Like Tante Hansa did.
“I must not be much of a witch,” I say. “I couldn’t tell. Imean, now my blood won’t stop singing, but an hour ago? No.” There’s so much I don’t know about the magic in my bones.
“I’m sure you’re a fine witch, Evie.”
It’s a nice thing to say, I suppose, but not necessarily true. Tante Hansa teaches me only the most mundane of spells. But I read her books and Mother’s books, and I know there is so much more. With a few words and her will, Annemette brought out all that possibility into the open.
“How did you do that? The soup, I mean.”
Annemette just shrugs and hooks a hand on a tree, swinging around it like a maypole ribbon. “It was just an animation spell,” she says as if impressing Tante Hansa was nothing.
The ease, the comfort, the understanding she has about her magic makes my blood tingle with envy. It’s so much of what I want. It took me months of studying and toying to create the spell to combat the Tørhed and even then, I’m not sure it actually works. My evidence is only anecdotal, and Fru Seraphine has taught me better than to use anecdotes as true measures of success.
In a few more steps we reach the sliver of rocky beach blind to Havnestad Cove, my own shortcut to Greta’s Lagoon. I try to calm my heart from beating so loudly, but I’ve never gone to the lagoon in daylight and I’m nervous. I steal a glance up the beach. It’s deserted as far as I can see, everyone off preparing for tonight’s festivities.
“Careful,” I say as we reach the end of the beach and the two large rocks. “The water is deep here.”
I take off my stockings and shoes and wade in. As I reach the sand, I turn around, but she’s still standing by the rocks. “Here,” I say, wading back out and extending my arm. “Take my hand. I’ll help you.”
With tentative steps, she walks forward and grasps my hand tight. I smile at her. “Come on. It’s okay.”
Once we’re in the right spot, I push aside the small boulders that obscure the entrance and steer her inside. Although it’s daylight, the cave is still steeped in shadows. I light a candle. Various mundane tools hang from juts on the wall, and on the floor, oysters sweat in a bucket—my latest failure. On a ledge in the rock wall are my tinctures, bottles full of octopus and squid ink, jellyfish poison, and powdered crab shells.
“You’ve made a lair.”
I laugh. “‘Secret workshop’ might be a more accurate term.”
“Oh no, this is a lair.” Annemette’s hands move automatically to the ledge. She holds each bottle up to the light, admiring the slosh or swoosh of the contents.
Her boot nudges the oyster bucket. “And what are your plans for these little fellas?” She scoops one up and holds it in her hand as if it’s a baby bird and not an endless source of frustration for me.
“They’re barren, but I’d hoped to spell them intoproducing pearls to be crushed for—” Annemette stops me cold with a wave of her hand. She mumbles something I don’t understand under her breath, her eyes intent on the oyster in her palms.
Within moments, the oyster swells to a pink as vibrant as the sunset and springs open. Inside is the most gorgeous pearl, perfectly round with an opalescent shimmer.
“It’s beautiful,” I say, though the word doesn’t do it justice. It’s otherworldly, unnatural. I want to touch it, but I’m frightened of it all the same. It seems... alive.
Annemette’s grin grows mischievous. “Too beautiful to crush, I think.” With a simple Old Norse command—“Fljóta”—she sets the pearl afloat over her palm. Then, without saying a word, she commands a few lengths of thread—repurposed and therefore unspooled—from the nails on the wall. Next, she covers the thread and pearl with both hands, shielding from me the magic she’s clearly working with her mind, her eyes set on her work. Seconds later, her hands part to reveal a perfect pearl necklace.
“Turn around and pull up your hair,” she says.
I do as she says and she draws the thread around my neck, draping it so that the pearl lies at the base of my throat. I don’t own any real jewelry and have never even tried any on, save for my mother’s wedding band—Father keeps it tucked away in a little chest, along with letters and drawings and other tokens from their life together.
I touch the pearl and look up at her, but she is busyworking on another oyster and more string. After a few moments, Annemette ties her own pearl necklace around her throat.
“And now we match,” she says.
My throat catches. I remember Anna saying those words to me that time we made necklaces from wooden beads the tailor was giving away. They were crude and childlike, yet still special. We promised to never take them off, but I couldn’t bear to look at mine once Anna was gone. It’s now in a small box underneath my bed.
I force a smile at Annemette. My pearl sits in cool repose against my neck, pulsing with vigor. It’s a curious feeling that is not altogether pleasant, and I wonder if the pearl will always beat like this. Oddly, I find myself hoping that it will.
“Can you teach me?” I ask, the words spilling from my lips.
“What is there to teach? You’re a witch, aren’t you?”
“I... Tante Hansa hasn’t taught me anything like that. Everything I know is like a recipe to make cheese—fail one segment and the whole thing falls to curd.”
Annemette scrunches her nose. “It shouldn’t be that hard.” She picks up an oyster. “Here. Try.Fljóta.”
