Wave after wave crashed on her. Dot paddled with all of her strength and, for a moment, she seized Emily’s hand, but then another wave crashed into them and wrenched Emily away. The girl grew smaller against the darkness, and Dot, swimming as hard as she could, could only watch as Emily’s hands, illuminated by the moon, waved like dolphins jumping out of the sea. Her screams mingled with the wind, shrill, almost indistinguishable.
A final wave crashed down on Emily.
Dot paddled on, exhausting herself against the warring ocean. She screamed after Emily until her voice was gone, even after shesaw the limp body floating, bobbing like a buoy over the waves, blonde hair turned black.
The girl had drowned.
Another wave crashed upon her. Dot grew numb in the icy water. She stopped fighting. She looked up at the stars speckled above as she felt herself sink.
I killed her.
I deserve this.
Let me drown.
Dot must have, at some point, taken seawater into her lungs. She must have, at some point, begun to die. Because, at the bottom of the sea, she landed against something dark and scaly. A voice rose, warped by the water, echoing. Dot heard the edges of its speech, did not understand it. It was a language older than her species. Perhaps it was the ocean herself. She never found out.
Dot woke on the beach.
She fought for a moment to push a terrible weight off her. Was it a person laying on her chest? Was it a heavy bed of seaweed? At last, she realised it was only the weight of her own muscles.
She crawled home.
It took her an hour to hobble and drag herself, skinning her hands and knees. When she at last collapsed against the front door to the cottage, her mother tore it open.
‘Where were you? It doesn’t take three hours—’
‘D-drowned.’ She shivered violently, her head against the front step.
‘What, love? Why are you soaked?’
Her mother reached for her.
‘Mum,’ whispered Dot, ‘I think Emily drowned.’
And then Dot began to sob, curled up beside the front door, her heart beating so quickly it felt like it might burst. She sucked ina breath and choked on it, over and over, rapidly wheezing as the tears racketed from her.
‘Dottie, slow down.’
‘I did it. I made her drown.’
Then, hands were on her. Slapping her. Punching her. The screaming of a seventeen-year-old boy.‘You bitch. You foul, little bitch. You’re lying! Tell us you’re lying.’
Willard’s hands became Salamander’s.
Dot opened her eyes and the daemon was on her, the weight of her fatigue made manifest. She yanked her afflicted hand away from him. She felt the same strange power that she used on Rupert’s mother. It was a desolate magic; a lonely, self-despising chill that never quite left her.
Let me drown.
Ice burst from her hand and Salamander was pushed backward.
‘Heavens,’ said the daemon, toppling over and straightening. ‘What fascinating magic.’
Theodora was at Dot’s side, scooping her up. It took a moment to realise that the witch was trembling. It took a moment longer for Dot to understand that it was from fury.
‘Changed your mind?’ called Salamander as he rose. ‘Grew attached, did you?’
‘What does he mean?’ whispered Dot.
