The water never talked to the River Witch, exactly. Sometimes it carried other people’s voices back to her. She caught parts of conversations. She caught bits of other people’s lives. For the first time in her whole life, Nepenthe felt jealous of a life that wasn’t her own.
She kept their kiss a secret. One that burned like wax spilled from a candle.
“Isn’t it marvelous?” Ora said when she saw her the next morning.
Nepenthe waited, half expecting Ora to tell her about the kiss, but Ora didn’t say a word about it.
“What’s so marvelous?”
“The Prince is throwing a party for us, and he’s inviting half of Algid. The younger half.”
Soon after Ora’s announcement, the Prince sent them dresses. Or rather he sent Ora dresses and he sent Nepenthe a single dress.
The royal dressmaker accompanied the dresses and explained the disparity.
Nepenthe bit back her own explanation. Perhaps there is a dress for every kiss Ora has shared with Lazar?
Pretty didn’t mean anything to a witch. Pretty was a spell, meant for human consumption. But it meant something to Ora. She spent hours in front of the mirror enhancing her natural gifts the same way Nepenthe spent hours changing the currents and making tides.
But the night of the ball, Nepenthe let Ora work her magic on her. A little color on her cheeks and lips and above her eyes was all she would let her do. Ora chanted over little jars of various colors. Their contents drifted over Nepenthe’s face and landed exactly where they were meant to go, like the Prince’s Snow, only more precise.
“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you looked almost human, River Witch,” Ora said affectionately.
“It’s dangerous what you’re doing, Ora,” Nepenthe said while Ora was making the finishing touches.
A ribbon that tied all on its own took hold in Nepenthe’s hair.
“What are you talking about, Nepenthe?”
“I saw you and the Prince by the stables.”
Ora reacted, her pretty, lips sucked in and pouted outward.
“I am not the first witch to kiss anyone. How exactly do you think there are so many witches . . .”
“Lazar’s not just anyone.”
“Don’t you ever get lonely?” Ora asked suddenly.
“How could I be lonely? I have our Coven,” Nepenthe answered quickly.
Lonely isn’t in our vocabulary. We are a part of something—always.
But the word lingered. Nepenthe could see it for Ora. She could see how Ora had always felt that way. She had never been like the rest of the Coven. And even though they were a part of her, there might be loneliness in that.
But when Nepenthe thought of the boy she’d met when she was small . . . she could not see how he could be Ora's answer to loneliness. He had a hole in him that was bigger than hers. How could two empty things fill each other up?
Lazar was not like Ora either; he was more like Nepenthe.
The thought, errant and reckless, took hold. He was more like Nepenthe. She had been so sure about not being with someone of the land. Someone so different. But he wasn’t so different.
“I love him, Nepenthe,” Ora said quietly.
The words stung more than any curse Nepenthe had ever heard.
This was much worse than any dalliance. Much worse than Nepenthe imagined. There was perhaps nothing more dangerous than a witch in love.
13
The palace was glorious every day, but when there was a ball it became sublime.
The Prince bowed low when Ora and Nepenthe entered. And the crowd of finely dressed ladies and gentlemen gasped in response. He was making a statement. They just didn’t realize it was that of a man in love.
Ora looked north of beautiful, her blond hair half tied up in elaborate knots that cascaded down her back. The effect was breathtaking. Still, the Prince spoke to Nepenthe first.
“You wore the dress,” Lazar said. “I wasn’t sure if you would. I didn’t want you to think that I wanted to change you. But it was the color of the River.” “It’s lovely . . .”
Nepenthe asked him the purpose of all this dressing up and trotting them out. What was the point?
“My father thinks that he can keep my gift a secret. But I don’t think magic is something that should be kept in the shadows. Not anymore.”
“So you’re going to debut your gift in front of everyone tonight?” Nepenthe asked.
“Father says that it’s too soon. But I want him to know you and Ora. To know that you are just like everyone else.”
“But we’re not.”
“You are more like me than anyone I have ever met. And Ora . . . The King and all of Algid will fall in love with both of you as I have.”
He tossed the word love around so lightly, unaware of its effect on Nepenthe and on Ora. Nepenthe felt a sudden surge of anger.
“So you bring us out into the public as your test case? To prep the masses for accepting you?” she said, her ire suddenly rising.
“It’s not like that, Nepenthe. Let’s not quarrel. Let’s dance.”
Lazar led her out onto the dance floor.
He bowed to her. And when he took her in his arms, he whispered in her ear, “You should always wear this.”
The words stopped Nepenthe for a second. Had he actually said them? she wondered as the music swelled and the dance began.
She was used to practicing dancing with her father. It came flooding back.
“She dances . . .” The Prince looked at Nepenthe, a little surprised at her ability.
“I was not always in the water,” she reminded him.
Ora was holding court in the corner of the room, surrounded by women in gorgeous dresses who were busy complimenting her own. She cast a look at her sister and waved.
Nepenthe felt her heart lift and sink at once. She was happy for Ora in her element. And Nepenthe became more aware than ever before, even in the blue water dress, that this was not where she belonged. But Lazar squeezed her hand, pulling her attention back to the dance and to him.
