Nepenthe reached out for the door’s handle and then paused. “Ora, maybe you should just stay out here. I’ll see what’s inside and come back out.”
Ora shook her head. “I know I don’t have my powers like you. But I have seen things. I am still a witch.”
Knowing there was no winning the argument, Nepenthe pushed the door open and saw a winter wonderland of ice and snow. Everything was covered—from the floor to the bed to the mirrored nightstand.
The boy was standing in front of the window. Outside, the sun was coming up glorious and warm. Inside, it began to snow.
“Nepenthe . . .” Ora looked at her for a long beat. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
The boy stood unmoving. This was the Prince, the boy she had once comforted, all grown up.
Nepenthe looked at the boy. She thought about the ice statues that weren’t statues the last time they’d met. A time he’d never remember.
“Maybe I have,” she whispered.
“Not a ghost, per se. Father coined the term. I am Lazar, the Snow Prince,” the boy said without turning around.
“Lazar, we have guests,” a voice said behind them.
Nepenthe turned around to find the King at her heels.
As the boy spun to face them, Nepenthe could not shake her own ghosts: her mother and father. But her brain was also on the Prince. Had his memories come back? Did he remember her?
She heard another gasp from Ora. Nepenthe nearly gasped herself. Lazar’s features were no longer round and soft. His jawline, cheekbones, and brow somehow came together in the most appealing way. His handsomeness was clearly not wasted on Ora. She had been dreaming of fairy-tale princes, and here he was in the flesh.
Ora knelt down suddenly. For a second, Nepenthe thought she had fainted, but then she realized that she was curtsying.
“He’s not our prince. We don’t bow to him,” Nepenthe countered under her breath.
But she could tell that Ora was enjoying the curtsy for the curtsy’s sake. Once again, they were as opposite as night and day. Ora was made of something soft and fine like the tapestry that hung from the wall now encased in ice. Nepenthe knew she was made of water, but not the calm kind—the brackish waves right before a storm.
“We don’t serve the King, Ora. We do not bow to him,” Nepenthe repeated.
“I know that, but it’s out of respect for their customs. For who they are.”
“Respect is a mutual thing. They have to respect that witches don’t bow to anyone.”
Ora made a small sound of protest, but just then the Prince broke into a smile, ending the debate. His eyes landed on Ora, just like every other man in Algid’s did. Ora was like human sunshine while Nepenthe considered herself comparatively a storm cloud.
Nepenthe did not expect Lazar to notice her at first, but when he did, Nepenthe saw his were the same eyes she remembered: inquisitive and a shocking blue. But there wasn’t an ounce of fear in them now.
“You are right,” the Prince said to her. “She is clearly not one of my subjects, so therefore she is not subject to the same rules. I would not want you to do anything that wasn’t in your nature. I apparently know so little of my own.”
Lazar gestured around the room. “You look so familiar. Have we met?” he said, his eyes narrowing on Nepenthe, not unkindly.
“I don’t presume to think myself memorable.”
“You did not answer my question,” he countered, studying Nepenthe again.
“Forgive my sister. Manners are of little interest to our kind,” Ora said with a light laugh.
They weren’t actually sisters by blood. They were sisters by magic. If Nepenthe hadn’t seen the Witch of the Woods’s blood she would believe that sap flowed through her.
Ora saved Nepenthe from answering, but Nepenthe lost his attention at that moment. Lazar’s eyes were only on Ora, and his questions melted away as they skimmed over her perfect form, the bodice of her dress, and her face.
“But they matter to you, Miss . . .”
“Witches do not bother with such pleasantries,” Nepenthe injected automatically.
She didn’t know what she was hoping for. She had been there for probably the worst moment of Lazar’s life. Did she expect him to hug her? To thank her for helping him forget? What did she want from him?
