I am too restless to run home to bed. To nod and smile at Hansa’s drunken tale of her grand evening with her grand friends—as if those friends didn’t just burn thousands ofus. So I walk along the water to the cove side, the moonlight guiding my steps, catching on the shimmering flecks of sand to create a brilliant path along the shoreline.
I don’t have a plan, and I don’t need one. I just need a chance to wear myself out enough that I fall asleep unencumbered by the sadness dragging my heart down to my ankles.
I do have friends who aren’t royal. I do.
I have the kids from school who tolerate me for Nik’s sake, but only really when their prince is around. But for the most part, all I see when I greet their faces is the disapproval reflected in their eyes.
That girl—couldn’t save her mother.
That girl—lived while her best friend drowned.
That girl—thinks her father’s job gives her keys to the castle.
That girl—thinks herself more than a passing fancy for the playboy prince.
I meet the first rocks of the cove and stand there, letting the salt air toss my curls about my face. The wind here always seems so cleansing—like it sweeps away grime both physical and mental with one exhale from the Øresund Strait.
Tonight the cove is calm. The waves lap gently about the shore, kissing both the sand and the rock formations with the same delicate precision. There is no one else in sight, and this dress isn’t anything special—nothing I have is special—so I yank off my boots and stockings and place them carefully on a patch of beach not likely to be touched by the tide. The sand sticking to my toes, I hop onto the first footstep island and leap from stone to stone until I make it to Picnic Rock.
Though it’s damp from the recent high tide, the slab isn’t so wet it’s uncomfortable. I gather my skirts, pull my knees to my chest, and sit there with my eyes closed, letting the sea’s charge wash over me.
Finally, my heartbeat slows, and I can feel exhaustion creeping in. But I can’t sleep here. I force myself to stand on stiff legs and grab my things. There’s barely a breeze, but a tingle runs up my spine. I cross my arms over my chest, but I can’t get rid of the cold. I squint into the night, at the shadow where the sea meets the rock formation splitting the cove, when I swear I see a flash of white skin.
“Hello?” I call, my body shivering.
Only the wind answers, gently gaining strength from well past the harbor and deep within the sea.
I am suddenly awake, and I turn my attention again to the rock wall. But there’s nothing to see but shadow and waves.
Maybe it was the octopus who’s made the cove his home, taunting me the same way he taunts Tante Hansa, who would like nothing more than to bottle every last drop of his ink.
But probably not. My eyes are playing tricks on me again.
Just as they must have on Nik’s birthday.
“Perhaps you need to avoid the cove when the moon is strong, Evelyn,” I mutter. The moon can do funny things to a witch.
I can hear it now, another strain in the chorus of pity:That girl—seeing apparitions in the moonlight.
FOUR YEARS BEFORE
The boy heard the splashes, one right after another, and stood,piccolo forgotten, eyes only on the sea. He held his breath, waiting for the first one to surface. They were both strong swimmers, but the raven-curled girl made a habit of winning.
It was a hundred yards to the sandbar. A worthy swim on any day, but as the boy surveyed the sea again, he knew this was not just any sea. These were not just any waves.
The sea was angry.
The boy held his breath and took a step toward the water, careful not to get too close—his mother had often lectured him on the damage salt water could do to his fine leather boots.
The blond girl surfaced first. She pulled in a deep breath and then went back under, the sandbar in her sights, still seventy-five yards away.
The boy scanned the water for dark hair. Took a breath. Squinted right at the spot where she should’ve surfaced. Still nothing.
The blonde bobbed up again. Now ten yards closer to the sandbar and not looking back.
No dark hair to be seen.
He took another step forward. A wave took full advantage and marked his foot. On reflex, he glanced down. Yes, theleather was completely soaked. But he didn’t care. Eyes immediately back on the sea. Heart pounding. The wet boot already coming off.