Her hand in his begged to differ. So did her slippered feet that felt more comfortable moving in time with his than at any other time since she’d stepped out of the carriage. Perhaps even before that.
As a woman took a turn near her, though, Nepenthe overhead her say in a loud whisper, “Of course that Ora is the most beautiful woman here. I bet she used magic to make herself that way.”
Nepenthe could see Ora’s face fall. The River Witch felt the water rise in her in defense of her sister. Nepenthe probably had made that same joke more than once to Ora’s face. But this was different. In the mouth of a Marquise or whatever she was, it was a weapon.
The woman’s companion meanly joined in, “Then what happened to the other one? Doesn’t look like she has a stitch of magic on.”
His words should not have hurt Nepenthe either, she thought. But she was not in the water now. And somehow the dry Nepenthe, the land Nepenthe, was more vulnerable than the water one. She looked away from the couple and from Lazar.
“Don’t give them the satisfaction, Nepenthe. Just keep your eyes on me,” the Prince said, looking intently at her.
“If you tell me I’m pretty, then I’ll drown you where you stand.”
He didn’t say another word. He just kept dancing. He pulled Nepenthe a little closer, spun her a little faster. And when the music changed, he did not let go.
After a few dances, she realized what he was doing. He would stay on this dance floor as long as it took for her to stop looking like she was about to flood the ballroom. But with his hand on her waist, his other in hers, it began to feel like something more to Nepenthe. She remembered his kiss with Ora, and she knew that this moment was wrong. Flustered, she let go of his hands.
“You should dance with Ora. I need some air.”
He looked at Nepenthe, confusion crossing his handsome face.
She pushed through the crowd to the patio, feeling like she escaped so
mething dangerous just in time. But Lazar was there beside her a second later. He took off his coat.
“You’ll catch cold.”
He helped Nepenthe into the coat. It was softer than anything she’d ever felt. The inside of the coat was downy soft fur, fit for a prince. Even in her land days, she had never worn anything quite as fine, and her family was not poor. The coat smelled like him. The Prince’s expensive cologne was a heady mix that brought back the flush of their proximity on the dance floor.
“You can’t let them chase you out like that,” he said, referring to his less than polite guests.
“It wasn’t that.”
“Then what was it?”
“I just felt a little flushed. So much dancing.”
“You’re a brilliant witch. But a terrible liar.”
“You should get back inside.”
“If I didn’t know better, I’d think that you were trying to get rid of me.”
“You’re right. I’m so bored. It’s exhausting spending every minute with a handsome, magic Prince,” Nepenthe teased.
“I have a secret, Nepenthe,” he said suddenly, his eyes lighting up with mischief. “One I could not bear to tell Ora.”
“And yet you want to tell me. Why?”
“I think she likes the Prince in me better than the witch. I think I can get inside people’s minds. I can see with my Snow—”
“And I can fly,” Nepenthe joked back.
But his face grew serious. “I can see with my Snow—I mean, I can feel things.”
“Are you saying you’re clairvoyant . . .”
He shook his head. “It’s something else. It’s like my Snow is more than snow. It feels things—”
Nepenthe had never heard of magic like what Lazar was describing. Nepenthe’s water could reach well beyond her, but it couldn’t read anyone else’s thoughts or feelings.
Had he lost his mind? Had all this time being mind warped actually affected his sanity?
“You don’t believe me . . . Watch the guard by the door.”
He took a deep breath, and a sprinkling of snowflakes fell. Some of the snow hovered in his palm. He blew it away like you’d blow out a candle making a birthday wish. The snow traveled with purpose toward the guard at the door. It went into one of his ears. The guard swatted at it as if to wave a bug away.
“The guard has a massive crush on you. He wants to move to the Hinterlands with you,” Lazar said.
“You could be making that up,” she countered. Strangers swooned over Ora, never her.
“Watch. I’ll make him take out his sword and have a fight with that shrub over there.”
They watched the soldier a beat. Nothing happened, and Nepenthe began to laugh. It was a good joke.
“It’s hard to fool a witch. But you did it.”
But a second later, the guard lifted his sword and began stabbing the nearest topiary.
Nepenthe knew that Lazar was powerful. But she had never seen a witch who could control a mind before. Read it, yes. Predict what it might do in the future, yes. But not this. This was too much. And it was wrong.
She had played pranks in her youth. Mainly on those who had called her names. Sometimes on Ora when she had been particularly, insufferably cheerful. But this broke a rule that Nepenthe had never seen as a witch, because no one had ever been able to do it. Will was at the center of magic. And to take it away from someone, anyone . . . there could be no greater crime.
“Promise me you won’t do that again.”
“I can’t promise that. I want to use it on my father. I want to know how he really feels about me.”
“You can’t do that, Lazar. If you do that, you are worse than him. You are worse than anyone. You can’t use magic on people without their consent. It goes against everything that magic is about. That you are.”
“Okay, okay . . . I promise.”
