Sea Witch. Сара Хеннинг
enough—and we both know it. I take a deep breath and look over Nik’s shoulder, not trusting myself to say more. I swallow and try to concentrate on the party. Everything here has been borrowed for Nik’s celebration—the ship, the free-flowing hvidtøl, the band, two servants, and a coal man—and it’s beautiful. I focus on the miniature lanterns ringing the deck, the golden thread of my single fancy dress catching their glow.
Suddenly, Malvina hoists herself onto the dessert table, still frantically trying to control the cake’s growing bulge. I expect Nik to laugh, or at least knock out a very royal snort, but instead he’s looking over my shoulder, portside, at the sea. I follow his eyes, and my heart sputters to a stop when I make out a swift schooner, the familiar line of a boy—a man—adjusting the sail.
“Iker . . .” His name falls from my lips in a sigh before I can catch it. I meet Nik’s eyes, a blush crawling up my cheeks. “I didn’t know he was coming.”
“Neither did I.” He shrugs and raises a brow. “But Iker’s not exactly one to confirm an invitation. Missed that day at prince school. The lecture about being on time, too.”
“I believe it’s called ‘fashionably late,’” I say.
“Yes, well, I suppose I wouldn’t know,” Nik says with a laugh.
The little schooner closes in, and I see that it’s only Iker—he hasn’t brought a crew with him from Rigeby Bay, not that I’d expect him to. He’s a weather-worn fisherman trapped in a life designed for silk and caviar. He redirects the mainsail perfectly, his muscles tensing tightly as he aims straight for his cousin’s form.
Nik leans to my ear. “There goes my dancing partner.”
I punch him on the arm. “You don’t know that.”
“True, but I do know how you’ve looked at him since my cake had about ten fewer candles on it.”
I roll my eyes, but I can’t help a smile creeping up my lips. He’s somewhat right, though now isn’t the best time to argue that the way I looked at Iker changed from brotherly to something else entirely about four years ago, not ten.
I clear my throat. “I’m sure Malvina won’t mind—she’s almost finished with your cake,” I say, nodding in the direction of the blue monstrosity but never taking my eyes off Iker as he readies to throw up a line to the steamer.
Nik hugs me close and dips down to my ear. “You’re such a ravishingly loyal friend.”
“Always have been. Always will be.”
“’Tis true.” Nik grins before waving a long arm above his head. “Well, if it isn’t the crown prince of Rigeby Bay!”
“And here I hoped to surprise you,” Iker says, laughing. “Can’t surprise a lighthouse of a man on his own boat, I suppose.”
Nik laughs, standing even taller. “Not if I’m turned the right way.”
Iker laughs even deeper. There is salt in his hair and few days’ worth of scruff lining his strong jawline, but he strides across his deck with the elegance of a prince. He glances up at me, his eyes briefly betraying a hint of doubt about the sturdiness of my frame, but tosses the line to me anyway. I catch it, securing it with a knot I learned from Father.
Iker hauls himself up the rope and onto the ship. He manages to land on the small patch of deck just between Nik and myself. Behind us a crowd has gathered.
“Happy birthday, Cousin.” Eyes laughing, Iker claps Nik on the back and brings him in for a hug, his toned arms fully encasing Nik’s spindly-yet-strong form.
When they release, Iker’s eyes go right to me. They’re the clearest of blues—like ancient ice in the fjords of the north.
“Evelyn,” he says, still retaining an air of formality from his upbringing, but he then shockingly pulls me into a hug.
I freeze, eyes on Nik as he and everyone else on the ship stares. Iker doesn’t seem to notice or care and pulls me tighter, his arms wrapped around my waist. Warm from ship work, he smells of salt and limes. His shirt is freckled with water droplets, onyx on the starched gray fabric—the sea leaving her mark.
When the moment is over and he lets me go, an arm lingers across my shoulders. I try to ignore the question nagging me, the one I’m sure everyone else is asking too. Why me? We’ve known each other since we were children, but he’s never shown me this kind of affection before. I’m not his type. I’m not anyone’s type. Yet Iker continues to act as if it’s all completely normal. He turns to Nik, to the crowd, and grins that perfect smile.
“Good people of Havnestad,” he says, his voice commanding yet sincere. Then the grin grows wider. “Let’s give the prince a celebration so hearty, he’ll never forget it.”
I FEEL AS IF I’M LIVING IN A DREAM.
Still warm from Iker’s strong embrace, I twirl across the dance floor in his arms.
I tried to tell Iker we shouldn’t, but he wouldn’t hear of it. “Let them talk,” Iker said. If only he knew how much they already did.
I can sense Malvina’s eyes following me. Yes, Malvina, this is what it looks like when someone dances without fearing for his life. But I try not to think about her. I want to remember this moment, even the smallest details. Everything about him wears like oiled leather and loved muslin. His hands are rough and worn from the sea, and yet they are gentle, his thumb delicately caressing mine.
My twelve-year-old fantasies were never this detailed—hardly anything beyond me in a grand purple gown and Iker in his royal finery hand-in-hand on a stroll through the palace gardens. The reality is so different, so intense, and I’m not sure I’m handling it well. I know I’m not. Can he feel my palms sweating? My heart beating loudly against his chest?
“I saw you from my deck, you know,” he whispers in my ear. “Before coming aboard. You’ve never looked more beautiful, Evie. And I’ve never begged the gods to steer my ship faster.”
I don’t know what to say, my voice seizing in my throat. I look around instead, trying to organize my thoughts. The sun has completely set, the last strands of light gone with our plates in a rush and clatter of tiny quail bones, torsk tails, pea pods, and strawberry hulls. And though the entire ship deck is still lit by a ring of miniature lanterns, the remaining shadow is enough that it almost feels as if we’re alone.
Just a boy, a girl, and the sea.
The song ends and he hugs me tight. When he pulls back, he runs his fingers along my jawbone. “I shouldn’t have stayed away from Havnestad so long,” he says, capturing one of my curls between his fingers. “You have the same hair you did as a child.” His gaze lifts to mine. “The same starry-night eyes.”
I struggle not to look down—down to where he’s still wound a lock of my hair lightly between his fingers. I bite my lip to silence the sigh there. His fingers wind tighter around the curl. It almost seems as if he doesn’t know he’s doing it—this boy made of smiles and grand gestures doing something so small it’s escaped him.
Iker’s eyes drift to the band members who have circled around a bench where someone has begun to play a guitaren. Though we can’t see him, the shiny, precise plucks are a dead giveaway that the musician is Nik. He’s always been the kind to pick up any instrument and immediately know exactly how to play it, ever since we were children. He’s strumming the song I used to sing on the docks as a girl to wish my father safe travels on his fishing trips. Nik said it always got stuck in his head.
Iker drops the curl.
Clears his throat.
Adjusts his body so that we’re not touching in so many places.