I hold the bottle straight under the tip of the stream,and it goes right in, filling it straight to the top. Will hands me the cork, and I stop the vial.
The nightgown is again perfectly snow white, the lace as delicate as a butterfly wing, though I doubt Sofie will want it.
“Runa... you’re not going to go and do it now, are you?” Will asks, panicked.
“Oh! No. No. Will, of course not.” I stand, grip tight on the bottle, my other hand reaching for his. “But I would like some time to think, if you’ll leave me a moment.”
Will stands with me, a reluctance in the speed. His eyes narrow. “You’ll say good-bye?”
“I promise I’ll wake you.” I slip the bottle into my pocket and press both hands to his chest. Strong and rich, his heartbeat thumps into my palms.
He takes my hands in his. Warm and rough, his skin is there and then it’s gone, the nightgown in his hand, rustling in the wind off the sea as he walks away.
I sit again on the rock and watch the waves. They break and burst, curl and sweep, churning, turning, agitated.
“Hello, Father.”
I wish if I could concentrate enough, my sisters would just appear. Pop above the surf, something between us telling them exactly where I am at this very moment. And what I must decide. I suppose a summoning spell might do that, even at this distance. But love them as I may, Eydis, Ola, and Signy are not Alia. We don’t have the sameconnection, and we never will.
My thumb grazes the bottle cork. I should just do it. Spare myself what will surely be more than the dull pain in my gut that’s festered since I realized I could return to the sea, leaving this all behind. How is it possible to miss something you barely know? Or someone?
I can tell myself that this pain is a residual effect of Alia’s absence. That I haven’t had time to process what happened. To truly accept it. But that’s not true. The pain I feel for Alia is different. I meant it when I told the sea witch that it felt like an arm had been ripped from my body with Alia gone. And I accept that I may never feel whole again, living with the phantom pain of her holding fast to whatever body I’m in for the remainder of my days.
“Oh, Alia,” I say to the waves. I stand and walk straight to them, careful to remove Katrine’s shoes this time.
Then I dip my toes into the water. I pretend Alia’s there in the gurgling bubbles. Soaking into my skin with a chill of truth.
Though she didn’t say them aloud, Alia’s words rumble through my mind in the voice that was once hers.
There’s no more balance.
But by working with the few remaining witches on land, I can help. I can make a difference. I can restore the balance—restore Father to the amount of power he can handle.
There really is so much I can do here.
And what will happen if I make it home?
After I make my offer of ríkifjor seeds to Urda, there will only be a handful left. Enough to sustain him for a day.
A day.
And I’ll need to save a few to get another crop going if the rest of the plants have died. He won’t be pleased, and his impatience—and the physical toll that goes along with it—won’t be good for anyone.
If I survive that first planting, it’s very easy to see the remainder of my life in service to the crown. Chained to the tower, not to be trusted with any hint of freedom. Or maybe, chained in plain sight to the ríkifjor crop—sleeping among their ghost-white blooms.
No adventure. No life beyond duty.
And who does it help besides him?
My people? Only if his threats of war cease. Only if the serum staves off his anger, entitlement, thirst. But even then, maybe not. If the U-boats appear en masse, we’ll be in even greater danger. We can destroy these, destroy the program, but the Germans already have these boats. They’re in the water, and these aren’t the only boats being made. They’re just the ones closest to the sea kingdom. To home.
There’s no telling how long they’ll be a threat.
The mines too.
Or how long Father will use the humans’ actions to sow the seeds of his war as he grows stronger on my ríkifjor.So strong that there’s nothing left for him to do but attack. Out of boredom, or greed, or recklessness. No matter what choice I make, there are no guarantees.
“Good night, Alia,” I tell the water kissing my toes.
