“Blame me,” I said, knowing his mother already disliked me. “She’ll have the comfort in knowing that your disfigurement was all my fault.” Trying very hard to be self-effacing, I shrugged.
A tight smile crossed Nik’s face. He tossed a few blades of grass and then plucked out a tuft of lady’s cushion, its tiny pink leaves dwarfed after a dry summer. His eyes flashed up to mine. “Evie, you know I don’t care what my mother, my father, or anyone else thinks about you.”
“I know,” I said, because I did. Though I was young enough to think that the opinions of one boy didn’t matter against a sea of opposition.
I know better now.
And I think Nik knew better then. Because he was quiet for a moment, messing with the flowers, and justwhen I thought we were done talking, my eyes focused out in front of me, looking for the telltale stovepipe hat of the royal physician, Nik nudged my arm. When I turned his way to respond, he held up a little circlet of flowers. Then he took my hand and placed the ring on my fourth finger.
“Thanks for staying with me,” he said, his eyes meeting mine, blush reddening at his ears.
I glanced down at the ring of wildflowers, mostly because looking at his face was too much. “Always.”
Oh, Nik. What we could’ve had.
What we should’ve had.
I need that ring.
Closing my eyes, I reach up through the onyx waters of my prison cell, into the open ocean, round the mines the sea king so fears, and into the warm exhale of late summer air.
I picture my toes in the sand and running along the beach. My magic pumping, churning, streaming—as unstoppable as life itself—straight from the earth through me and out my fingertips with the right words and sayings.
I run past Greta’s Lagoon and my first lair, filled with long-rotted clams spilling their pearls, a library of spells, and rows of bottles left to time.
I run past the inlet leading to Øldenburg Castle. The marble balcony added after Nik’s death looms white and arching. If I squint, I can see where my father once docked his fishing boat, kitchen staff waiting and eager to get their hands on fresh whale meat for tvøst og spik.
Magic swirls around me, renewed with what has just occurred on land.
And still, I reach.
I reach for the origin of this magic.
A register. A signal. A mark of where it started from.
Reaching, reaching, reaching.
Until I find it. A ghost of an impression. The sandy footprint dying in the tide.
The place where the witches honed their magic using Runa’s knowledge. There is living magic in this place, coiled and ready, though locked away, key dangling.
I push into that dark room and feel around.
Put my hands on something familiar.
The Spliid Grimoire.
The same book I borrowed from Tante Hansa in the middle of the night when she saw me so clearly though I was invisible. That old woman always saw through me and into me in a way no one else could. In a way no one else ever will.
This book is another version—a copy with different binding and a calf-skin cover that’s seen better days. But it’s perfect. I dig in my nails and grab hold.
That’s enough to put me there. Anchor me. Give me time and space that allows me to reach into a fire gone long cold.
“Kveykva.”I whisper into the kindling. Sparks answer back, claiming the kindling.
A fire roars to life.
And then, I grab the smoke by the throat, and I write my message, whispering“Dveljask”when it’s complete so that it will stay until Runa’s eyes are upon it.
