The sensation reminds me of being at the canyon with my sisters, the hot breath of the earth gurgling up from the depths of the crag in the sea floor, steaming as it comes in contact with the cool waters of our typical depths.
“These may provide guidance as well.” Katrine presses a stack of books to her chest and then dumps them onto the bed. “These are the grimoires I’ve found most helpful.”
I’ve never worked magic from a spell book. We write down our spells, of course we do, but it’s simply a matter of record—Father and his ledgers. But as children we don’t learn our magic from a list of sentences, rather from intuition and observation. A mermaid feeling out the magic within her is simply another part of growing up. It’s organic in a way this is not.
But this is land magic. Unlike mermaids, witches are not made of magic. They must call to the magic in a different way. This is something I need to understand if I am to help them.
Now that I have the stone in my hands, I’m hesitant to part with it. I fold it into my left palm and gently flip open the nearest book, its spine worn. The pages fall open to a well-loved spell, this one called upon more often than any other. The words are faded and the room is dim, and I haveto hold the page close to read them.
It’s a spell for deboning fish.
My chest falls and I thumb to the next broken line of spine, the next popular spell.
Fermentation.
There’s a hand-written notation next to it with chicken-scratch ratios of malt, hops, yeasts.
Hvidtøl. A quick-ferment magic hvidtøl.
This is a magical cookbook. We can’t destroy a U-boat operation by magically deboning fish and brewing ale.
“Katrine, can you point me to the more complex spells?” I set the book in my hand far to the side. The cat lays itself out upon it.All yours, Tandsmør.
She bends over the bed, running her fingers along the remaining spines. She selects one that is thin but appears disproportionately heavy for all the value in it—a leaf of gold in a shabby binding.
The Spliid Grimoire.
“This one was my grandmother’s favorite,” Katrine says, rubbing a thumb absently across the bed quilt. “She taught me the few things I know.”
“Have you tried anything in it?”
Katrine sighs. “I haven’t had a use for these spells in my life.”
This sounds exactly like the kind of book I need.
The old witch hands me the book but doesn’t look away, her lioness eyes scrolling the features of my face. She’sa person from whom it doesn’t do to hide—she already knows anyway. “Are you looking for a spell to go home?”
My eyes flash to hers and my mouth drops open, but nothing comes out.
“I don’t know if it’s possible, Runa. But I do know if it is, I will help you find it in these books. We only have the tale of Annemette and her journey, passed down from a witch known as the Healer of Kings... aunt to the woman known as the sea witch. That story is newer than these books, but the magic is as old as time.”
I press the leather cover ofThe Spliid Grimoireto my chest.
“You’ll help me? Really?”
There’s a knock on the door, but before Katrine responds, Sofie comes barreling through, eyes wide and color in her cheeks for the first time since the wedding.
“Agnata has returned!”
In the main room, Agnata has collapsed in a heap at the table. It’s been raining again, and she’s a dripping, shivering, sniveling mess. Her dark hair is in tatters, cheeks paste white, hands shaking as she accepts a mug of something hot—tea. Not something we drink below.
Sofie presses a rag to the girl’s head, sopping up what she can to keep it from running onto the floor. Agnata downs several large gulps of tea, and between the dried hair and the warmth streaming down her throat, theshaking lessens. Sofie tosses the rag over a chair to dry.
Still hugging her hands tightly to the mug, Agnata finally seems willing to accept her audience, glancing up at us, her dark eyes strained and red. She nearly drops her drink when she sees me. “What are you doing here?”
I don’t blink. “I was invited.”
Agnata checks the validity of my statement with Sofie, Will, and Katrine. They silently vouch for me.
