“I don’t expect a trial will last very long.” Because he was guilty. He’d admit to it if that would save Runt. The only reason he’d taken King Vämbat into the Stillness was to convince him to give the people equal access to the Well of Talents.

He wanted to tell her—wanted to release the secret and breathe in the freedom of owning his guilt instead of being admired by the woman before him. Ask me. Ask me if I killed him.

“What about . . . ?” The question hung between them like an unfinished song. She spun to the mare and attacked the tangles with renewed vigor, as if wishing she could retract her half question.

Or maybe wishing she had finished it.

He knew the rest. What about going to the Well?

He didn’t know why she needed to get there. But he was letting her down. “I’ll answer whatever question you ask of me, Myrthe . . . for whatever reason.”

She pivoted. “What was your Talent?”

Was. The word pierced sharper than a hornet’s sting, carrying the weight of finality. He was no longer a Talented.

He took off his glove, revealing once again the dark purple mark. The reminder of his Talent calling to be used. “It doesn’t matter now.”

So if it didn’t matter, why wouldn’t he tell her? The words stuck in his throat. “I used to be able to . . .” It pained him too much. The answer led to too many memories. Regrets.

She laid a hand on his arm, startling him out of the reverie. “You miss it.” Why did she sound surprised?

He nodded, taking comfort from her touch. “My Talent was a gift unexpectedly given to me by the Well. Now it’s been stripped away.” A punishment he deserved. How, after a full lifetime spent studying the Talents, did he not see his trajectory toward failure?

“Do you not feel the least bit free?” she asked.

The question so caught him by surprise he barked a laugh. “Free?”

“You no longer have to hold that secret. You’re no longer in danger as a Talented or sought out by those who would use you.”

She didn’t seem to be talking about him anymore. Was that why she was so stubborn against using her Wishtress Talent? Because people—Sven, maybe?—had used her for it? The very idea of wanting to be free of his Talent was foreign to Bastiaan. He cherished it, protected it fiercely. Maybe a little too fiercely.

Because of it, Runt was in the schloss dungeons.

“I’m sorry I can’t help you get to the Well.” He’d hoped to free Runt and then spend the next several days traveling with Myrthe—the three of them. Getting to know her, talking to her, learning about her Talent. Learning about her heart.