I feel alive.
More alive than I've ever thought possible.
The sea sings in my heart and magic flows through my veins like blood. Spells come to light with merely a whisper, potions are brewed in less than half the time.
"I can do anything!" I exclaim to Bippi as the black octopus regards me solemnly a few days later.
"I urge you to be cautious, Sina," he tells me, blue eyes hooded as he sits in the corner of my room.
I chuckle and pat Bippi on the head as I stuff charms and vials into my satchel. Klaus told me to bring them by the castle today; he said he has a slew of castle staff and other members of the nobility lined up to purchase my wares.
"Who is more cautious than I, Bippi?"
The octopus curls his front two tentacles together, his demeanor like a stuffy matron. "Just keep my words in mind," is all he says.
"I will," I promise, waving goodbye to my cephalopod mentor as I leave my room.
Bippi's worries are just that—worries. I understand that I have been growing in strength by leaps and bounds, but I have always tread carefully with my abilities. The only time I was ever truly spontaneous was with Klaus.
And that was a different brand of magic.
Papa is, as per usual, in his workshop. I did not tell him what transpired between Klaus and I that night, and if he suspected anything, he has not brought it up.
I stick my head inside the door and say, "I'm off to Rollinsville, Papa."
His head lifted from a trap and he nods. "Good luck, Sina."
Clutching my satchel, I hustle up the dunes to where Farmer Johansson is waiting with his cart. I climb onto the rickety seat—such a far cry from Klaus's elegant chaise—and settle myself for the journey. The old farmer smiles at me and clucks to his horse, Sodor.
The road into Rollinsville is mostly clear, but as soon as we hit the trade roads, everything becomes congested. Again, I find myself comparing my ride with Klaus to this one: wealth and poverty, noble and peasant, the haves and the haves not. I noticed it before, of course, but now the differences take on a more stark contrast. I have experienced how the other side operates; it's hard going back to how everything usually works.
When we finally get to the market, I bid farewell to Farmer Johansson and make my way to the castle. Only tradesmen with special permits are allowed beyond the market boundaries, and the good farmer does not possess one. It's all right, however; I am not so coddled that I cannot walk.
The journey is a long one and I am once again in the midst of magnificent townhouses and estates. Members of the elite stare at me in my good brown travel gown while they go about their business in gaudy silk and brocade, with fine leather shoes and boots made from calfskin. The scent of their perfume and cologne nearly chokes me with its intensity and I wonder why no one can wear Klaus's simple sandalwood. Do they smell themselves? So many prideful peacocks and not a lick of sense between them.
"Wrong way to the shirtwaist factory, dear!" an old man with a massive grey mustache and mutton chops calls out.
I ignore him and continue to my destination. Perhaps he is well-meaning, but I prefer not to answer either way.
I have seen the duke's castle from afar—who could not?—but this is the first time I have ever approached it directly. Merchants with shiny wagons and respectable suits wait in a line by a massive arching gate. A dozen guards in the duke's black and orange livery and armor watch over everything, directing wagons and foot traffic inside. As I move closer, I notice that there are, in fact, two gates; I join the line for those on foot and wait.
The line shuffles along slowly, and even I, with my steady patience, find myself feeling antsy. No one attempts to talk with me, for which I am grateful, so I start eves-dropping to pass the time. Those waiting to gain entrance are a motley bunch: peasants and well-to-do intermingle without complaint. Those with larger pockets, I notice, are shown directly through without having to mix with us.
The conversations aren't altogether interesting: ailing wives or husbands, high taxes, unfair fines, denied permits.
I sigh and tap the toe of my boot. Klaus said to go to the gate and they would let me in. Perhaps I should have gone to the front when I arrived? I bite my lip as I consider doing just that, but I chance a look over my shoulder. There are more people behind me. What if I'm wrong? Then I will have wasted an entire day.
So I sigh again and resign myself to more waiting.
At last, after what seems to be an eternity, I've reached the gate. A guard as tall as Klaus but with none of his warmth or humor stares down at me, eyes cast in shadow beneath a steel helm.
"State your name and business."
"Melusine Fisher, here to see Viscount Torvold."
The petitioners behind me fall silent. The guard with shadowy eyes blinks, then looks at his companion, an equally-stern fellow with a thick red beard.
"Whores don't come through the front gate," the man with the red beard sneers.
My face grows hot as a few folk behind me start to chuckle.
"I am not a whore," I retort, which causes both guards to curl their mailed fists. It's always so with men. A woman cannot assert herself without them becoming defensive. "I am the sea witch of Farbarrow and I am here on Viscount Torvold's request."
Sea witch.
Sea witch.
I hear the words being swept up and down the line. Even the merchants on our right have paused and are staring. Some even make the Grey God's sign against evil.
I feel insulted.
