We stopped early because of the cold and built a fire. The very flames seemed to shiver against the air, hiding themselves beneath the logs and making half-hearted coals. I checked the map while we still had light.

By my calculations we would reach the Well tomorrow. We might have made it tonight if we’d pushed like I’d been pushing myself when skating alone. But I didn’t mind the slower pace. I didn’t even mind if it meant Sven would catch up.

I couldn’t bring myself to fear any longer.

I started laying out two sleeping places beside the fire.

“May we share a space?” Mutti asked before I got too far with clearing the snow. “It would be warmer.”

Not as warm as my heart was in that moment. “Sure.” We built up the fire, I laid out all my extra pieces of clothing for padding, and then we both tucked under the single blanket. Despite the snow, the winter air, and the setting sun, I was not cold.

Mutti pulled me close and wrapped her arms tight around me. I became a little girl again, breathing in her scent, resting in her warmth, letting myself be held. I remembered the many nights of childhood when Mutti held me like this. How I’d relaxed into her body and felt her relax in return. How we’d slept cocooned in the safety of each other’s hearts.

There was no safer feeling.

The last thing I heard before I drifted into sleep was her warm, gentle breath in my ear and against my hair. “I love you, Myrthe.”

We slept without waking. Without fear.

I woke cold.

No coals remained of our fire. I untangled myself from Mutti’s arms, careful not to pull the blanket off her, but the silence of the morning—of her body—stilled my movements. I leaned toward her and brushed a strand of hair from her forehead. “Mutti,” I whispered. “It’s morning.”

No movement.

My fingers on her brow felt nothing other than cold.

Mutti was gone.

Chapter 33
Bastiaan

“If I can’t bring you to the Well, I’ll bring the Well to you.” Bastiaan held up a simple brown clay flask for Runt to see. “I used this during my pilgrimage. It seems right that it should carry Well water back to you.”

“It’s not the same!” Runt hadn’t stopped pouting since Mother told him he couldn’t make the journey. “I’m fine!” He struggled to lift himself into a sitting position but groaned.

“You may feel fine, but Mother said the wound was borderline infected when we arrived. If that’s not monitored carefully, you’ll . . . you could . . .”

“Die.” Runt rolled his eyes. “People who feel as well as I do don’t just die from little rashes.”

“Runt . . .”