Sea Witch. Сара Хеннинг

at his pause and meets my eye again. I nod him forward even though his color has suddenly returned.

      “These next four days are a celebration. Games, races, songs, and feasts in our goddess’s name. Let us not forget that it is all for her. It is fun. It is merry. But it has a utility—a reason. Urda.”

      There is an audible gasp in the crowd—Nik has gone off script. He’s speaking from the heart, and I couldn’t be prouder.

      “Last year, we did the same as we will do this week,” Nik goes on, his voice gathering strength. “We pelted our thinnest with bread. We sang to Urda. We watched as I carried the heaviest rock down the beach.”

      At this, he flexes a bicep and flashes a smile—all his nerves replaced with bravado. A few chuckles carry through the crowd, but there is only one heavy guffaw—issued by Tante Hansa, from her corner at the table reserved for the ancients.

      Nik rounds on her with a pronounced grin and then pulls his brows together. His tone swings back to serious. “Yes, I am aware my scrawny feats of strength are quite hysterical. But those are on display daily”—he grins again—“and they are not why we do this year after year. We do this for Urda. And some years she teaches us a lesson and reminds us of her power.”

      Nik pauses, the air heavy and silent. Not even the bonfire dares to crackle.

      “My father stood on this exact spot a year ago and recited the very same speech he has said for thirty years. Which his father before him recited for thirty years before that. Yet we were in the thick of the Tørhed—the third year running. And did it improve when we came together to sing songs about Urda until our voices were rough and fingers bleeding on our guitarens? No. Did it improve when I defeated all you weaklings in the rock carry? No.”

      Only Tante Hansa is brave enough to cackle this time. But no one turns her way. All eyes are on our crown prince. Even the king and queen are hanging on his every word.

      “Let us remember that though we celebrate her, Urda owes us not a morsel. Just like the tide that laps our shores—her tide, her shores—she can take as swiftly as she can give.”

      Nik pauses, his coal-dark eyes on the harbor over our heads. I realize he’s referencing Anna too. Honoring her as something Urda claimed for her own, the sea doing the goddess’s bidding.

      “So, let us honor Urda this week, not just celebrate her name, but truly honor her. She is our queen—forgive me, Mother. The land that gives us bounty. The sea that brings us our supper as much as coins in our pocket. She is more than a goddess—she is us. Havnestad. And all the people within it. Without her, we are nothing. No magic can trick her. No words can ply her. No will can sway her. She is queen, and we are simply her subjects.”

      He comes to a full stop, eyes on the waves beyond the crowd, posture firm and tall—regal.

      Perhaps stunned by his originality and honesty, it takes the whole of Havnestad a few moments to process that he’s finished. I stand and begin to cheer and clap. Nik’s eyes find me, and there’s a wink of relief that brushes across his features before my view of him is blocked—every last person leaping to their feet, hoots at their lips and applause gone wild. And somehow it feels as if he’s leagues away.

7

       IT’S IMPOSSIBLE TO SEE HIM AFTER THAT.

      All the people want to shake his hand. Tell him how awed they are by his thoughtfulness. About how poised he was. How kingly he sounded. How impressed they were and are.

      Nik is swallowed by their affections.

      And though I wait on the beach for him to resurface, he doesn’t. Whisked away for the night in a crowd of his subjects. Every other creature eventually peters out for the night too. A rush and then a trickle in exit until it’s just me, a hot pile of kindling, and a few poor souls who have lost the battle of alertness to free hvidtøl and a patch of soft sand.

      I stand, legs stiff in my boots, eyes toward the harbor, breathing in the sharp, salty air. My throat tightens and tears threaten my eyes.

       He’s going to be king, Evie.

      I want to laugh at my foolishness for thinking I’d always have him. Of course everything is going to change.

      The moon is so bright that I can see the length of the beach without any other aid. Too bright for my dark mood, but maybe a walk will do me good. Clear my head. I should be happy for him, after all.

      I make my way down the docks first, taking the worn planks in careful steps as ships large and small clank and bump at the sea’s discretion.

      Naturally, the royal dock is the largest in the harbor—with room for the king’s giant steamer, my father’s craft, and a dozen other royal ships, boats, schooners, and skiffs. There’s a pole at the end that is empty, though—the spot where the king’s steamship should be.

      I stare at the water there for a moment, wishing for the second time tonight that his boat would materialize among the gentle rolling waves. Just suddenly appear with Iker aboard, a shine in his eyes and laughter on his lips. That he’d jump off the bow before anchoring, not able to hold himself back from me a moment longer. That he’d pull me in deeply into his arms for another kiss.

      I blink and the thought has vanished.

      The pole is still untethered.

      There is not a single ship on the horizon.

      I step off the dock, my back to the waves that took Anna, my head and heart throbbing with the wish that she would return, too. That I’d have my friend back. That I wouldn’t feel the need to pin my hopes on boys who I should’ve known all along would only care about me until they hit that invisible line in the sand—blood—and then let me down. Though maybe, being highborn, Anna would’ve felt the same way.

      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 of us. 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