“You can’t know that.” Eva cut Marcin off before he could outline the entirety of his plan. She’d heard it a thousand times before. And she didn’t take it seriously; Marcin liked to pretend he didn’t care about the island, about anything or anyone, when in reality he cared more than most. “I won’t abandon Caldella. I won’t abandon Natalia’s city.”
Because it still felt like Natalia’s city. Not hers. The misty water roads and slick cobbled streets, the pastel-painted town houses pressed too tightly together, the hidden gardens tucked into darkened squares, lit by amber lantern light and smelling of roses after the rain. They all belonged to her sister. There wasn’t a place on the island that didn’t make the hollow in Eva’s chest ache.
She caught a flicker of emotion in Marcin’s hazel eyes. He had been her sister’s closest friend, had helped her flee the mainland when Natalia was a child and Eva even younger, no more than a witchling, barely old enough to walk. Long before they’d all been adopted by Caldella’s then-queen.
Yara placed a gentle hand on Eva’s arm. “The sacrifice will work this year. You just need to let go, let yourself care.”
Let yourself care. But what she meant was: Let yourself hurt.
Natalia’s ghost settled over Eva’s shoulders like a shawl. The first rule of magic was never to give away too much of yourself. Never to trade away more power than you could stand to lose. Never to love a person more than you loved yourself.
Eva would not make the same mistake her sister had.
Safer never to care at all.
“For two witches so desperate to save this city,” drawled Marcin, “I seem to be the one doing all the work. The one finding boys for Eva to pick as her sacrifice. What have you been doing?” He looked from one girl to the other. “Turning men into seagulls? Stuffing your face?”
There was a dash of sugar below Yara’s lush lips; she’d always had a sweet tooth.
She scrubbed at her chin, frowning, as Marcin’s smile turned malicious. “There was a boy who baked pastries in the hope of winning some magic.”
“So kind how they do that,” said Marcin. “Show off their talents so we can pick the most appealing ones.”
“A redhead,” Yara continued, ignoring him. “You can pretend he’s Marcin when you chain him to the pillar. But the most handsome one of all is playing violin by the third bonfire. I told Omar to keep an eye on him.”
“Mine has curls,” said Marcin. “The brunette I told you about.”
“Mine has dimples,” said Yara. “And winter-gray eyes and bed hair. Black.”
“No blonds?” said Eva dryly. The words slipped out before she could think better of them.
Marcin and Yara exchanged a look.
Eva quickly decided she preferred it when they were squabbling. “I danced earlier. With many boys.” And found not a single one appealing. She smoothed her dress down. “I can choose for myself.”
Another look. Another wordless exchange that cut her out completely. Not so much distrust as a lack of faith in her. Climbing anger crept into Eva’s voice. “I let you choose the last one. And look how that turned out.”
“Because you put absolutely no effort into it,” said Yara. “You didn’t even try to fall a little in love with him, E. You didn’t even try to try. I always choose the handsomest ones. For Natalia, too. There’s not an endless supply.”
“Kiss the boy with brown curls. Or the one with the violin. You like music,” said Marcin, as if that settled it.
Eva had liked music and musicians, once.
“I can choose my own sacrifice,” she repeated, and started forward, falling once more into the rush of the crowd. It wasn’t hard to lose the others amidst the revelers. Eva wrapped the shadows around herself, and when she moved it was as if she dragged the night behind her. Her reflection flashed by in puddles, in the lovelorn eyes of twirling dancers. Ever-changing.
She was a witch. An islander. A boy.
Young. Old. Middle-aged.
Long hair. Short hair. Black hair. Brown.
Blond.
Eva paused with one foot frozen in the air. The puddle at her feet shattered as a reveler swept by, but the second before…the second before, it had shown a ghost.
Dancers streamed by in an endless chain.
Eva stared at the rippling water, at her trembling reflection, holding on to her current form. She raised a hand and traced the familiar jawline, shuddering at the roughness she found there. The faintest stubble. The soft mouth. The dark brown eyes. She stared at her hands, sun-tanned and calloused from repeated plucking at guitar strings. Earlier she’d caught a glimpse and she’d thought she was seeing things. She’d been changing so quickly, switching from one set of arms to another, spinning, spinning, spinning.
She spun now, searching for whoever had caused her to change, caused her to take this form of all forms.
She shut her eyes and listened, sorting through the sounds, filtering out the music, the loud crackle of bonfire flames, the laughter. She’d thought she’d heard his singing too. That voice like a lilting whisper, like a lullaby as it coaxed you into sleep. A song that tucked you in before it slit your throat. She’d ignored it, dismissed it as fancy because Thomas Lin wouldn’t dare join the revel in St. Casimir’s Square. Not tonight. Not while she was here.
The nearest bonfire spat, red hot sparks summoning cries of pain from those they scalded.
Eva snaked through the crowd in search of a voice, in search of a ghost, two questions in mind: Whose face would she wear when she found him? And, would the dark tide still accept her sacrifice, if she drowned the boy with her own two hands?
5
Lina
“It’s wrong, that song.”
Lina glanced sideways, startled. She’d backed away from the bonfires and the revelers, retreated into a dark arch between the columns of the surrounding arcade to catch her breath. The air was cooler in front of the line of closed shops. She hadn’t realized her dance partner had followed her. A tickle of unease raced down her spine.
“The one you were humming just now? ‘Hide him, hide him, out of sight. Hold him, hold him, hold on tight’?” There was a soft scritch-scritch as the witch scratched his stubbled cheek. He looked about Ma’s age, but you could never tell. Did dreams and nightmares even age?
He used a sleeve to wipe the gleam of sweat off his pale brow. “Personally, I prefer a song where the heroine doesn’t burn to death at the end.”
“She doesn’t burn to death,” Lina protested.
“Oh, she does. Did. The lass who held on to her lover and never let go? She let go. When Queen Jurata turned the lad into fire, her heart failed her. It wasn’t spite, you see, but a test. Love can break a spell, but in the end, the lass didn’t love him enough to keep him. She lost herself to fear and forgot what she was holding. She and the lad burned alive. Burned until there was nothing left.” The witch’s teeth cut a crooked crescent. “But none of you lot sings that part.”