PART TWO—SEA WITCH

"Sina!" Papa calls from outside. "Farmer Johanssen is here!"

"One moment!" I shout back. I stand in front of a full-length mirror and smooth down the front of my dress. It's a simple three-piece brown traveling garment: a white blouse, an ankle-length skirt with a dark brown hem, and a long-sleeved coat with dark brown cuffs and six massive decorative buttons on the front. Studying my reflection, I frown slightly and tug at the collar of the coat, pulling at the fabric until it folds over and lies flat, showcasing the darker underside.

Ugh. I pull a face and stick my tongue out at the mirror. I positively hate these restrictive clothes, but Papa insists that I wear them on my trip to Rollinsville. No one will take me seriously if I wear my usual blue work dress and worn boots, he said.

Outsiders—and even some locals—nearly always underestimate me, believing me to be an unintelligent village bumpkin until I open my mouth. I suspect that the real reason Papa wants me to dress up is for protection. Men, as I've noticed in the past, typically leave well-dressed women alone and instead focus their attention on those wearing lower-quality garments.

Looking my reflection up and down, I sniff. Papa has nothing to worry about. Bippi taught me how to disarm attackers with a few words and a flick of my fingers. But, as always, I obey to make Papa happy.

The last few years have seen a slight rise in our family fortune. As part of my training, I've been able to draw more lobsters and crabs to Farbarrow's bay, thus increasing the demand for trap repairs. But no one in the village knows that—not yet. As far as the village is concerned, I dropped out of school after the Miss Templeton incident and have been studying on my own at home.

But soon, very soon, I'll be able to reveal my gifts and start helping the village. A witch, Bippi says, comes into her own at eighteen and my birthday is in a few weeks.

Right now, I'm off to Rollinsville for some books.

Not magical tomes—Bippi provides me with those—but regular reading books and a few items for the home.

"Sina!"

"Coming!"

I turn and grab my purse from where it hangs off the edge of the mirror and sling it over my shoulder. I check my reflection and reach up to pat a stray lock of black hair into place. As I think hats are ridiculous, I've braided my waist-length hair into a single plait and tied it off with a plain brown ribbon.

Papa is waiting outside, arms folded. He shakes his head, a wry smile on his face as I close the door behind me.

"What?" I ask with a little laugh. "What's so funny?"

"Nothing, dear," Papa says with a grin. "It's just that my daughter who regularly goes about barefoot and in sea-stained dresses takes forever to get ready."

I roll my eyes. "You did say that I had to be respectable." But there is some truth to my father's words. While I am no great beauty, I have been known to turn a head or two in the village. Not that I am interested in anyone here.

Papa sighs, caught. "Yes, I did. Now, hurry up or Farmer Johanssen will leave without you."

Grinning, I stand up on my tip-toes to kiss him on the cheek. Papa pats my shoulder and turns to watch me walk up the hill to where the farmer is waiting in his cart.

"I see that the little urchin has cleaned up nicely," Farmer Johanssen remarks genially as I climb onto the small bench attached to his wagon. In the back are several large earthenware jugs of fresh milk and two dozen medium-sized wheels of cheese.

As one of the few people in Farbarrow not involved in the fishing trade, Farmer Johanssen sells most of his products in the village, but also travels once a month to trade his wares in Rollinsville.

I laugh and adjust my seat. "A little," I agree.

Grinning, Farmer Johanssen clucks to Sodor, his giant brown and white pied draft horse. The massive gelding snorts and steps off.

"What are we getting this time? Wait—let me guess ... more books?"

"Yes, and a few things for the home. Our pots and pans are so old and Papa says it's not worth trying to repair them anymore."

Farmer Johanssen nods. He's an older man with a long, grey-streaked brown beard, close-cropped grey hair, and merry green eyes. Several of his grandchildren went to school with me—until they all left: me to study magic and the grandchildren to help on the farm.

We sit in amicable silence on the ride to Rollinsville. The wide-open setting of Farbarrow gives way to a massive forest on the right and a rising elevation. Rollinsville is built on the edge of a massive cliff. At the highest peak is a grand castle, the home of the area's ruling duke, Lucien Zeimet.

The castle appears to grow right out of the cliffside, rising at least six stories; six towers of varying sizes puncture the sky, each topped with a long, undulating black and orange banner. It perches there like an aged sea eagle, old and wise. Trees surround the base of the castle, the tallest of which fall drastically short of reaching the height of even the smallest towers. A long, winding road wraps around the castle, disappearing from view as it turns towards the sea.

All of Farbarrow could fit comfortably within the castle's grounds with room to spare, I muse. No one needs that much space.

The city of Rollinsville spreads out below the castle; if the castle is an old eagle, the city is its wings. A grand market sits at the apex of the eagle's wings, ringed with shops of all kinds. The homes are built nearly on top of one another here but spread out as one moves closer toward the castle.

Farmer Johanssen's wagon joins a line of other tradesmen looking to enter the city. Sodor's easy pace draws to a crawl and they eventually have to stop and wait until the line gets moving again.

"I don't remember it being this busy," I remark to Farmer Johanssen. The last time I was here was five years ago.

"Oh, it wasn't," the old man agrees, pulling out a cigarette case from the pocket of his worn coveralls. "Nor was it this crowded." He gestures ahead at the stacked homes.

"What happened?"

"Duke Zeimet." Farmer Johanssen lights his cigarette and takes a long drag. He removes it from his mouth and blows out a stream of smoke. "As I hear it, he made some improvements after his father died."

"Oh?"

The older man waves his cigarette around and clucks to Sodor. The pied gelding moves forward a few feet and then stops again. "The roads, for one. I'm sure you remember how poor they were."