Wasn’t it better that he didn’t remember? Wasn’t it better that the past stayed in the past? Nepenthe believed that it was, but as she looked at Lazar, she could feel herself selfishly wanting recognition. And as his face lit up looking at Ora, the desire felt even stronger. It was so strong that it was almost as palpable as the snow and ice around the room.
“I am Ora. This is Nepenthe,” she said.
“Apparently I have much to learn about witches,” he said lightly.
“Your focus must be on your own lessons. You need to learn about yourself,” the King proffered, breaking the moment and reminding all of them he was in the room.
“River Witch, walk with me,” the King said, suddenly looking at Nepenthe.
It was the first time she had heard a human call her that. She let herself be steered back out of the room.
She did not like leaving Lazar alone with Ora.
9
Lazar and the King had similar features, but the King’s were sharper and somehow less kind. And right now his small brown eyes were trained on Nepenthe.
She felt strange alone with him. She wanted to recoil and puff up her chest and extend her tentacles all at once. She had seen puffer fish do the same at the bottom of the River when they defended themselves against a threat. She stood her ground instead, consciously breathing in and out and willing the gills that opened around her mouth in the water to stay closed now.
“I require your assistance. Your magic. Your mother and the Coven spelled my son once before. I need your power once again,” the King said simply.
“Has his memory come back? The spell takes too much work. I need the Coven.”
Nepenthe did not love admitting that she wasn’t powerful enough. But she remembered the statues that the Prince had made here once and she could not trifle with the lives of others based on her pride.
There was an undercurrent of disapproval with the King’s every word and glance, but he proceeded as if she should be accustomed to it. Or more likely, he did not care what she thought.
It was not the first time people had assumed that Nepenthe did not have feelings. But she trusted Ora, as opposed to the King, whom she did not.
“I don’t want you to erase his memory again. I don’t want you to bind him. I want you to teach him how to control his Snow. As you know, my son has developed some abilities and rather than stifle them—which is what we’ve been doing for years—I’m hoping that you and your sister can teach him a few things. Magic is power. Magic can win wars.”
Nepenthe shook her head no, reflexively. Her mother had told her that magic and war had always been kept separate from the beginning of time. Witches had always refused to take sides. But then a nagging thought crept into her brain. If a royal had magic of his own, who was she to stop him? The question of helping Lazar seemed a gray area—and witches were not opposed to live in the gray. Still, training the Prince seemed to go a step further than that.
“The forces that took your mother from you—those same forces threaten my kingdom now,” the King said.
“What does that have to do with Lazar? Do you know who killed my parents?”
“Yes, I do. And I think you can teach my son to stop them. And in the process you will come face-to-face with those who took your parents from you.”
“Tell me now. Who killed my parents?”
“They call themselves the Outlanders. They’re from the Hinterlands. We have faced outside forces before, but nothing like this. They are not fans of witches. They are not fans of Algid.”
“But why would they target my mother? She was harmless.”
“She was a friend of the crown. And she was a witch.
They believe in the prophecy: that the Coven may one day prove to assist the crown to even greater power. Every witch is a threat to them.”
The King paused a beat and then prodded, “Do we have an agreement?”
“Witches do not believe in revenge. It is an earthly thing. A human thing,” Nepenthe said, but as the words left her mouth, even she didn’t believe them. The image of her mother in the Grotto came back to her.
“Like I said, I can bring you face-to-face with those who took your parents from you. What you do once you know is entirely up to you.”
Nepenthe nodded. She wasn’t quite sure what she was agreeing to, but she felt as if she had no choice. The promise of finding out what had really happened to her parents was too much temptation to turn down.
She could hear the Witch of the Woods’s voice in her ear. She was supposed to have given up all earthly things. But not knowing what really happened to her parents and why was the thing that tied her to the land above all else. Learning the truth might be the thing that set her free of it for good.
10
It was agreed. Nepenthe and Ora were to teach Lazar how to use his Snow. She wasn’t sure they were actually up to the task, but the King didn’t seem to care. Perhaps he had already asked the Coven and they turned him down. Perhaps he was afraid to approach them. Or perhaps he just thought he had nothing to lose.
