I slid my hands along the corners and edges. Scrambled under the thing and examined every crook and crack and corner. Still no map. I was tempted to kick the piece once I got back to my feet.

The tent was a pigsty. Ransacked to completion.

I left it that way.

And I waited.

An hour later, Sven finally swaggered in. He smelled of ale, but by the way he stopped short at the sight of his plundered tent, it hadn’t gone to his head yet. His face registered shock, then anger. “Myrthe, what—”

“Tell me how to get to the Well.” I stood with arms folded, chin high, and all my belongings secured to my body.

His eyes scanned his scattered possessions again. “That’s what you’re looking for?”

“Show it to me.” I was strangely calm. I had nothing to lose. No reason to stay. No reason to mollify Sven any longer. I needed to get to the Well. For myself. For Fairhoven. I would not be Sven’s tool, no matter how much protection or fawning he promised.

“Sorry, Myrthe.” He tapped his temple with a finger. “It’s all up here.”

I expected this could be an answer, so I tossed my Wishtress book onto the table between us and flipped to a blank page marked by a length of hard charcoal I’d found in his pack. “Draw it for me.”

“No.”

I expected this too. “Then you leave me no choice.” I withdrew a glass vial from my belt pouch. Inside sat a droplet of water. For all Sven knew, it could be a wish. “If you don’t give me directions to the Well, then I’ll use my next wish to strip you of your Talent.”

Sven paled. I didn’t wait. I popped the cork off the bottle.

“Stop!” He took two strides forward.

I took two steps back. “Those are my terms, Sven. You have one minute to give me what I want.”

“You’re being ridiculous!”

I shrugged and lifted the vial. “Forty seconds.”

“After all I’ve done for you?” he thundered.

“Like making me the target of the camp?”

“I was giving them hope.”

I rolled my eyes. “Ten seconds.” I wasn’t about to waste my energy arguing that point. I tilted the bottle on its side, almost believing myself that it was a wish. “I wish . . .”

“Winter’s breath, Myrthe, stop!” The pitch of his plea stayed my hand. He riffled in a hidden line of cloth strapped against his chest beneath his coat and shirt, then tossed a stained and folded piece of parchment on the table between us. “There.”