"The viscount's own invitation," I say, digging Klaus's letter out of my satchel.
The shadowy guard attempts to snatch the paper from my hand, but I pull it away. I am not so naive as to let them take my only proof.
The guard frowns but gestures me inside. "Inform the viscount that the sea witch of Farbarrow has arrived," he orders a young boy wearing a simple version of the duke's livery. A page, I suspect. "Go!" the guard shouts as the boy stares at me, slack-jawed.
With a squeak, the boy launches himself towards the castle and rounds a corner, disappearing from view.
"I hear she commands sea monsters," someone calls out behind me, which causes all sorts of commotion.
The guards immediately take one small step back, hands drifting toward their swords.
"I heard she conjured the storm that killed a boy," another says, their comment immediately superseding the previous one.
I hate rumors.
"I've done no such thing," I tell them, folding my arms. "And I saved the Krier boy." No worse for wear, thankfully, but Mistress Krier has decided to move her family away from the temptation of the sea. I saw wagons the other day leaving their street.
There is a shout and a woman of middle years pushes her way through to the front of the line. "Is there a reason why the lines have stopped moving?" she demands, waving an ornate blue and green fan that matches the outrageous plume on her tiny black hat. "I have a meeting to attend! Or has His Grace chosen another wedding planner?"
Wedding planner?
I go cold, rigid with foreboding. But it lasts only as long as it takes me to remember that Klaus has a younger brother.
Who should be too young to get married ...
"Of course not," the red-bearded guard tells the woman. "The viscount's wedding day depends on you. Please, go through." He waves to the guards on the right as I stand there, blood draining from my face, Klaus's invitation falling from numb fingers.
The viscount's ...
... wedding ...
... day ...
No.
"I told you," the red-bearded guard murmurs into my ear as a dozen wagons filled with finery, furniture, and other expensive things clatter through the gates, "whores don't come through this gate."
Angrily, I turn and shove him away, feeling violated by his breath on my skin.
"Hey!" he yells, drawing his hand back to strike me.
I lift my own hand, ready to set his blasted livery alight.
"Sea witch of Farbarrow!"
I turn, chest heaving up and down. Duke Lucien strides through the front doors of the castle, marching straight for me.
"Your Grace," I mutter through grit teeth, dipping as short a curtesy as propriety allows.
The duke glances at the crowd of people and says, "Why are you here?"
Klaus's paper blows past my feet and down the courtyard. "Klaus ..." I gulp and pause, the sting of tears pricking the corners of my eyes. "Klaus asked me to come. He said there were some people interested in my charms and potions."
"Klaus?" the duke repeats, arching his eyebrows. "There is no 'Klaus', sea witch, only Lord Torvold."
I swallow hard, feeling the stares of petitioners and merchants alike stabbing into my back. I am stronger than this, I think, hands curling into fists at my side. "Lord Torvold asked me to come," I repeat, heat flushing my face.
"I see." The duke rocks back on his heels. "Well, my son is rather preoccupied with wedding details at this moment." He pauses and peers down at me. "Oh, my, did you not know?" the duke asks, lowering his voice so that the petitioners and merchants cannot hear. But the guards do. They snigger at their posts.
I stare at him, anguish and fury waging war across my face.
"Did you think he would marry you?" the duke continues to mock. "He wanted to, stupid boy, but I told him that no son of mine would mar the bloodline I've worked so hard to maintain with filth." He sneers and looks me up and down. "You. A so-called witch from that stinking village. Never. Show her out." Duke Lucien turns away from me as if I am trash, beneath his notice.
I can feel the red-bearded guard's hand descend on my shoulder, fingers biting down harshly.
"I am not filth!" I shout back, jerking away from the guard. "I am the sea witch of Farbarrow, meant to serve and protect my village!"
The duke waves a hand, dismissing me.
"Come along, whore," the guard growls, grabbing me around the waist. My vision turns red and I kick out, knocking the man backward with a surge of power.
"Klaus would never submit to marrying against his will!" I shout at his retreating father.
The duke pauses as more guards form a ring around me. Slowly, he pivots. "Truly? Ask him yourself, witch."
I follow the line of the duke's arm. There, standing on the castle steps, is Klaus. He stares down the cobblestone courtyard, locking eyes with me.
"Klaus—!" I cry out, reaching for him.
A guard grabs my arm and twists it behind my back. I hardly feel the pain, for my heart is breaking.
Klaus's gaze shifts to his father. He blinks; he swallows. Duke Lucien folds his arms. Viscount Torvold turns his back on me and retreats inside his father's castle.
A sob builds in my throat. I cannot cry, not in front of all these people. I will not break.
Duke Lucien looks over his shoulder and smiles coldly. My heart shatters and I tear away from the guards, running from the castle grounds in shame.