Sea Witch Rising. Sarah Henning
2
I SHOULD’VE KNOWN I WOULD LOSE HER THIS WAY.
To him.
The boy. That stupid boy. With his stupid dark hair and sparkling eyes and regal blood.
The one she saved in the height of summer, during a ferocious storm when she’d been stalking him yet again. Living in the wake of his ship, hoping for a glimpse of him with his brothers, with their cheekbones and songs and dogs. As if they’d been created from her heart’s desires and plunked onto the earth, just close enough for her to want, just far enough—different enough—to escape her.
Always fascinated with humans, Alia.
Always fascinated with what she shouldn’t have. Riding the edge of what was acceptable down below—testing our father’s kingly patience and personal leniency. Rescuing that boy and then all but bragging about it by lugging into her garden that stupid statue that went down with him.
I was there when she first saw him above. Her eyes shone with immediate curiosity. We’d turned fifteen at the same time—twins so alike and yet more like two sides of the same coin. We had gone to the surface together, but the fascination with the world above was hers alone.
Once she learned his name, it wouldn’t leave her lips.
Niklas.
Now she’s gone to him, I’m sure of it.
It’s been a day since I’ve seen her, the longest we’ve ever been apart. I have no choice but to believe I’ve lost her to him, because the alternative—that she’s dead or dying somewhere and my heart has yet to realize it—is too painful.
Not that it feels fantastic knowing that my twin left me, our family, our world for a boy.
A stupid human prince of a boy who doesn’t even know her name.
“Oh, Alia. How could you do this to yourself?” I mumble into the morning tide, mermaid tail swishing hard, fists balled tightly at my sides, nails digging crescents into my palms. “How could you do it to us?”
The magic to become human has been banned forever by our father’s own hand. He invented it himself, after he brought home his first queen, but the last time it was done, it nearly brought our people to ruin. Four days, one knife, and the truth about life beneath the sea spilling from the lips of one of our own, nearly exposing and endangering us, if Annemette had lived.
So, here I am, closer to land now than I’ve ever been, swimming in the shadows of a new morning, staring at the place I know in my gut Alia will be.
Øldenburg Castle.
Home of stupid Niklas and his stupid laughing smile and stupid dimples.
The castle is just as Alia said it would be. High on the hill and old enough to have Viking bones in its crypt. It’s the biggest thing in sight, dwarfing the mountains at its back simply by a purposeful trick of perspective. The town below it is a warren of stone houses, shops, and the like. Bricks line the streets, slick under the weak light of a rising morning sun as the people of Havnestad run out for their errands.
I sink back below the surface. The waters will be safer near the castle—buoys keep ships from docking too close, so none will mar my path, even with the bustle of the morning. Plus, there are mines out here, bombs meant for ships in the humans’ great war. I doubt they know or care how these hurt us below.
I set a course straight for the castle, my path clear though I’ve never swum it before, but still I know it. Late at night, Alia would whisper tales into my ear while our sisters slept. Tales of watching the grand summer parties from beneath a marble balcony, something new added onto the old castle in recent years.
Morning isn’t the time for parties, but this balcony may be the only way I can see into the castle from the water. Beyond the buoys, I swim into a narrow channel, sheer rock faces on each side, protecting the Øldenburgs from visitors they’d rather avoid. And there, right as I enter the opening of a cove, the balcony’s footings appear like skeleton bones, jutting up from the sea floor. They sweep out over the water and back down below the surface with the fluid motion of a dolphin’s jump.
Above the balcony that sits atop those arches, the castle teeters from a cliff face. It juts out like the haughty chin of its founding king, eyes down on all that it owns, including the waters at its shores.
“The sea’s not yours, greedy bastards,” I say under my breath. My father could build a castle just as big as this one from the bones of Øldenburgs and their ilk who’ve fought the sea and lost over the centuries.
Gulls sweep the surface as a soft breeze caresses the tide, autumn sweet as it descends on 1914. Music tinkles out from the castle’s wide-open doors and windows. Hope rises in my gut—no, it’s not time for parties, but where there’s music, there are people.
I hoist myself up just enough that I can see beyond the balcony and through three sets of grand doors that bring the outside in. Men in tea jackets, hair swept back as if it’s shiny and wet though perfectly dry, crowd around something within. Ladies are there too, but most run around in stiff blue dresses with white aprons. Servants—I’d recognize the scurry and dutifulness anywhere.
I can see why Alia loved this balcony so—it provides cover that kept her from being spotted, while also allowing for an easy view of the happenings above. I watch for a minute, unsure what to do next except take it all in.
But then a servant moves aside, clearing breakfast plates, and—there. A glimpse of what’s beyond.
A girl dancing in a dress of shimmering gold.
Alia.
Long blond hair trailing as she moves in time with the music, a glorious smile upon her face. She’s always been graceful, yes, but it’s difficult to be anything else in the water, our very atmosphere encouraging swirls, twists, spirals.
My lips drop open as I watch what she can do on two feet. A heavy feeling stirs deep within my bones that I could never move this way on little propped feet, not now, not with another lifetime of practice.
We are twins, but not identical in the least.
Yet, there she is. Moving like the water itself. It’s magnetic. Everyone is watching her with the same intensity as I am, but where joy sparks in their eyes, mine soak in bittersweet relief.
My sister is alive. But she might not be for much longer.
I know the bargain. Everyone does, even if Father banned it.
The magic works for four days. Four days to earn a prince’s love or spill Øldenburg blood to survive. Without either, she becomes foam in the tide.
One day is already gone.
I’m too fearful to whisper it here, this close, but a refrain sticks in my mind.
Oh, Alia, what have you done?
THE SONG ENDS AND APPLAUSE TITTERS THROUGH THE room, along with calls for more. Alia curtsies, and when she does, I see him in the corner, pointing his dimples at her, dangerous as they are.
Niklas.
“Again, if you will, my dear,” he says, and I hate that he’s already using terms of endearment. She has a name, Niklas—use it. “Please, for our guests.”
Alia obliges as a song strikes up yet again.
The