Nik is nearly white with nerves. His long fingers shake as he tugs his hair flat. This day is already hard for the both of us—the fourth anniversary of Anna’s drowning—and with the pressure of the speech added atop that, Nik looks as if he might keel over.
I don’t hesitate to snag a hand and press my fingers around his. Somehow, seeing him so nervous calms my own reservations—about my innovation’s trial run with Father, about the fact Iker has yet to arrive. I squeeze Nik’s fingers. “You’ve done nothing but practice for the past week. You’ll be just fine.”
“But I’m not cut out for this, Evie.”
“Of course you are! You’re cut from the Øldenburg cloth. Kings for a thousand years.” I lean in, my face consuming his vision. “This speech is in your blood.”
Nik turns red and averts his gaze. “I think that particular blood spilled out of me when I bashed my leg on that rock at ten.”
I nearly laugh, thinking of Nik passing out at the sight of his own blood. Right in the middle of a trail leading up Lille Bjerg Pass. Anna and I stripped off our stockings and tied them tightly above the gash across his shin before bracing him between us and hobbling down the mountain.
“Think of your birthday. You didn’t seem at all nervous while you sang on a bench with lemons in your hair.”
“That wasn’t the whole kingdom. This is.”
“So? What’s a few more faces?”
He lets out a very royal snort. “Since when does a ‘few’ mean a hundred times more? And maybe my disastrous birthday is not the best image to calm my nerves.”
“Oh, don’t be dramatic.”
Nik cocks a brow. “Oh, but you’re not plenty dramatic when you make moon eyes at the harbor, scouting for a certain sailor from Rigeby Bay?”
I say nothing, my wit tied to a stone in the pit of my stomach. Despite myself, I squint out at the water, my heart willing Iker’s boat to appear. But the sea beyond the harbor is clear, all the visiting ships and off-duty whalers already in port.
Nik sighs, and I know he’s beating himself up for such a quip—and again I’m thankful he knows nothing of the kisses Iker and I shared. He squeezes me close again, the nervous tremble subdued. “He’ll be here. Iker makes his own rules, but he never breaks his word.”
That was the last thing he said to me before Queen Charlotte pulled him away for his final speech preparations. I sink to the sand and sit, a little doll in my lap dressed in black and white. Ready for the ashes. I can barely force myself to play along. And without Nik by my side, this year I play along alone.
I suppose I could join the castle workers—I’ve known them since I was a small child. But I’m not truly one of them. And the other girls my age? Well, they’re never really an option—they’ve made that much clear over the years.
Maybe banishment wouldn’t be such a bad thing—I could just break out my magic as we burn our little witch dolls and leave this place for good. But then I’d leave Nik for good too. And implicate my entire family.
So, I sit alone—the secret witch, the prince’s friend who doesn’t know her place.
I am well within eyeshot of Nik as he readies to speak—in the event that his courage has retreated up Lille Bjerg Pass—but far enough to the side that I have a clear view of the sea in my periphery.
He will come.
He said he would.
You shouldn’t care anyway.
I turn my attention back to the royal family. And to the flames I must face before Nik’s big moment.
There’s a traditional speech honoring this “celebration” too. And though the king may have ceded his duties to Nik, Queen Charlotte would never give up her chance to speak out against the horrors of witchcraft.
The queen is a beauty by any measure, all fine bone structure and swanlike grace. Her hair is curled and coiled atop her head, a deep blond halo around a crown of sapphires and diamonds. When she steps forward in the sand, she looks every bit a painting in the firelight.
In her hands is her ceremonial first doll—clothed in blood red.
As if the death of every Dane in the past six hundred years was the fault of a witch.
As if the Øldenburgs hadn’t burned hundreds of women with flimsy proof.
As if “the witch hunter king,” King Christian IV, hadn’t been proud of the name he earned and of the lives he ruined.
“Good evening, dear ones.” Queen Charlotte smiles to the crowd, and it’s like ice cracking under pressure. “On this night, we not only celebrate the beginning of Havnestad’s Lithasblot, but we remember the hardships endured by our ancestors.”
In the shadows, my knuckles turn white as I clench the doll in my lap. This part is almost worse than tossing a replica of myself into the fire.
“We live in safety and harmony in the Øresund Kingdoms because of the courage of King Christian IV. We live in safety and harmony because of the laws he put in place. Witchcraft has no place except in the depths of hell.”
The queen hoists the red doll above her head so hard its little witch’s hat falls, the fire sucking it into the flames. “Shall there be any devils on our shores, know you do not belong here nor in this world.” I swear her eyes find me in this moment. “The light will win, and you shall be swallowed deep into the flames and returned to your horned maker.”
The crowd erupts, and Queen Charlotte spins on the spot, tossing the witch into the bonfire—royally ousting us because our power is a threat to her own.
We are to form an orderly line circling the fire, but I can’t do that. I won’t do that. Instead, I stand and toss my doll over the heads of those charging forward, eager to murder little wooden models of me. My mother. My aunt. My father’s family.
I look for Nik then, who follows suit with a smile on his face. Somewhere Tante Hansa is laughing, her distinctive cackle hitting my ear. I know it’s a ruse to protect us, but I don’t know how she can pretend to enjoy it so much. She even goes so far as to have the most colorful doll, meddling with pastes and dyes until she can ensure its little outfit will be the brightest on the beach. This year, hers is a stunning orange, thanks to a customer who unknowingly added to her fun by paying her in turmeric.
It’s ironic: the same townspeople who come to her when they burn their skin, grateful for her ancient medicinal treatments, turn little wooden replicas of our ancestors to ash each year on this date. And she just laughs in their faces like it’s nothing. As hundreds rush the fire, I sink back down to the sand and wipe my hands on my skirts. It’s just sweat, but it almost feels like blood.
When every last witch has been tossed, the crowd retreats. Nik has stepped a measure in front of his parents to the most prominent spot on the sand, the bonfire at his back. Even in the ochre light, his skin is unnaturally pale. I make my gaze as heavy and focused as possible, not even so much as blinking until he catches my eye. I give him a smile and a nod.
You’ll be splendid.
His lips curl up, and he clears his throat with a deep breath.
“Good people of Havnestad, welcome to the opening night of Lithasblot, when we honor Urda and give thanks for her blessings and bounty, be it from the sea or from land.”
The fire crackles happily behind him, the tallest flames licking at the stars. Despite the crush of people, only that crackle and the lapping of the sea fills in the practiced pause in the traditional speech. We all know it by heart—and could join Nik in its recital, if it were appropriate. Most days, he’s one of us. Just Nik. But tonight he’s our crown prince, and our duty as subjects