In place of action and resolve, I simply cry into my pillow until Bryndis scolds me to dry up and go to sleep. Pip, across the darkened room, sings another sea shanty.

12

12

THE THROBBING IN my wrist wakes me through the night. At dawn I am up and stirring the fire to life in the hearth. Our larder remains empty no matter how many times I check it. My palsied hand has swollen further and begun to smell. When my siblings come downstairs, I tell them I am going out. Pip wants to come along, but I tell him to stay here. The little twerp holds his breath.

“Take him with you,” Bryndis sighs. “I’m in no mood for one of his fits.”

We head north to the edge of Torgrimsvær where the hovels of town give way to the forest and the mountain range beyond. Here on the rutted path lies one last cottage hidden amongst the trees. A wisp of smoke rises from the chimney.

“Where are we going?”

I nod at the drab hovel ahead. “To see Hagar.”

Pip stops. “The witch’s cottage?”

“She’s not a witch. Are you coming or no?”

He follows me, catching up to take my hand like he used to do when he was little. There is a moment after I knock on the oaken door before Hagar ushers us inside. She seems neither surprised nor unhappy to see us.

The cottage is dark and smells of woodsmoke and spices. Strange herbs and flowers dangle overhead, hung from the rafters to dry. Hagar is also the village culpepper. The floor is packed earth and there are seven cats watching my brother and I with suspicion. Before the hearth is a single rocking chair and a rough bench. The midwife motions for us to sit.

“Are you here about him?” she asks, nodding at my brother.

“No. He’s beyond help.” I slip my hand from the fold of my shirt. “It’s this that needs mending.”

Her gentle face pinches at the sight of it. It is ghastly. The flesh purpled, turning to black at the fingertips. Hagar leans in close, spies the ring of puncture marks.

“Something bit you?”

When I tell her what made it, there is a sharp intake of breath.

“I’ve never seen a mermaid bite before, let alone cured one. Is it painful?”

“It is mostly numb.”

She studies it closely, turning it to the light and asking me to wiggle my fingers. She raises my hand to her nose and smells it.

“That stinks of rot, Kaspar. And that is not a good sign. The thing’s venom is killing it.”

Hagar does not mince words. She is not rude, but she does not lie or sugarcoat.

“Is there anything you can do for it?” I try not to sound like I’m begging.