The King brought Nepenthe back to Ora and Lazar. Ora was showing off her fire. There was a little flame in the palm of Ora’s hand. It was as delicate as that of a candle. It seemed impressive, but Nepenthe knew she had never worked very hard at stoking her flame beyond that. Ora preferred instead to focus on the magic of being beautiful. But looking at the two of them, and Ora’s face glowing in her own little light, Nepenthe could see that her magic was indeed working.
For lesson number one, Nepenthe proposed that they go outside the castle to lessen the chance that Lazar freeze something important.
Ora winked at him. Her magically-enhanced eyelashes sealed the deal on their attraction. If Lazar remembered Nepenthe at all in that instant, she was now forgotten.
“An excellent idea. We begin in the morning. Rebecca will get you settled,” the Prince said, dismissing them.
A girl appeared in the doorway. She wore a red uniform and was clearly a maid or a lady-in-waiting. Without further ado, the sisters were escorted down a long hallway.
“We rarely have female guests in the palace. And we have never had witches. Do you have any special requests, Miss River and Miss Ora?” the maid asked.
“Call me Nepenthe,” she ordered.
“Nepenthe,” the girl said, trying it out. She glared at Ora, who was suddenly miffed.
Ora liked the idea of being called Miss.
If the maid picked up on Ora’s displeasure, she didn’t show it.
“I’m Cammie. If you need anything, just ask for me.”
Nepenthe noticed that the Prince had gotten her name wrong. It figured.
Cammie kept walking ahead. The castle was even larger than it looked on the outside. Nepenthe’s last visit had of course not included a tour.
Ora was on cloud nine. Her eyes took in every detail, from the gilded gargoyles that held up lights to the velvety wallpaper that lined the walls. “Why can’t you enjoy this?” she asked, stopping the near skip of her step. Her long neck stretched upward and her gait slowed to a glide. Ora was practicing being a princess. “I think he’s divine. Why didn’t you say he was so dreamy, Nepenthe?”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself, Ora,” Nepenthe warned. She felt the need to tamp down Ora’s enthusiasm. “Witches don’t marry princes, and besides, it’s very possible he could freeze you as soon as kiss you.”
Ora looked up at her sister sharply and produced a flame in the palm of her hand again.
“I doubt that.”
It was the first time in months that Nepenthe had seen Ora show even a hint of interest in her own magic. And it was one of the few times she’d ever seen her produce a flame. Perhaps the Prince inspired her.
11
The next day began with an incredibly elaborate breakfast in bed. Since Nepenthe had chosen the River, her appetite was simpler. But the food at the palace was so good it had revived her taste buds.
Cammie hovered over Nepenthe, pouring and stirring her tea. Cammie even wanted to cut her fish. She wasn’t offensive. She was curious. She wanted to know about witches. About what they did and didn’t do. About how they lived.
Nepenthe already had lived a human life or at least part of one. She had no questions for Cammie except those that were rattling around in her head about the Prince.
Nepenthe met the Prince in the field behind the statue garden. They were in luck. There was already a light covering of snow on the ground. They could use it once Lazar figured out how to trigger his Snow. Nepenthe knew how her power worked. But she had no idea about his. She’d never taught anyone before. For her, controlling water was like breathing. The land was hard. How do you teach someone to breathe?
Ora was nowhere in sight. She was probably too busy having her lady-in-waiting wait on her.
Nepenthe asked Lazar to concentrate on the snow, but nothing happened.
He was frustrated. He was accustomed to getting anything and everything he wanted. Controlling snow was different from anything he had ever attempted. Not that he had attempted much. He had a servant to dress him. What did Nepenthe really expect from him?
“Let’s take a break,” Nepenthe said finally.
“How does it feel?” he asked. “I mean, to be like you.”
