His eyebrows shot up. Whatever he thought I would share, clearly that wasn’t it. “You’re royalty?” An appreciative wonder filled his gaze. “But you live so simply.”

“I’m common.” I never minded being common. As the Wishtress I was beyond royalty, but I’d never viewed myself as such. “Anouk started out common as well. But she and I are no longer on good terms. We had a misunderstanding on the day you found me, actually.”

“I’m so sorry.” He’d seen me at my worst. Distraught. Fleeing from pain. Drugging myself to avoid feeling.

I pushed onward to avoid sinking into the much-craved empathy. “I’m writing her a letter and I want . . . I want to mention Runt. She’s always had a soft spot for children, especially those from the canals.”

His shoulders fell. “A letter.”

“Yes.” I hoped he didn’t ask why I was willing to help, because my answer would be far too personal. I feel comfortable with you, so I want to help you. I couldn’t risk getting personal.

“There’s . . . nothing else?”

Writing to the queen—aligning myself with the king’s potential assassin—wasn’t enough? “If I had something more, I’d give it.”

He nodded and let out a breath, resting his forehead on Sterk’s back for a moment. There seemed to be more on his mind, more behind his previous question. He’d expected something more from me but wouldn’t say what. A sick twist in my gut discerned the truth.

“You know about my Talent,” I said in a voice almost as soft as the cloud of frosty air that emerged from my lips and hung in the space between us. Fragile. Temporary.

“You’re the Wishtress.” The way he said it, he’d known for a while.

I stood my ground, sent up the ice walls around my heart. I’d let myself be too soft with him. A spear of anger stuck in my sternum. “What gave it away? All the wishes I’ve been granting?”

“I’m not after you.” He stayed calm. It allowed me to take a few breaths, to try to see him and not my fear.

He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket. I unfolded it to see my likeness. A drawing of me. With the location of my old home—the place I’d been cursed—scrawled across the top. “Where did you get this?”

“From the king’s very hand.”

Bastiaan had been hunting me. All that feigned kindness—taking me in at Windmill Cottage, guiding me to Sven, protecting me, befriending me . . . He’d been working for the king the whole time.

Was any of his story true?

“Is Runt even in the dungeon?” I folded up the paper and tried to act unfazed. I waited for the boy to reveal himself from the tree shadows.