

      My heart sputters to a dead halt as I realize I don’t know of any fish with markings like those.

      Like human eyes.

      Lungs aching for me to remember how to breathe, I raise the lantern to the porthole, my mind churning to account for everyone onboard the ship. Yes, everyone had been there when I descended the stairs.

      Yet, when the halo of light reaches the thick glass, a friend’s eyes are there, deep blue and framed by luminous skin, water-darkened blond waves, and a look of surprise on parted lips.

      “Anna?”

      But in the instant I say her name into the damp cabin, the face vanishes, and I’m left staring into the indigo deep.

      My lungs release and draw in a huge gulp of air as I race to the next porthole, my breath coming in rapid spurts as I repeat her name. But there’s no sign of her beautiful face at that porthole or the next two.

      I stand in the middle of the king’s great cabin, heart pounding, breath burning in my lungs, as a heavy sob escapes my lips. Tears sting my eyes as I realize that even with Nik’s brotherly friendship and Iker’s new affection, I’m still just a lonely fisherman’s daughter.

      A lonely fisherman’s daughter wishing that I could have my sweet friend back. Wishing hard enough that I’m seeing ghosts.

      Wishing so very hard that I’m losing my mind.

3

      I WIPE MY EYES WITH MY WRIST, THE CANDLES AND matches still clutched in my fingers. A couple of deep breaths, and I will myself through the door and up the stairs, my legs leaden.

      “The good lady has returned with the candles!” Nik shouts when he sees me, his voice half-singing in tune with the guitaren.

      “And the matches, my prince,” I hear myself say in a much steadier voice than I’d have thought possible.

      “My dear Evie, always rescuing her prince from his own lack of forethought.”

      “Someone has to, Cousin,” laughs Iker, rising to his feet while Malvina snatches the goods from my arms. Immediately, she bustles behind Nik, spearing the beautiful layers of fondant with the fat ends of the tapers. No thank-you from her, even though for anyone else, her trained manners would require it.

      Nik begins the song before they’re all lit. His voice soars above us all, even over Iker’s baritone. As usual, I just mouth along to the words—my singing voice was ruined the day I lost Anna. Tante Hansa says I’m lucky that is all the sea took. Nik has his eyes shut and isn’t even facing his cake, the flames flickering and twisting behind him, manipulated by a strong wind from deep within the Øresund Strait.

      My gaze follows the wind into the dark distance. Just past the edge of our wake, the indigo skies go pitch-black, the furrowed edges of an angry line of clouds moving in at a furious pace.

      “Iker,” I breathe.

      “. . . Hun skal leve højt hurra . . .” Nik hits the final line of the traditional birthday song and turns to blow out the candles, opening his eyes just as the first of the fireworks shoots off from the beach. Bursts of white and red stream across the sky in quick succession, illuminating Havnestad below and the ring of mountains surrounding the city proper.

      “Iker,” I repeat, my eyes still upon the clouds closing in. He turns, hand still set heavily about my waist, and I point to the storm line as a tendril of lightning strikes the water just beyond the confines of the harbor.

      A flash of recognition hits his eyes as they read the distance between the rain and the ship. “Storm!” he yells, a clap of thunder cutting off the end of the word. “Everyone belowdecks! Now!”

      But, of course, our party turns toward the storm rather than away, human curiosity flying in the face of safety. Iker, Nik, and I rush into motion as the first fat drops of rain splatter onto the deck.

      Nik begins directing the crowd belowdecks. Iker is up at the wheel, working to right the ship toward the harbor after sending its previous driver—the coal man—down below to feed the steam engine.

      With the rain already sheeting, the boat tips as I climb the stairs to the stern. I cling to the rail. There is no magic I can do in the open to stop this, which makes me grateful to be the salt of the sea and the daughter of a fisherman. I’m not helpless in the least.

      Thunder rumbles deep and rich directly overhead. The cake’s candles and the lanterns ringing the ship have been blown out by the blustery wind, and I’m thankful when a flash of lightning cracks across the sky just long enough to show me the scene.

      Iker—getting the boat going in the right direction, his feet planted and muscles straining.

      Nik—trudging up the stairs after barring the door down below, his crown of lemons fed to the sea by the flying wind.

      The cake—tipped over and beached on its massive side as the boat lurches starboard.

      Another clap of thunder sounds as I reach Iker and help him hold the wheel. Iker is strong enough to steer it by himself, but the boat’s line noticeably straightens when I help him maintain control.

      “A birthday pleasure cruise!” Iker yells across the booming skies as I smile at him through clenched teeth. His eyes dance even as every tendon in his neck strains to keep our course. “All clear skies and fancy drinks. Isn’t that what Nik promised?”

      Muscles already screaming, we both focus on the lighthouse at the edge of the harbor, still minutes away. A heavy wave crashes along the deck, taking the remainder of the cake with it. Nik manages to hold tight to the stair railing, his white dress shirt plastered against his skin.

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