She didn’t answer at first. Because Nepenthe was feeling more than that, and it had something to do with how close Lazar was standing next to her. She stepped away.
“I don’t know. It feels like home. Like I am more than myself, that I am a part of something ancient and forever all at once.”
What she didn’t say was that his presence did something else to her. It did the thing that her mother had talked about when she talked about Prince Eric. It tied Nepenthe to the present and pulled her into the human body and somehow rooted her there. It made her want to stay human, and she was always fighting against her human form. It made her want to stay on dry land.
“Sounds nice.”
There was something wistful about the way Lazar said it, as if his life as a Prince had not been as great as hers in the water.
Nepenthe decided to try another tack. She asked him about his life since the last time that she’d seen him—although he didn’t remember they had met before. It turned out he’d spent most of the years inside the palace walls. He assumed that his father was protecting him because he was the only heir to the throne, but now he realized that it was probably because of his Snow.
When he spoke about his mother and his father, the snow on the ground began to swirl.
“What about your mother?” she pressed. She hated doing it. But it was working.
“She died in childbirth.”
“And how do you feel about that?”
“What kind of question is that?” Lazar looked up at her sharply as if to say she’d gone too far.
“Look, Your Highness. Look!”
The snow was swirling now. A snow tornado crashed into the trees that outlined the sculpture garden and topped them.
Nepenthe called Lazar’s name, trying to calm him, trying to stop him. The snow dropped back to the ground as quickly as it had risen.
He hugged her. “You are brilliant, River Witch.”
Nepenthe’s arms stayed at her side as he squeezed her and picked her up off the ground. He gently placed her back down—completely oblivious to the water that she felt rushing to her cheeks.
“Nepenthe,” he said as he released her. “Now we have to work on precision.”
The next few days went on like that: training for hours followed by dinners with the King and the Prince and Ora, who took no interest in helping Lazar. Rather she spent all her time batting her eyes as hard as
she could at the Prince. He didn’t seem to mind. But Nepenthe saw the King scowl in disapproval.
Sadly, what worked to trigger Nepenthe’s power over water also worked for Lazar. She was stronger when she thought about the worst moments in her life, and the same was true for the Prince. Only he couldn’t actually remember his worst moment. So instead Nepenthe called on his relationship with his father and the loss of his mother. She hated teaching him the darker side of magic. But he seemed undaunted.
“It’s like turning every dark thing into something light. It’s fuel instead of tragedy.”
He opened his hand and inside it there was a rose made of ice. The flower opened to full bloom.
“I bet Ora will love it.”
The Prince handed it to Nepenthe, and she felt the flush again. “I bet she would, but I made it for you, dear teacher.”
Nepenthe took it and despite herself, she smiled. She carried the rose around with her until it melted.
12
Nepenthe took a walk along the grounds after lying in a long, cramped bath. The palace might have been grand, but it was not designed for a River Witch. She desperately needed a pond to stretch out her limbs, but instead she came across something she wished she hadn’t seen.
They were leaning against one of the stable walls. At first Nepenthe assumed it was a stable hand and one of the maids. But it was Ora and the Prince. And they were kissing.
Nepenthe felt her breath catch. She should have kept walking, but she didn’t. She watched as Lazar leaned closer into Ora, pressing her against the wall. When the light shone through the space that finally separated them, Ora—radiant Ora—smiled up at him.
Nepenthe watched them longer than she should have.
Finally, she turned and returned to her walk. Suddenly dizzy, she gripped a tree for balance.
Lazar’s memory was gone. He did not know what Nepenthe had done for him all those years before, and he was falling for Ora.
It shouldn’t have been a surprise. Ora was beautiful. Everyone thought so. Every boy in her orbit looked at her, and everything and everyone else fell away. Nepenthe should have expected it. But what did startle her was the way she felt about it. There was a stinging sensation somewhere beneath her ribs. She waited for the discomfort to pass, but it did not. Not until she finally found the pond.