Hæra stood before the witch as she was: naked and bruised in her human form. Asgall’s blood was on her face again. Around them spun the whirlpool’s waters, but now the witch was alone. No corpses of her victims. She and Hæra faced one another on the sand.

“The bargain,” the witch said.

Hæra bowed her head, just as she had before Asgall, when she’d realized all was lost. “Yes, Ancient One.”

“Bring me your despair.”

“I will. As soon as I’m well enough to come to you.”

The witch’s eyes, pits of black, flashed with displeasure.

“Your whirlpool is too far away.” Even in a dream, her body ached. “I cannot swim that distance while I’m hurt. And I cannot take a boat.” Everyone would be inspecting the damage to the fishing vessels. Even if Hæra knew how to pilot a boat, which she didn’t, she’d never be able to steal one.

The witch took one step forward, and then another. She frowned, as if in concentration; perhaps she wasn’t used to walking. But she came forward, and Hæra found herself helpless to move away.

The witch cupped Hæra’s face. Her hands were so cold that even Hæra flinched at her touch. Her skin was coarse as sand. She leaned forward and licked Asgall’s blood from Hæra’s cheeks. Her tongue slid, slimy and kelp-like, over Hæra’s flesh. When it passed over her bloody lips, the witch sighed, “Hungry.”

Hæra’s stomach flipped over. The witch’s breath was icy against her mouth. This wasn’t like Madeleine’s kisses, which Hæra would never taste again. “You’re going to eat me?” she asked shakily. That’d be fitting, all things considered.

“I like your brother’s blood,” the witch said. “Bitter salt. He belongs to the sea.”

Hæra knew, somehow, that the witch was not really tasting Asgall’s blood but a dream’s echo of it—perhaps Hæra’s own memory of its taste. How strange, that you could know things in dreams.

“Walk to the shore,” the witch told her. Her thumbs stroked Hæra’s cheeks. “Walk into the water. I will bring you here.”

“What? How? Aren’t you trapped in your whirlpool?”

“I will bring you here,” the witch repeated. “Hurry. Hurry to save a life.”

That didn’t make sense. “Save a life? What do you—” She turned colder than any current could ever be. “Madeleine. She’s in danger. On the shore?” Madeleine hadn’t been heading in the direction of the shore, but she might have changed her mind.

“Your woman is safe. Someone else is not.” The witch stopped stroking Hæra’s cheeks and pressed her thumbs in, hard. The edges of her nails were sharp enough to cut. “Hurry, hurry, hurry. Hurry to me. And to despair.”

Hæra opened her eyes.