There. In the distance, thirty yards out. Not the crown of a raven-haired head.
A single hand, reaching for air.
The boy dove in, full breath cinched in his lungs, and opened his eyes. Nothing but the murky deep and the sting of salt.
Thinking of the girls, of the hand, he surfaced early. He would keep his stroke above the waves, his head close to the surface. He was a strong swimmer, and his new height had not diminished his natural strength, but the undertow was fiercer than he’d ever felt, constantly tugging at his pant legs. A force from the deep pulling him toward the harem of mermaids all Havnestad children were told lived at the bottom of the sea.
At the surface, he saw nothing. Not a strand of hair, nor a flash of hand. But he knew where they were. He knew where he must go.
Twenty more yards and he opened his eyes to the sea again. Looked down. Where the undertow had pulled him.
Black hair curled up like a cloud of ink, pale fingers stretched toward him. Her face hidden. He dove, hoping it wasn’t too late.
Lungs burning for air, he surfaced, one arm hooked under her shoulders. The force of the swim had pushed the curls from her face. Her features bordered on blue, and he couldn’t tell if she was breathing.
All he knew was that he had her.
“Come on, Evie. Come on.” He prayed to the old gods as well as the Lutheran one when he had the breath, his body fighting the tow for them both, the shoreline distant but in his sights.
Moving forward, he turned his head as much as the weight and struggle would allow, hoping for a flash of blond safely at the sandbar.
He saw nothing.
On the shore, he called as loud as he could for help. He set Evie on the sand, brushing back her curls, ear to her mouth.
No breath.
He rolled her over and pounded on her back. Salt water streamed from her lips and nose, dribbling onto the beach.
People came then. Men from the docks, women from the sea lane. They crowded around, speaking in whispered tones about the girl. They never had nice things to say about her, even with her this way.
The boy told the men that there was one more. Pointed them toward the sandbar and empty waves. Barked orders of rescue. The men listened. Because of the boy’s name.
The boy blew air into the girl’s lungs and pounded her on the back again, moving her hair out of the way to make more impact. More water came forth, this time in a great gush, along with the rasp of a breath.
Her eyes blinked open, dark and worn.
“Nik?”
“Yes! Evie, yes!”
Smiling briefly, he hugged her close then, even if it was inappropriate, with her bare-shouldered in her petticoat and him a prince. But he didn’t care because she was alive. Evie was alive.
“Anna?” she asked.
They turned their eyes to the sea.
8
HAVNESTAD THRUMS WITH ENERGY.
The brightness of summer and the thrill of Urda’s festival combine to create the kind of charge one usually witnesses with a coming storm. It has me up early, feeling light and free after such a black night.
As I walk down to the harbor, amethyst in my pocket, I see Nik’s carriage pass by. I wave my hand, but I can’t tell if he’s seen me. He’s surely headed into the valley to visit the farmers in his father’s stead, a Lithasblot tradition. We give thanks to Urda but also to those who work our fields.
The ships in port are empty, but I run my closed palm along their lengths, spelling them though they won’t be headed anywhere this day or the next. On a morning as glorious as this one, it is not hard to conjure the words for Urda, yet I can’t help but think back to Nik’s speech.No magic can trick her. No words can ply her. No will cansway her.Is my spell a trick? A panic suddenly seizes me. My heart beats fast and my feet feel like lead. The dock begins to spin before my eyes. Is this my punishment? I close my eyes to right my balance. I’m being silly. My magic is not meant to deceive. My words are intended to honor Urda, honor her sea. Bring life. Surely she knows that. My heart rate starts to slow and I leave the docks. I need a distraction.
Nik isn’t supposed to return from the farms until midafternoon, and while the streets will soon be alive with festival visitors, the real party doesn’t get started until suppertime, when Nik will have to judge the livestock. So I walk down Market Street and gather a late breakfast, paid for on Father’s account—fat strawberries, a stinky half-wedge of samsø, a jar of pickled herring we call slid, and a crusty loaf of rye bread so dense it could pass as a sea stone—and return to the Havnestad Cove.
