“But nothing. I have to seize my luck while it’s there.” Father’s grizzled old thumb settles on my bottom lip. “I’ll return for the close of the festival—the ball.”
Despite my disappointment at yet another good-bye, I form a tight smile after his words. “If you’ve seen me once in my only nice dress, you’ve seen me a thousandfold.”
He leans in and gives me a quick kiss on the cheek, his beard both soft and rough against my skin.
“Take care of Hansa, my dear.”
I hug him to my chest, the cloying scent of pipe tobacco catching in my lungs.
“If only she’d allow such a thing, I would.”
He releases me with a single squeeze of my forearm. I turn for the gangplank, one last look at both him and myfirst stab at whaling innovation. When I’m back on the sun-ruined wood of the dock, Father yells for his men to hoist up the gangplank and anchor.
Before he’s gone, and with the sailors distracted by departure duties, I take my chance and press my little stone to the ship, right under my mother’s name, painted in block letters across the stern. My eyes flutter to a close, and I whisper my spell into the breeze coming in off the Øresund Strait.
6
IT’S A PERFECT NIGHT FOR BURNING WITCHES.
That’s what Sankt Hans Aften is, after all. A celebration in the name of ridding people like me from this earth through flames, drowning, banishment—whatever seemed right at the time.
Today, thankfully, witches are only burned in effigy. It’s the traditional opening of Havnestad’s version of Lithasblot. Ours is the earliest in the Øresund Strait, but we’re also the longest festival, five whole days, drawing people from all around to watch the games, sing songs in celebration of Urda, and taste plates of tvøst og spik: black whale meat, pink blubber, and sunny potatoes. Even through the Tørhed, the people of Havnestad have always been willing to sacrifice their limited food supply to honor the goddess.
As the bonfire grows hot, shooting tendrils of flames high into the salmon-toned sky, the festival is ready tobegin. First is King Asger’s speech of love and gamesmanship.
Now Nik’s speech of love and gamesmanship.
For on the night of that treacherous storm, Nik, thankfully, still came of age. And as tradition demands, he must take the reins of the festival—near-drowning is not an excuse.
Thus, since regaining most of his strength, he’s been shut away, pacing the halls of the palace with his father’s words on his lips. I’ve heard him run through it twice—before his birthday and after, and both times he was excellent, if not a hair too fast. Still, that’s just because this is new to him. I know he’ll be amazing.
But Crown Prince Asger Niklas Bryniulf Øldenburg III, first in line to the throne of the sovereign kingdom of Havnestad, does not share my assessment.
Nik is nearly white with nerves. His long fingers shake as he tugs his hair flat. This day is already hard for the both of us—the fourth anniversary of Anna’s drowning—and with the pressure of the speech added atop that, Nik looks as if he might keel over.
I don’t hesitate to snag a hand and press my fingers around his. Somehow, seeing him so nervous calms my own reservations—about my innovation’s trial run with Father, about the fact Iker has yet to arrive. I squeeze Nik’s fingers. “You’ve done nothing but practice for the past week. You’ll be just fine.”
“But I’m not cut out for this, Evie.”
“Of course you are! You’re cut from the Øldenburg cloth. Kings for a thousand years.” I lean in, my face consuming his vision. “This speech is in your blood.”
Nik turns red and averts his gaze. “I think that particular blood spilled out of me when I bashed my leg on that rock at ten.”
I nearly laugh, thinking of Nik passing out at the sight of his own blood. Right in the middle of a trail leading up Lille Bjerg Pass. Anna and I stripped off our stockings and tied them tightly above the gash across his shin before bracing him between us and hobbling down the mountain.
“Think of your birthday. You didn’t seem at all nervous while you sang on a bench with lemons in your hair.”
“That wasn’t the whole kingdom. This is.”
“So? What’s a few more faces?”
He lets out a very royal snort. “Since when does a ‘few’ mean a hundred times more? And maybe my disastrous birthday is not the best image to calm my nerves.”
“Oh, don’t be dramatic.”
Nik cocks a brow. “Oh, but you’re not plenty dramatic when you make moon eyes at the harbor, scouting for a certain sailor from Rigeby Bay?”
I say nothing, my wit tied to a stone in the pit of my stomach. Despite myself, I squint out at the water, my heart willing Iker’s boat to appear. But the sea beyond theharbor is clear, all the visiting ships and off-duty whalers already in port.
