“I’m wanted by the king.”

“Then give me the munten and I’ll buy it.” Her words were thick and her mouth twisted tight, not quite stopping the tremble in her chin.

Bastiaan set his folded blanket on the frosty ground and opened his arms. Mother stepped into them, stiffly at first like she knew he wasn’t going to bend. She was right. But he felt her pain and fear as though they were his own—and maybe they were. Maybe it was a shared burden.

She’d lost a husband—to both the lust for power and the power of the Trials.

Now her only son was taking the same path.

“The Well water is not meant to be sold,” he said. “It’s a gift. I have to be part of this fight—to right my wrongs and to treat the Talent water with the honor and respect it is owed.”

“You speak as though it’s a person.” She sniffed hard and stepped away, lashes sticking together from the tears. She wasn’t ashamed of her crying. Somehow, her tears merely reminded Bastiaan of her strength.

“The Well water’s alive. That much I know.”

She snatched his blanket off the ground, then stomped back toward the windmill. “Let’s get your vittles packed, then.”

He followed, allowing her sassiness to bolster him. “Vittles?”

“Day-old bread and salted nuts that will likely stick in your teeth and drive you to madness.”

“My favorite.”

It took them less than a bell toll to pack, focusing mostly on food and warmth. Bastiaan was no stranger to surviving the cold. He’d used one of his early time snaps during a blizzard only to learn that time ensured the blizzard remained exactly as it was—blowing and blustering and blinding—until he returned to the Awake . . . three weeks later. He was thankful the sun and moon, at least, didn’t stop their passing. Otherwise he’d never have kept track of time.

He ate as hearty a supper as his belly could hold.

“Ilse is gone,” Mother said, as though such a statement could be delivered like an afterthought.

He looked up from his bowl. “When?” Ilse had been with them since their escape from the merchant. She and Mother had been deep friends since meeting.

“She left the same day you and Myrthe rode away from here.”

“Why?”

“Said something about finding her daughter. She’s been gone so long.”

Bastiaan’s stomach twisted. Ilse had been sick the past year. The idea of her traveling—alone—in conditions such as these . . . He prayed her pursuit of her daughter resulted in success. She’d been searching for years with little direction. What information had she come across in the past seven days that she didn’t have before?

“I’ll watch for her.” It was all he could do.