Sea Witch. Сара Хеннинг

a crusty loaf of rye bread so dense it could pass as a sea stone—and return to the Havnestad Cove.

      It’s quiet here, just a few couples trailing along the rocks, none taking any notice of me. I remove my shoes and stockings and place them in the same spot as yesterday, and I hop between the smaller footstep islands to the big one, Picnic Rock earning its name yet again. The strong sun and calm tide has made the rock almost completely dry, so I lie on my back, face to the sky, and shut my eyes.

      Though I don’t want it to, my mind shifts to Iker. He still hasn’t returned. I am already anxious, and the same panicky feeling quickly returns.

       What if something’s gone wrong?

       What if the steam stack exploded?

       What if the whale crashed into the ship’s hull upon capture?

       Am I at fault?

      I know I’m being ridiculous, but worst of all, we would never know. All of us are here, for once our eyes inward instead of turned to the sea.

      That sends my mind into a downward spiral about Father, and then suddenly a shadow falls across the backs of my eyelids, the direct sun blotted out by a passing cloud. It’s as if the weather worries too—

      “Excuse me, miss?”

       That voice.

      My eyes pop open, searching for the face of a friend who I know in my heart is long gone.

      But there, leaning over me, is the girl.

      The girl from the porthole.

      The one who rescued Nik.

      Yet that can’t be right, either. I really am losing my senses today.

      I sit up and rapidly blink my eyes in the sun, but when they refocus, the same girl remains. She shifts back, long blond hair swinging.

      Her face is like the singsong of her voice—so much like Anna’s, but more mature. The smattering of freckles around her nose is familiar too. She wears a gown that’s nicer than all of mine put together, and her shoes shine with new leather.

      Shoes. Feet. No fin—she can’t be what I saw. My stomach sinks, but I don’t know why.

      “This is quite embarrassing, but . . .” The girl’s eyes fall to the strawberry in my hand. “I haven’t eaten in more than a day.”

      I’m so stunned, I just hand over the strawberry. She isn’t ready for it and bobbles it in her fingertips before taking a bite. I shove my whole meal toward her.

      Anna loved cheese and fruit.

      “Oh, no, you don’t have to, I—”

      “I insist,” I say, and I’m surprised that’s what comes out because there are so many other words on my tongue. So many questions. But I’m almost terrified to ask them because I know what word will fall out—Anna.

      The girl eats, and I try to figure out what to say next.

       Did you save Nik?

       Were you a mermaid?

       Are you Anna?

       Don’t you remember me?

      All would make me run if I were her. So, as she chews a hunk of rye bread, I open the jar of slid.

      “Do you feel better?” I ask.

      “Yes, much. Thank you. I’m so sorry. I’m done.”

      I shake my head and tilt the open jar toward her, the little herring bobbing in their brine. “Eat, please.”

      She sees the fish and recoils, waving her hands in front of her face. I pull out a herring and eat it myself, yanking the bones out by the tail before discarding them into the cove. She looks at me as if I’ve just bitten off her ear.

      I used to do the same thing to Anna. She didn’t like slid either. I smile, but on the inside, the sadness is suffocating. I have to stop looking for the dead in the living.

      “Are you sure you aren’t still hungry?” I try. “There’s more cheese.”

      “No. I’ll be fine.” A sob swallows the word fine. Her brow furrows and the skin under her lashes reddens; there are no tears, but she looks exactly like she should be weeping.

      My hand flies to her shoulder to comfort her. When the girl catches her breath, she begins talking again, her voice almost a whisper. She doesn’t seem to mind me touching her. “I ran away from home.”

      “Oh, Anna—”

      The girl’s eyes fly to mine. “Annemette. How’d you—”

      “I didn’t . . . I just . . . you remind me of someone I used to know.”

      She coughs out a sob-laugh. “I wish I were that girl.”

      “No you don’t,” I say quickly as this girl—Annemette—wipes her nose.

      “Was her father a liar? Weaving tales about where he’s been and what he’s done, selling off all our livestock and not bringing a coin home?”

      I shake my head because I don’t know what to say.

      “I’ve had to sell half our fine things to pay his debt and put food on the table. I couldn’t take it anymore. I took off running over Lille Bjerg a day ago.”

      Her words are off. They seem forced. I can’t help it—I stare at her face. I’ve seen thousands of faces since Anna failed to surface, but I’ve never seen one so similar. Never heard a voice with the same timbre. If I hadn’t touched her, if this girl weren’t clearly made of flesh and bone, I’d think she was a ghost.

      She scrubs her face with her hands, nails clean and shaped. Her eyes blink open and then she takes my hands. “I’m terrible. Here I am, barging in on your breakfast, stealing your food, dumping my problems in your lap, and yet I haven’t even asked your name.”

      “It’s Evie,” I reply.

      “Evie,” she repeats, testing my name out on her tongue. “British?”

      “Evelyn, yes. My mother fell in love with the name in Brighton.”

      “I can see why.” Annemette smiles, her teeth clean and straight, like that of a princess or a dairymaid.

      I tell myself again that she’s not Anna. She’s not even the girl from the porthole or the beach or anywhere else. She’s a farm girl from the other side of the pass. My cheeks grow hot. Annemette squeezes my hands. “Thank you for your generosity, Evie—it’s a gift. Truly.” Her eyes sting red again and her lip trembles. “I doubt I’ll be so lucky again.”

      I don’t know what to do with this openness. This odd feeling blooming in my stomach. “You really have nothing and nowhere to go?”

      Annemette waves her hands across her body. “Only my clothes and my pride.”

      I can’t explain this girl or my feelings or why I have the need to believe her, but I do. And I want to help. “Come with me.”

9

      THE LITTLE HOUSE THAT MY FATHER BUILT ISN’T THAT far from Havnestad Cove—it’s practically waterside itself, the cottage at the end of a lane in the shadow of Øldenburg Castle. It backs up to a thatch of trees that buffer it from a rocky cliff jutting out into the sea.

      “It’s so quaint,” Annemette says.

      “It’s home,” I answer, and push through the front door. It’s been a long time since I’ve introduced someone to our tiny cottage. When