This must have something to do with Myrthe. But Anouk was on the side of the king. She was his wife. If she knew where Bastiaan lived, then so did the king. Yet why hadn’t the king sent his militairen? Unless Queen Anouk was the one he sent.

Bastiaan couldn’t let her know he was about to leave for the Well.

He moved Mother’s mare into a stall with Sterk, who snorted his disapproval at being woken up. “Oh hush. We’ll be out of here soon. Let her keep you warm until then, you big baby.”

The queen’s horses filed into the now-empty second stall, and he removed their bridles. Then he hurried back to the windmill.

Anouk sat at the window table, her hands now free of gloves and wrapped around a mug of herb tea. The attendant knelt at Runt’s side. Upon Bastiaan’s entrance, Runt bolted upright and the woman had to push him down with a barked reprimand.

“Bastiaan, this is a healer. With a Talent! She can get rid of the infection!” Runt’s cheeks bulged with words unsaid. I can go with you! I can go to the Well!

Bastiaan raised his eyebrows but turned his questions to the young queen. “What have we done to deserve this honor?”

“You’ve done nothing . . . yet.” Anouk stepped off the stool, though she was probably taller sitting on it than standing. “I heard about Runt’s injury and feared for the boy.”

“How?” And why would she come—in person—three days later with a healer? She’d been raised common, but compassion did not run this deep in those who lived in the schloss.

“Reports do not go to the king alone.” The militairen were likely more inclined to serve her than their Murder King.

The healer stood from Runt’s side. “His injuries should be fully healed upon the morrow’s eve. The infection has been drawn out.”

Runt let out a whoop.

The healer eyed him. “You’d do best to remain on your cot. Just because the wound is healing does not mean I’ve replenished your energy.”

“His energy doesn’t need replenishing,” Bastiaan joked. The healer wasn’t amused.

“Pushing himself too fast can lead to fevers and illness beyond a wound.”

Runt clamped his hands over his mouth to muffle a snort. Bastiaan tried to send him a firm glare, but the boy shook with glee all the more. “Understood. Thank you, Healer.”

“Yes, thank you, Hilda.” Queen Anouk gave a nod, and Hilda exited the windmill.

“Her horse!” Bastiaan exclaimed. “I removed its bridle—”

“She’ll manage.”

“In a storm like this?”

Queen Anouk did not deign to repeat herself. If Hilda could heal her own frostbite, illness, or wounds, she must be able to manage a journey alone through a blizzard. She’d be a handy one on his trip to the Well.