I pop the cork and let it fall into the water.
Bottoms up.
The liquid is cool to the touch but burns going down—fire water coating my tongue, throat, and belly. The warmth spreads across my body in the length of time that it takes for a bullet to explode from a pistol. And, suddenly, I’m the sun itself, pulsing and strobing with heat we rarely feel in the sea.
I cling to the knife in my hand, willing myself not to drop it, my fingers sweltering themselves numb, the bottle already dropped, my concentration only enough for one. I’m melting. I’m as liquid as the sea—hot, warm, steaming. Only the knife is solid; fire is what it bends to and I am fire. Fire and fury and nothing at all.
All of it is intense enough that I wonder whether, in my anger and desperation, I’ve made a huge error. If the sea witch concocted a potion to end me, not aid me. Some old grudge mingling with a new one for Father’s recent attack, killing off two of the sea king’s children in one easy swipe. But just as that thought crystallizes, the heat backs off. The warmth cools into something hard. Solid.
Legs.
Bones and muscles and tendons and arteries and veins.
Ankles and toes.
My lungs sputter in my chest, no longer suitable for both worlds. Made for only one, and it’s not my home. I gasp in as much air as my lungs can hold, suddenly in need though I haven’t been underwater for several minutes. Somehow without my mermaid body, the air temperature is much colder, and I immediately begin to shiver, the adrenaline coursing through my veins notwithstanding.
I push myself up out of the lapping tide, new legs wobbling under my weight, my toes digging into the uneven sand below. It’s almost stunning to me that I’m whole and solid. I look down past my seaweed skirt to those toes, flashing white. I am human. And now my clock is ticking right along with Alia’s.
I test out my stride, taking a few uneasy steps. The shifting nature of the sands under my feet doesn’t help before I nearly fall over. And then I realize that even if I figure out how to walk, I still won’t be right. I need shoes.
I backpedal and retrieve those extra wisps of seaweed.
“Snúa. Efni.”I say the spell, but... something’sdistantabout the magic I’ve called forth.
“Snúa. Efni.”I repeat, thinking it might improve things.
It does, but the distance stays, even as the seaweed begins to obey, weaving itself into one slipper and then another.
I keep reaching, reaching, reaching, for the magic asit works. It hears me, but it’s from across the room, not within my veins. After much longer than I’d expected—several minutes longer than it took the magic to create my entire skirt—my shoes are made. They aren’t durable in the least, but they should do for now.
When I’m finished, the sky has evened out into a lush blue, the warmth of dawn gone. Another day begun. Two days behind. Time to find Alia.
9
Runa
THE STAIRS AND SWITCHBACKS ARE AN IMMEDIATEtest for this strange new body of mine. Nubby rocks and wayward roots tear at the soles of my slippers. My calves and thighs stretch and constrict with the movement as I climb, the lagoon growing smaller with each step. There’s no railing of any kind, so I balance with my hands out, the knife and the little ríkifjor bag cinched safely against my breastbone.
By the time I reach the top of the cliff, I’m breathing hard on my unfamiliar lungs. I pause for a moment to catch my breath and stare out at the Øresund Strait twinkling in the sunlight. But I don’t have time to stand around. Once my breath settles into a more normal rhythm, I turn my back to the ocean and pick my way along the path leading from the stairs.
I’ve been taught that autumn brings leaves to the ground,but here they still cling to their limbs, green but on the cusp of turning, dense and content in the new day’s sun. Through them, I can only view snatches of the castle on the hill. Still, I’m not yet skilled enough to walk and look up without tripping, so I point my eyes to the ground, watching each step for an errant root. The brush snags at my dress, and it occurs to me that I must be very careful here—entering the king’s company as a stranger will be hard enough, and if I look as if I’ve been spit out of the forest, that most definitely will sound the alarm.
As I walk along, I try to fix my hair, knowing a cut this short won’t help me in the least—it’s unusual, and not in a good way. But with every spell I can think of, the magic doesn’t change it. Nothing changes it. It’ll have to do.
I soon come to a cottage, sitting squat under the trees. It’s small and old, and I know without even peeking through the shutters that it’s abandoned. For some reason this makes me think of Niklas and his shiny objects—how can humans love things so much when they’re alive and then let them rot when they’re gone? Do they treat their people this way, or just the other things they collect in a lifetime?
Past the cottage is a more defined path of cobblestones gone slick with time, zippered together like crooked teeth, padded on either side by overgrown grass. Where the cobblestones meet the road, heavier bricks run all along the waterfront—along the beach, past the lighthouse anddocks—and wind up the hill toward the castle and the town proper, with its witch-hat roofs and cheery paint.
I hesitate for a moment, thinking of Niklas’s beach walks and the possibility that Alia might attend. Even without knowing the terms of Alia’s magic, the king must not be daft enough to believe he can enjoy beach walks and sweet kisses with his “foundling” after the arrival of his bride-to-be. If he can’t or won’t understand that, his wife might kill him, unless Alia and I get to him first.
I turn for the castle. It sits heavy on the hill, perfectly square, with turrets on each side. Manicured lawns of an almost otherworldly green bleed out from the base, stopping only for forced boundaries—the sea lane, the ocean itself, and a row of rather stately looking homes that butts up against the grounds like a doorstop.
The castle guard is out in force on one lawn, shoes shining and hair smooshed in place, as they run through a formation that I can only imagine is intended for the wedding.
For all the guard’s organization, everything else is abject chaos. People are running every which way, unloading carts from the docks—bolts of fabric, hand trucks of out-of-season fruits, taper candles by the armful. They’re even unloading people, uniformed valets rushing to guide silken ladies and starched gentlemen out of motorcars and up manicured paths.
Chaos provides cover, and for this I am extremelygrateful. Swallowing a deep breath, I plaster a smile upon myself and fold in with a school of men and women in fancy dress. My attire is light compared to what they’re wearing—I need to find something with sleeves or a shawl fast—but I say a little prayer again to Urda for Eydis’s sense of flair. The pearls on the bodice save me, as does the magic that wove my skirt.
