I was of age now. Seventeen years. Seventy seasons. Finally. “At seventy seasons, your wishes are your own,” Oma would say.

Three months ago marked my season age day—my half birthday. My seventieth season. I woke up expecting fanfare. Freedom.

But Oma said nothing to me other than, “Snuff that fire in the hearth.”

I’d hoped once summer markt began she’d take me into the wish booth. But three days ago she went to markt Opening Day, expecting me to join her an hour later. She gave me the extra time because of my limp—the one remnant of the pox that served as a constant reminder.

But no word about my Talent.

Oma refused to use a wish to heal me. She said I needed the reminder of the severity of wishes. It worked. I was too afraid to use a wish on myself. What if I ended up causing my own death? Or making the crippling so bad that I couldn’t ice-skate? Skating was the one thing that didn’t hurt my bones. I could speed along with no resistance, keep up with my peers, taste freedom.

A distant whistle met my ears. I shot to my feet, my pulse entering a sprint. Through the trees on the other side of the canal came a form I had been both dreading and longing for.

Sven.

I waved and tucked the wish into my pocket. He used a pole to vault himself over the narrow branch of canal, landing lithe and limber on my side. Skin pale as a winter sun, eyes blue like icicles, Sven set down his pole and approached me with a grin. “You gonna kiss me good luck?”

I’d kiss him good anything to feel his lips on mine the way he kissed me in the winter. But summer had come. His kisses weren’t the same in summer. Too light. Too quick.

“I have something even better for you.” My heart swung to and fro. I wasn’t the only one about to take rash action. Since Sven announced King Vämbat’s assassination yestermorn, the entire capital of Fairhoven had entered a frenzy. Militairen wanting Talented captured. Commonfolk wanting Talents for themselves—willing even to defy the law and make a pilgrimage in search of the Well.

Commonfolk like Sven.

I wasn’t about to be left behind. Not now that Oma had failed to keep her promise. I needed help. I couldn’t live this life of slavery any longer. “I’m coming with you.”

Sven’s summer-sun smile dimmed like a sunset. “It’s markt season—your oma needs you.”

I stood tall. “I’m of age. My life is no longer restricted by the demands of others.” Couldn’t he see? I could make my own decisions: where to travel, what to pursue . . . who to marry. After all, love was a choice. And I chose Sven.

We chose each other.