I hold onto the railing and peer over the edge of the wagon. Yes, there are certainly improvements; for one, no more holes. The entire road is new cobblestone, smooth and wide.

"And?" I prompt.

The farmer shrugs. "Trade deals and such. All I know is that it's getting harder to sell with so many other people doing the same."

I bite my lip. I feel bad for Farmer Johanssen, but I'm not sure if there's anything I can do. Certainly, I can't make dozens of people vanish because that would violate the most sacred tenet of my craft—create, do not destroy. So I remain silent.

Eventually, the line surges forward, allowing us to enter the market finally. Farmer Johanssen drops me off at the entrance with instructions on where to find him. I wave to the old man as he flicks the reins and Sodor takes off toward the tavern district.

The market is more crowded and noisy than I remember. Stalls are packed nearly on top of one another and customers stand nearly shoulder-to-shoulder. My first stop is the pot-seller's stall where I buy a new copper stockpot, small saucepan, frying pan, and sheet pan, as well as a ladle. For a small fee, the pot-maker agrees to tag and hold the items for her while I go to the bookseller.

Brandebourg's Bookshop is a large, two-story establishment situated on the corner of Bay Street and River Street, a block down from the market. The crowd thins to acceptable levels as I move further away from the chaotic center of the city, allowing me to breathe freely.

A bright red and purple awning hangs over the door to Brandebourg's and in the front window is a large display of the latest novels from across the kingdom and neighboring countries. I pause to take a look before heading inside; while I still enjoy my history texts, I've grown rather fond of novels, especially romances.

As I push the heavy door to the bookshop open, a bell rings overhead. The atmosphere in the shop is cozy and comforting; dark wood panels line the floor and large, overstuffed chairs and couches reside in every corner. Pale, blue-flamed candles burn in decorative holders and dangle overhead in a grand chandelier. The heady scent of worn leather and old pages permeates the air.

A group of young, well-bred girls around my age cluster together next to the book display, giggling as they turn the pages. I struggle not to roll my eyes; as much as I enjoy the genre, it's nothing to get worked up over. I approach the front desk where one of Brandebourg's employees, whose small enameled pin states her name is Anna, flashes a lop-sided smile.

"Is it good?" I ask, jerking a thumb over my shoulder.

Anna sighs and shrugs. "It's popular; I can't say if it's any good." She nods at the girls. "That particular lot has been in here several times this week while their dear mamas have tea next door. I told them they would have to buy the book if they didn't stop dog-earring the salacious passages."

"And why won't they just buy it?"

"A proper young maiden doesn't need such filth distorting her impressionable mind," Anna replies in a mocking tone, tugging at her red and purple striped dress.

"Ah," I agree, but I have difficulty understanding why that's a bad thing. Papa never put such restrictions on me. It's hard to imagine not being allowed to read a silly romance for fear of reprisal. "Are the new releases still downstairs?"

"Yes, by the window."

That means walking by the girls. I straighten the collar of my jacket, square my shoulders, and slip around their group. One of them lifts her head briefly, looks me up and down, then returns to her friends with a little smirk.

I ignore them and begin to scan the new releases. As I'm flipping through the pages of a potential buy, the bell above the door jingles. Immediately, the chattering girls fall silent. The sudden quiet catches my attention and I look towards the door.

"Viscount Torvold," one of the girls breathes in admiration, setting off a string of high-pitched giggles.

A tall, leanly-muscled young man with strong features, bright blue eyes, and black hair caught up in a short queue enters the shop, followed by a stone-faced man in black and orange livery. It might have been a while since I was in Rollinsville, but I recognize the Duke of Bekerhausen's colors. And if this young man's title is Viscount Torvold, that can only mean he is the duke's eldest son, Klaus Zeimet.

Having no interest in nobility, no matter how handsome, I tuck the romance novel under my arm and move farther down the line of shelves. Hopefully, a little distance will dull the girls' excited chatter.

But no, the sound simply follows me. Lovely.

I look up and see that the viscount is walking towards me, the girls trailing in his wake like a gaggle of seagulls after a trawler. Rolling my eyes in disgust, I take a step back and peer at a book high on a shelf. Climbing the shelf would be dangerous; there's using my magic to get it down, but Bippi was quite firm about not using my abilities in public until my ceremony. So, I look around for a step stool instead.

"Which one do you need?"

I twitch in surprise and turn to see that Viscount Torvold is standing right next to me. The expressions on the girls' faces range from stunned to annoyed to out-right resentment. It would be funny if the tallest one didn't have the same pinched look that Miss Templeton used to wear. Even though that awful woman was removed from Farbarrow years ago, I still have nightmares of being chased through the school hallways by her with a broom.

"I'm sorry?" I ask, looking up at the viscount.

Klaus Zeimet chuckles and gestures toward the shelf. "What can I bring down for you?"

"Oh." I point to a thin volume. "That one—Tales of Ships and Selkies, by Osgood Melkin."

The viscount reaches up easily enough and pulls down the book. Before handing it to me, he turns it over and studies the cover. "Do you believe in selkies?"

"Of course," I answer immediately. Bippi says that they live far out to sea, on an island surrounded by rocky spires. Out of the corner of my eye, I spy the girls seething behind the viscount. It's a good thing that I only come to Rollinsville every couple of years, I note wryly. The girls look ready to kill.

All over a man.

Who they don't know.

"Thank you for getting the book for me," I say, holding out my hand.

Viscount Torvold blinks, looks down at the slim volume in his hand, then laughs as he extends it toward me. "You're welcome."

I give him a brief nod, take the book, then walk away. There are more books that I'd like to get in this section, but it isn't practical to stick around. Not while the harpies are circling their prey.

Poor guy, I think as I climb the stairs to the second level, shaking my head at the absurdity of it all.

But not bad looking, I concede with a small smile.