don’t look to Iker for confirmation—I just take off down the dock, tear onto the sand, and race across the shoreline in that direction.
“Nik!” I choke, my voice still raspy and hopeless against the wind. Iker is on my heels for a few strides and then ahead of me in a few more.
Havnestad Cove is part jutting rock, part silty beach. There’s a rolling W shape to it, and a few large boulders form footstep islands toward its center, before the waters become too deep. In good weather, it’s a beautiful escape from the rest of the harbor. In bad weather, it’s a hurricane in a birdbath.
Iker points to the biggest island—Picnic Rock. “I’m going there to see what I can.”
The wind is already calming, the rain tapering off. Even the lightning seems to be behind us, disappearing with the storm into the mountains. The swiftness of such a powerful storm confounds me. The magic in my blood prickles at the strangeness, but I have no time to think of things beyond this world.
I tilt my chin toward a mass of rocks farther along the shore, the point that makes the W by jutting deep into the middle of the cove. It’s just tall enough that it blinds us from the remainder of the beach.
“I’ll climb up there and take a look on the other side.”
“Wait!” Iker says, his face weary. For once, he doesn’t seem to know what to say. He reaches his hand through my hair and pulls me close. My heart is pounding.
“Iker, we ca—” The words are whispers on my tongue—that we can’t delay, that he shouldn’t slow me down—when he tips my chin up and his lips are on mine.
I breathe him in, long and deep, and for a moment we’re not on a gritty beach, soaked to the bone, searching for Nik. We’re somewhere far from here. A place where class, title—none of that matters. Somewhere that surely doesn’t exist outside of this instant. Another trick of the gods.
He pulls back, and I’m stunned still, staring into his cool eyes.
“Be careful,” he says.
Shaken back to reality, I pick up my waterlogged skirts and run along the coastline to the wall of stone. The swift clouds have almost reached their end, their tail nearly directly above the cove entrance. Starry night reigns above the massive sea beyond, calm waters with it. My eyes are constantly scanning the waves, looking for any sign of Nik.
But there’s nothing.
I steal a glance back at Iker. He’s already made it to Picnic Rock, hoisting himself up. I breathe a sigh of relief that the stormy churn didn’t wash him away and turn back to the approaching boulder just steps ahead.
I’ve climbed this giant rock hundreds of times since childhood, as have most of Havnestad’s youth. I know the placement of the fingerholds with my eyes shut; my boots automatically drift to the perfect places to wedge themselves before taking another step up. The rain has all but stopped now, and the crag of stone is mostly damp, not slick.
I lug myself on top and scan the waters again, squinting at every irregularity, struggling to use the limited moonlight to make out what is yet another coastal rock and what might be Nik. I close my eyes, dread piling at my feet as I pivot toward the hidden portion of the cove. When my eyes spring open, I have to blink again to make sure my mind isn’t playing tricks. A flash of bright-white fabric swims on the distant sandy line.
My heart swells with hope. I scramble down the rock and onto the other side of the beach. My feet work overtime to propel my body forward as the wet sand swallows my boots with each step.
Lightning radiates over the mountains, illuminating the sky for a flash—long enough for my brain to register the outline of Nik’s body against the sand.
And the form of a girl hovering over him.
“NIK!” I yell, my voice coming back to me.
In response comes Iker’s baritone from behind, “Evie!”
But I don’t wait for him. I don’t even turn in Iker’s direction, keeping my eyes only on Nik and the girl leaning over him, her body still mostly submerged. Without another stroke of lightning, I can’t make out much more than her long, long hair—so long it drapes over the white of Nik’s shirt.
The girl’s head tilts up in the moonlight as if she’s just now noticed me running toward her at full speed. The lightning returns in a burst, and though my legs keep moving, my heart skids to a stop.
Large blue eyes. Butter-blond curls. Creamy flush of skin.
It’s the girl. The one from the porthole.
Anna?
No, it can’t be.
Recognition seems to fill the girl’s eyes, and her features skip from contented calm to a pure rush of panic. Panic that sends her straight into motion. A gust of wind pushes her hair over the curve of her shoulder as she takes one hasty and last glance at Nik’s face before heaving herself fully into the water.
“Wait!” I yell as best I can, but it’s useless with her ears deep under the waves.
In less than a breath, I get to Nik and crash to the sand next to him, pulling his chest to mine, my ear to his mouth. A rush of air from his lips touches my cheek as Iker yells both our names from behind.
Nik’s lungs work in great rasps, but they work. His eyes are closed, but he seems to be conscious.
“Evie . . .”
“I’m here, Nik. I’m here.”
A ghost of a smile touches his lips. “Evie . . . keep singing, Evie.”
Confused, I begin correcting him. “Nik, I’m not—I don’t . . .”
My mouth goes dry. I scan the waters for any sign of the girl. The girl who looks like Anna all grown up. The girl who must like to sing the way my friend did as a child.
At first, there’s still nothing. Just ever-calming waves and starry night, backlit by the summer solstice moon.
But then, just at the edge of the cove, I see it.
Blond hair gone silver under the clear moon, peeking up for a swift moment before the girl dives back underwater. A trail of sea spray flies up in her wake—and with it comes something more.
The perfect outline of a tail fin.
FOUR YEARS BEFORE
The sun was out, as fierce and as hot as possible in Havnestad. It wasn’t as fierce or hot as it is in other places, but memorable to those in the mild-mannered Øresund Kingdoms, much more accustomed to Mother Nature’s cold shoulder than her steamy smile, though it was the height of summer.
Two girls, one with waves of blond, one with curls of black, pranced along the shoreline. Their voices lifted toward the naked June sun, carried aloft by a deep wind from within the strait.
A boy, already as tall as a man, trailed them, piccolo to his lips, writing a tune for the girls’ merry lyrics.
Despite the sun, the main beach was clear, the majority of Havnestad hauling fish and hunting whales at sea, the bustle of a modern economy weathering a boom. They would flood the shores with catch and tales soon enough, returning that night for the days-long Lithasblot festival and the midsummer full moon. For now, the whole stretch of sand belonged to the two girls and their boy.
The waves, heavy and exuberant, churned in the strong wind, tossing themselves at the girls’ ankles—bare without anyone there to correct them. The boy’s boots were on—his feet were gangly and hairy in a way they hadn’t been last summer, and he didn’t want the girls to see. He stayed on dry sand, just