Nepenthe caught his eye as he said the words. She did not see a hint of guilt for the violation of his servant’s mind. But she did see the eagerness to please her, his teacher, his friend . . . whatever they were to each other. She knew she should have pressed him further until he saw not just what it meant to her, but what it meant to him. She cared about who he became even if he was not hers.
“Shall we be friends again?” he said, turning his charm back on.
“We are always friends. We should get back inside,” she said quickly.
Sometimes the Prince was like the Lights, dazzling and possibly without conscience. And like the Lights she felt his pull on her and on her fate.
“I wanted your advice about something.”
“I don’t think we should do any magic here. Your father is not ready.”
Nepenthe had seen him throughout the ball. The King hadn’t bothered hiding his disapproval. And he had drunk more ale than half the guests.
“No, I’m not talking about magic. I wanted to show you this. Do you think she’ll like it?” Lazar asked, fishing in the pocket of the coat she was wearing.
She knew what it was before he opened his palm. A ring.
It was a simple silver band with a giant chunk of diamond that looked like ice. It was stunning in its simplicity.
“So . . .” She gulped and forced the words out. “It’s perfect. Ora will love it.”
But it wasn’t true. The truth was Nepenthe loved it. She knew Ora would want something more ornate. Something prettier. Something that had been sculpted and “perfected” into a shape of her choosing. Something that had been touched by human hands and human tools. This looked like Lazar pulled the diamond right out of the rocks, or rather, like he’d made it himself with one wave of his Snow.
“Thank you, Nepenthe,” the Prince said, putting the ring mercifully away back in the jacket. “Thank you. You coming in?”
“Soon. I just want a couple of more minutes with the North Lights.”
But she didn’t come back. She headed straight for the River. She left the jacket, with the ring in its pocket, on the railing of the patio.
14
Nepenthe returned to the River. She swam back and forth, swimming away from Lazar. From the ball. From eating and needing things that she had already said good-bye to. She wound up back at the water in front of her boat. After a few short weeks in the palace, the boat seemed smaller, but Nepenthe had never felt more grateful to see its silvery mast.
She swam for the bottom of the River beneath the current. She curled up in the fetal position and let the water embrace her. The water was her home, her friend, her breath, her life. And yet this time, it did not calm her. Nepenthe felt her chest clutch. She rose to the surface. Her lungs wanted air, but it was more than air that she really wanted. She just didn’t want to name it.
The River Witch struggled to the shore and hunched over the sandy ground, gasping for air. Breathing in and out. In and out. She lay there conscious of her lungs filling with air until her heart felt like it had returned to its proper place inside her chest instead of practically outside of it.
What is happening to me? she wondered.
Nepenthe wanted to tell someone about Lazar, but the Coven would not understand. Or worse, they would.
She gripped the side of the riverbank. And when she looked up, the Witch of the Woods was standing there.
“You made it, little fish.”
Nepenthe realized the Witch of the Woods was preparing for the Esabat—the time of year they worshipped the North Lights and the moon. Tonight the Lights were the particular shade of silvery blue that called for a celebration.
“What is it, little fish?” the Witch of the Woods asked. “I knew no good would come of this: of us mixing with them.”
“There is no cause for concern, Witch of the Woods,” Nepenthe said and went back under the surface. In the water, everything was calm and forgotten—except not tonight.
“Ora isn’t here. She’s never missed a moon. Did you have a quarrel?”
“No.”
The twigs above the Witch of the
Woods’s eyes knit together. “What is it, Nepenthe? What aren’t you telling me? Nothing comes between a witch and her Coven.”
15
The Witch of the Woods looked at Nepenthe for a long beat. She was back for the full moon. She thought that was why Nepenthe was back, too.
“Where’s Ora?” the ancient witch asked, looking around, her twiggy eyebrows raising in concern.
The whole story tumbled out of Nepenthe, but she left out the part about Ora and the ring.
The Witch of the Woods looked at her in silence.
“I never thought it. I thought you were different from your mother. But perhaps this runs in the blood, too.”
“What?”
“A penchant for falling in love.”
“I am not in love.”
“You just don’t want to be. But I know love when I see it, like I know when good wood has been riddled by beetles. There’s nothing you can do but burn it.”
“You can also drown it,” Nepenthe quipped, dunking back under.
When Nepenthe resurfaced, the Witch of the Woods was not smiling.
“People with magic and people without magic have been trying to coexist for a very long time. They just think that it is better if we keep things separate. But draw a line in the sand and children will line up to cross it.”
“But he has magic. He has Snow.”
“He spent his whole life among humans. He may have the power, but his head and his heart are nothing like ours. The willfulness . . . the hubris . . . You have seen this, Nepenthe . . .”
Nepenthe opened her mouth to protest. But she could not. He wore a crown and lived in a palace. What did he know of being a real witch?
“I am sorry, Cassia.” Nepenthe knew better, but her heart didn’t.
“Don’t be sorry. Go back and finish this thing. Quick. Bring Ora home.”
“I don’t think she wants to come home,” Nepenthe said quietly.
The Witch of the Woods knelt down beside the River and offered her a branch up.