“They can’t have him.” The acid, the anger in Marcin’s tone startled Eva so much that she almost dropped her teacup. Its contents sloshed from side to side, and the dusky sky it had shown vanished in a flurry of ripples.
“How I am going to enjoy watching that boy drown.”
That was what Marcin had said when he’d learned who Eva had chosen as this year’s sacrifice, gifting her a genuine smile of his rare and treasured approval.
And it was strange how that enthusiasm, that savage eagerness, had put a damper on her own. Before that moment, all she’d felt was triumph. This was revenge. This was justice. This was what Thomas Lin deserved. This was the boy who had taken Natalia from them.
This was also the boy Natalia had given everything to save.
Eva set her cup on its saucer, memories and unease surging through her veins.
“I want him to live. I want him to be happy. I’m so tired, Eva. They all leave while I remain. I don’t know if I can be the one left behind again.”
And yet Natalia had been content to leave her behind.
Tiny pinpricks of fury danced across Eva’s skin. Thomas was happy, happy enough with someone else. With this girl stealing through the palace like a rat. How dare he disrespect her sister’s memory like that? Was Natalia so easily forgotten? Was she merely a thing to be used and discarded?
And how dare this girl disrespect her by coming here? How dare she attack Eva’s home?
“You can have the boy,” she told Yara.
Yara let out a breath she might have been holding, breaking into a catlike smile that would send any sane creature scurrying fast and far in the opposite direction.
“Mar—”
“I’ll check the damage and calm the others. See if anyone was injured. Jun, take Omar and check what state the East Tower is in.”
Eva’s lips pressed together. She’d been about to give that order. There were times when Marcin still treated her like a witchling, acted as if Natalia had made him queen.
“And then I’m going to have some fun with our visitors.” Marcin drank the tempest from his teacup and smiled with storm-stained teeth. “If you don’t find them first.”
Yara immediately pushed off the lounge, hips swishing to a beat only she could hear. She downed the contents of her cup in a single quick gulp. “And you? What are you going to do, E?”
Eva’s gaze strayed to the ceiling, where a giant mural in gold leaf depicted figures from two hundred years ago. The very first Witch Queen kneeling on a rock-strewn shore, her long hair streaming out behind her, her face hidden as she tied stones to the ankles of the boy she loved, as the great ravenous waves of the dark tide bore down on them both.
It’s a bit morbid, isn’t it? Natalia had whispered to her once when they were younger. Macabre.
Which was exactly why Eva liked it. She placed her cup and saucer on the table in front of the chaise lounge with a soft clink. “I’ll take the girl.”
9
Lina
“We’re dead. We are so dead. We are beyond dead.” Finley’s voice spiked into hysteria. “They’re going to kill us. The queen’ll feed us to her sea serpent. She’ll sew our lips shut and fill our lungs with saltwater like she does to criminals. Turn our hearts and eyes to stone. Peel our skin off like we’re grapes and carve our bones to make bone whistles and—”
“That’s mainlanders,” said Lina. “The bone whistles.”
“I don’t care!”
“I told you not to shout!”
Finley stalked ahead, fuming. Even his panic managed to twist itself into fury; his every emotion did. His hands, clenched into white-knuckled fists, swung at his sides.
Lina struggled to keep up, following the ripples her brother left behind, his black boots splashing through puddles that made mirrors on the floor. They’d scaled an endless spiral of stairs to find themselves in an equally endless corridor, its walls and ceiling gilded gold with amber. There were closed doors to their left—dark polished wood, shimmering with shifting glyphs and changing symbols—and to their right soaring windows and a series of balconies stretching out over the sea. Gossamer drapes billowed and snapped in the doorless archways leading onto each one. A bitter breeze carried in the scent of salt and the raucous cry of seagulls.
Guilt knotted Lina’s insides.
Why, why was every choice she made the wrong one? Why couldn’t she ever do anything right? Everything she did only made things worse. She’d been so focused on Finley. She’d tried to protect him and damned Thomas, tried to save Thomas and nearly capsized the crescent boat, almost dooming Finley and herself.
Tears pricked at her eyes, furious and burning.
Don’t think. Don’t think. Keep moving. Keep going. Find Thomas. Get out of here.
Somehow.
She was limping badly now. Her nose and fingers were numb with cold.
But she was used to pushing herself, used to forcing her body past its limit. She plastered on her dancer face, a determined mask that didn’t crack even when an ankle turned, when blisters burst and toenails broke. She might look small and slight, but underneath it all her body and will were iron, shaped by thirteen years of punishing daily practice.
A single drop of water fell from the high vaulted ceiling and struck the crown of her head. It was from the rain, from the storm she’d unleashed, like the puddles speckling the floor.
Or maybe it was always like this. This was the Water Palace, after all, a palace the witches had dredged up from the depths of the sea. Damp and cold.
Like she was. The storm had soaked her to the bone. Lina rubbed her hands up and down her arms in vain. She’d stripped her gloves off, left them behind in the crescent-shaped broom boat. The tips of her fingers were pale frozen prunes.
Finley paused, wringing out the hem of his shirt for the hundredth time, unkempt black hair plastered flat to his skull. Save for his cowlick, which stuck up with an air of stubborn defiance. It, too, would not be beaten.
Lina hurried to catch up, free hand digging into her brassiere for the little sailor’s knife she’d stolen from him, unsheathing it. They hadn’t glimpsed a soul so far. But it was barely past dawn, so maybe everyone in the palace was still in bed, too exhausted and hungover after the revel to have been woken by the thunder.
She hoped. Prayed. Though for that matter…
Did dreams and nightmares sleep?
Music was playing somewhere. A tune she knew. Hide him, hide him, out of sight. Hold him, hold him, hold on tight. The melody teasing, lilting and low, muffled and indistinct, like a sailor’s chantey heard from underwater.