The king comes in, smiling and clapping as if he never left. And, for once, instead of seeing Alia first as he enters the room, he zeroes in on Sofie, all smiles.
13
Runa
THE RECEPTION ROARS UNTIL MIDNIGHT.THE KINGand his bride retire, but Alia and I make sure to stay a few minutes longer. The more people who see us here—happy, smiling, and dancing—the better.
Alia is exhausted when we make it back to the gilded confines of our room. She’s failing now, the fabric of the spell that keeps her in this body fraying at the edges and growing weaker with each moment. I help her into bed, shooing away the maids who have come to help us undress. She needs all the rest she can get.
Yet, somehow, her fatigue energizes me. I can’t let her fade, the weariness building upon itself until she can do nothing but wait for her bones to dissolve into sea foam. I can’t. And so, though it’s minutes until morning, I stay awake, preparing.
I summon a maid, asking her to gather parchment,an ink pot, and pen. When she returns with my items, I request that she find another home for the gowns, undergarments, stockings, and slippers that have been gifted to us during our stay. All of this is an alibi—hopefully enough to buy us time before they come looking for us.
When she leaves, I sit at the vanity.
Thank you for your kindness, King Niklas.
I will never forget you.
Alia of Helsingør
Our alibi fortified in ink, I test my magic again, standing in front of the long mirror.
“Blakkr,”I whisper to my reflection.
Again, the magic, once so forcefully present, streams in from a distant place. Listening, but having to journey to answer the call. I reach for it, begging it to stay close. I’ll need it tonight. Still, the spell does its work, darkening the blue of my gown to the deepest black of the night outside.
I repeat it, hoping to change my hair. The short cut makes it far more recognizable than I’d like, but the spell won’t change it. I repeat it once more, but still, nothing.
“Damn witch.”
My eyes snag on the ink pot on the desk. I dip the pen tip into the pot until ink beads and drips off the point, and then run it in a streak through my hair. A ribbon of blackimmediately appears, the witch’s magic not immune to the powers of ink.
Excellent.
When I’m finished with my hair, I decide to test out my magic on Alia—her hair wasn’t affected by the same stubborn spell as mine.“Blakkr.”
In less than a minute, her hair is as black as night—and we’re suddenly much less recognizable. Satisfied, I wake her—and she’s not happy about it, eyes blinking open heavily. Alia holds up a single pointer finger.
One more hour.
“No. There’s less than five hours until dawn. We can’t wait any longer. I’m sorry.”
Alia doesn’t protest again, but she’s slow to move. Everything she does is at a reduced speed. The resistance of it all weighs on her movements as I help her swing her legs over and stand. Her eyes catch in the mirror and suddenly her half-closed eyes spring open, starfish wide.
Her fingers fly to her dress, her face, her hair. She gasps soundlessly, her hands moving furiously as she finds more than enough energy to march over to the mirror.
She twirls around to better see what I’ve done. Whirling to face me, her hands move again in a flurry of signs.
I look like I’m playing the sea witch on the stage!
I nearly laugh. “Okay, you’re right, but if you look like her, then you don’t look like yourself. See? Perfect disguise.”
Alia grumbles soundlessly, bringing a hand to her hair once again.
I pull the knife from where I’ve hidden it in my corset and offer it to her. Alia’s eyes fall to the serrated blade, her retort dying on her lips as she extends a hand and takes it.
“Ready?” I ask her as she weighs the knife in her palm.
