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 relief of seeing her here and alive ebbs, and the panic comes in double—triple—what it was before. I try to shove it down, lock it deep within me. I have to get her attention. I have to talk to her. Is the magic she used the same as when Annemette made her choice? What did she sacrifice to come here? Or better yet, who? No, no, I cannot believe my dear sister would harm anyone, even to achieve her greatest desire. Annemette was driven by revenge, my sister by love—or so she thinks.
Alia begins dancing again, and the crowd settles back into watching her—all but two boys, who manage to break away and walk onto the balcony. At first, I think I can stay still and unseen, but then they keep walking, all the way over into the corner right above where I’ve stationed myself.
Of course.
Careful not to let my tail make too much of a splash, I pull my body as far under the latticed balcony as possible, winding my fingers around the arcing pole that holds it up, taking care that my hands don’t show.
One boy is tall, one is short, and both will be a huge problem if they happen to see me. But it seems to me as if they don’t want to be seen themselves—their voices are low, gestures short.
“How many now?” the tall one asks, a handsome smile turning up at the corners of flushed cheeks.
“The numbers are fresh to me as of last evening,” says the short boy, his hawkish features bending hard with each whisper. “Five U-boats.”
I try to process a word I’ve not heard before. U-boat.
“Shhh,” the tall boy says, nearly smacking the short one across the mouth. “Do not use that word.”
“Oh, right, sorry,” the short boy replies. “Look, I know it’s not encouraging news, Will, but it’s what I have.”
Will nods at this too. “Good work, Phillip. Thank you. The contract will be complete as of tomorrow.” His eyes search the waters. “My uncle—”
Suddenly, Will cuts off and plasters a smile back on his lips. His whole voice changes, and he plants a hand gamely on the short boy’s shoulder, his broad back to the ocean now. “What a delight that your parents are making their way here, Phillip! It has been ages since I’ve danced with your darling mother.”
It’s just then that I see Niklas striding their way. He’s got the audacity to wear a slender crown atop his head and more jewelry too—a brooch, cufflinks of shining gold, even a ring of blood-red stones that burn despite the weak light. I have a strong suspicion that this boy loves to collect shiny objects, my graceful sister being just the latest.
“Ah, Will! I thought that was you, sneaking in the back and stealing kringle!” Niklas chides, doing more than simply clapping the tall boy on the shoulder—instead he brings him in all the way for a real embrace.
When they part, guilt flashes across Will’s features. “There are some things I’ve never been able to outgrow, my friend, and kringle is one of them.”
I angle myself a bit more so that I can see Niklas as he talks to his friends, but it’s then that another person comes into view. Alia. She places a hand on Niklas’s arm.
“Oh, boys, this is my foundling. Isn’t she lovely? Did you see her dance?”
The boys nod as Niklas gives her a little twirl and she falls into him with a ridiculous smile. She’s been topside for a day, and there’s already more color in her cheeks, though I suppose that might be Niklas’s doing more than the work of the September sun. “You’ve heard the story, of course, haven’t you? I’m sure it’s all the gossip. I found her yesterday on the beach during my usual walk at dawn. All torn up from a shipwreck and no voice. Lucky to be here, I’ll say. Now she’s my guest, and quite the dancer.” He pats Alia’s hand. “Things worked out just fine, didn’t they, my dear?”
No voice? Relief floods over me—she gave up her voice instead of a life. But how? That doesn’t even make sense. And why would she
