And there was fear, a niggling, all-consuming panic that ate at her courage more and more the longer they were out here, the harder the tide fought the boat, the more times they failed to reach the palace. She wasn’t the first person to chase after a loved one, and it rarely ended as well as it had for the girl in the song.
It never ended as well as it had for the girl in the song.
“You said she took him to make things right. That means they think he broke the magic too, that they blame him too. It was her sister, wasn’t it? The last queen, the one who died for him. Even if they wait to sacrifice him on the full moon, what do you think they’ll do to him until then?” Lina twisted away from Finley, rapping the prow, urging the boat to change direction, attempting another approach.
Finley didn’t reply, but she could feel the anger burning off of him. His body going as stiff and unyielding as brick.
They continued on in the quiet, in the cold, huddled together under the woolen blankets, hearts hammering each time the boat heaved and shuddered, water crashing over the prow, sloshing over the sides. The Witch Queen’s palace loomed out of the mist, a dark crown upon the sea, taunting them with its presence. Wicked gray spires and turrets. Slick stone walls rising from the deep, the lowermost levels completely swallowed by the tide. White foam gushed from a row of gaping arches that might once have contained windows, though the glass that had resided there was gone.
No visible entrance. So close and yet so far. They could swim to it, maybe, if they could swim.
The sky was growing noticeably lighter, the mist blushing with soft streaks of ballet pink and fiery copper. The crescent-shaped broom boat bobbed in place as if its magic was dissolving with the dark, as if it too was giving up.
A lone fish broke the surface of the water, splashing back down into the depths.
Lina jerked when the first bell tolled. A distant, echoing clang from the city they’d left behind. Caldella’s church bells ringing in the rising sun.
Finley scrubbed a hand down his face. “Thomas Lin is not worth this.”
Lina’s chin shot up. “He is worth it.” Her voice was crackly with cold, hoarse from lack of sleep. “I’ve liked him forever, Finley. I love him.” It was a truth that came from somewhere deep inside her. A truth she’d known from the moment she first saw him. It was like Ma and Mama, like Laolao and Grandpa, like all the stories. There were other people sometimes—sure, she wasn’t completely naive. But you only had one true love. One love that counted more than all the rest. “He’s the only one I feel this way about, the only one I’ll ever feel this way about.”
Finley started to roll his eyes.
Lina waved the bottled storm at him. “Do you remember that time we sailed into a squall because you thought Jeanne’s boat was caught in it? If this were you, and you were going after some girl, you’d say this was romantic. Everyone would. So don’t you dare roll your eyes like it’s different because it’s me.” She put a hand on top of his head for support, clutching the blue bottle in the other. Shrugging the blanket off and ignoring Finley’s protests, she rose to her feet.
She faced the palace. She could see the Witch Queen smiling at her over Thomas’s shoulder, mocking her, daring her to do something. She could hear those taunting whispered words: You’ll have to hold on to him tightly, then. The guilty memory of that dance, of hips, of another body pulled flush against her own surfacing all too easily.
Anger and embarrassment hissed and seethed inside Lina.
“I got Thomas into this. I’ll get him out. And if she won’t let me into her damn palace”—Lina’s voice rose, her jaw setting with grim determination—“then I will tear it down.” She pulled her arm back and hurled the bottled storm at those hateful gray walls, at that invisible barrier, with all her might.
8
Eva
“What in hell was that?”
Eva jolted awake to the shock of Yara’s voice, a sharp ringing in her ears, a choked tightness in her throat. The feel of sand and saltwater scraping her lungs, as if she’d spent the last hour drowning instead of dreaming.
“How…” said Yara. There was a sharp crash of porcelain shattering.
Eva sat up, squinting, the scarlet chaise lounge dipping beneath her.
Early-morning sunbeams poured through the Amber Salon’s arched windows, light painting falling dust motes in a thousand shimmery specks, glinting off the coral bangles climbing Yara’s brown arms.
The other girl was still at the sideboard, where she’d been when Eva had dozed off, mixing enchanted cocktails in fat-bellied teapots and sulking because Eva hadn’t kissed the boy Yara had picked for her. Marcin was on the other side of the room, a flame of red hair lolling in an armchair, a long thin cigarette holder dangling from his pale fingers, crackly old maps spilling off his lap and onto the carpet as he planned imaginary mainland conquests.
There were other witches crowding the room, too, in various states of consciousness, still dressed in all their glittery black finery from the revel. Bodies slumped over coffee tables and low chaise lounges or twined together like rope. Other witches were still dancing, hips swaying gently to a record someone had smuggled over from the mainland.
Last night, upon their return, a sense of giddy euphoria had seized the Water Palace. Its amber walls had lit up with a bright honey-gold glow. The air itself was syrup-sweet, scented with jasmine and rose.
It irritated Eva that she hadn’t noticed how damp and gloomy her palace had become in the days since her sister had died, in the time since her first sacrifice—a boy with raven-black hair and a dusting of freckles—had failed. A witch’s house reflected those who dwelled within it. It was a mirror held up to their souls.
Eva decided her soul must be a very black and twisted thing, because she missed the cold silence, the dark and its merciful shadows.
She stood, head pounding, one stocking foot catching on a discarded feather boa. Her ears wouldn’t stop ringing, and the carpet seemed to have come alive and was currently trying to slither out from under her. She stumbled sideways, reaching a hand to the gold wall for support. She hadn’t drunk that much, only one teapot.
And then she realized it wasn’t her. The Water Palace itself was quaking.
“What in—”
A forked tongue of blue lightning struck the tower outside the Amber Salon’s windows, burning her vision white. Stone cracked. Sparked. Split, flying through the air. Glass shattered, and someone shrieked. There was a great earsplitting boom of thunder.
A second fork of lightning struck the tower they were in. Eva staggered as the walls shook, dust raining from the ceiling. The chandelier swung perilously from side to side. A candlestick flew off the marble mantel by the record player, bouncing, rolling. Vases splintered, spilling water and moon blossoms over the carpet.