on the second day of the festival. Because “there can never be enough swine in this sodden fish market.” Hansa’s back is turned, and I feel the need to announce that we have company—it’s never safe for a witch to have no warning.
“Tante Hansa, I’d like you to meet my new friend.”
Hansa wipes her hands, and I know by the set of her shoulders she was stirring the soup without a spoon. Domestic spells aren’t spectacular, but they’re her favorites because she’d never planned on having a family of her own—and Father and I are more work than she’d like to admit.
When she turns, her face is pulled up in a smile, clear blue eyes flashing with the delight of catching me at something remotely unusual. Hansa is my mother’s older sister by almost two decades, the time between them filled with brothers who lost their lives to the sea’s moods much too young. She is as old as the grief of burying all her siblings suggests. But I have never been able to put anything past her.
Which means her reaction to Annemette is the same as mine. Only she actually says what she’s thinking.
“Why, Anna, returned from the deep, have we?”
Annemette’s mouth drops open as if she’s lost her tongue, her jovial attitude gone as well.
“Annemette, Tante,” I correct. “She’s from the valley. A farm.”
Hansa takes a step forward and raises a brow—quite the feat given the blood-drawing tightness of her hairdo.
“Is that so?” Hansa looks her up and down. “Those hands haven’t seen a day of hard work in all your years. That fair face hasn’t seen the sun. And that dress is worth more than the best cow in the valley.” She takes a step forward and grabs Annemette’s smooth hand. “Who are you really?”
“Tante, please, leave her be, she’s had a rough trip—”
“Hush. You only see what you want to see.” She turns back to Annemette, staring at the girl as if she could bend her will as easily as she tamed the soup. “So, again I ask—who are you really?”
Annemette’s eyes have gone red around the rims again, but she doesn’t cry. If anything, there’s an edge of defiance in the cut of them. Like she’s accepted Hansa’s dare for what it is. But when she speaks, she says the last thing I’d expect.
“Your soup is boiling.”
But the soup is more than boiling. The pea-green liquid hisses as it rolls in violent, unnatural waves over the iron pot’s rim.
“Ah!” Hansa cackles. “I’ve seen your type before.”
I’m stunned. Her type? Is Annemette a witch?
I stare at her.
Another witch. My age. Next to me.
Of all the things I can’t believe about Annemette, this might be the most unfathomable.
Something cracks open in my chest as the secret we’ve held so tightly as a family flies into the soupy air. I stare at this face so familiar and yet so strange, and my mind whirls. Anna was not a witch, but Annemette certainly is.
Annemette nods, and the liquid returns to a gentle simmer.
My aunt’s spotted hands grasp Annemette’s again, but this time there’s a funny light in her eyes, all her skepticism gone. “Evie, child, you’ve made quite an interesting friend indeed.”
It’s a long while before Tante Hansa allows us to escape, having thoroughly quizzed Annemette on her family. In the funny way of things, we both claim lineage to the town of Ribe and Denmark’s most famous witch, Maren Spliid. Tied to a ladder and thrown into a fire by King Christian IV 220 years ago, she became as much a lesson as a legend. Her talent was inspiring, but ultimately her audacity was her undoing. Her death and so many others under the witch-hunter king scattered Denmark’s witches like ashes in the wind. And our kind never recovered—our covens fractured, magic kept to families and never shared.
Given the time and distance, it shouldn’t be a surprise that there’s more than one magical family in Havnestad related to Ribe and Maren, yet I still can’t believe it. We’ve been alone for so long.
After Hansa is finally satisfied with her family tree, Annemette and I head outside. We walk into the woods behind the cottage, where we’re shaded from every angle, including from Øldenburg Castle and its sweeping views, and start to pick our way down toward the sea.
The ground is covered in gnarled roots and branches, a danger for anyone not looking where they’re going. But I know this steep path better than anyone, and I use this moment to steal another glance at Annemette. Her family may be from elsewhere, but her face still belongs here.
Anna did not have any magic in her blood, at least as far as I know. She had two “common” parents and a grandmother who loved her more than the sun. Her parents left shortly after Anna’s funeral. Took their titles and moved to the Jutland—miles and miles from this place and the daughter they lost. Her grandmother is still here, but she’s gone senile with grief, the loss of her family too much for her mind. I see her at the bakeshop sometimes, and she calls every person there Anna. Even me.
“What?” Annemette says, catching me looking as we pass between twin trees, slick with sap.
I can’t tell her what I’m thinking, but I do have questions for her. “It’s just . . . how did you know we were witches? If you’d been wrong, we could’ve reported you. You could’ve been banished.”
She dips her head to avoid a branch. “I could just feel it.”
Like Tante Hansa did.
“I must not be much of a witch,” I say. “I couldn’t tell. I mean, now my blood won’t stop singing, but an hour ago? No.” There’s so much I don’t know about the magic in my bones.
“I’m sure you’re a fine witch, Evie.”
It’s a nice thing to say, I suppose, but not necessarily true. Tante Hansa teaches me only the most mundane of spells. But I read her books and Mother’s books, and I know there is so much more. With a few words and her will, Annemette brought out all that possibility into the open.
“How did you do that? The soup, I mean.”
Annemette just shrugs and hooks a hand on a tree, swinging around it like a maypole ribbon. “It was just an animation spell,” she says as if impressing Tante Hansa was nothing.
The ease, the comfort, the understanding she has about her magic makes my blood tingle with envy. It’s so much of what I want. It took me months of studying and toying to create the spell to combat the Tørhed and even then, I’m not sure it actually works. My evidence is only anecdotal, and Fru Seraphine has taught me better than to use anecdotes as true measures of success.
In a few more steps we reach the sliver of rocky beach blind to Havnestad Cove, my own shortcut to Greta’s Lagoon. I try to calm my heart from beating so loudly, but I’ve never gone to the lagoon in daylight and I’m nervous. I steal a glance up the beach. It’s deserted as far as I can see, everyone off preparing for tonight’s festivities.
“Careful,” I say as we reach the end of the beach and the two large rocks. “The water is deep here.”
I take off my stockings and shoes and wade in. As I reach the sand, I turn around, but she’s still standing by the rocks. “Here,” I say, wading back out and extending my arm. “Take my hand. I’ll help you.”
With tentative steps, she walks forward and grasps my hand tight. I smile at her. “Come on. It’s okay.”
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