“My answer is no. I’m not taking you to the Well.” He didn’t have time to wait on a queen or ensure her horse could maintain the necessary pace, even if she did try to bribe him with a healer for Runt.

The softness of her features turned all angles. “Myrthe was wrong, I see.” She rose and gave a nod to Runt. “I’m glad you’re well.”

“Thanks for the help.”

Bastiaan fetched her horse for her, tightening the cinch and putting the bridle back on. Queen Anouk stood beside the horse and waited. Possibly for him to change his mind.

“Do you need an escort back to the schloss?” he asked.

“I told you where I need an escort to.” They had a brief standoff. Then, with a sigh, she mounted and left.

Bastiaan watched her ride away, standing in the doorway for far longer than he could see her. It didn’t feel right. Myrthe’s very cousin, who had only ever shown him kindness. A fellow commoner, but with a crown.

“Why didn’t you say yes?” Runt burst out the moment Bastiaan reentered the windmill. Already on his feet, the boy was stuffing clothes and matches into his pack. “She had so much gold. You could have bought all the Well water you wanted from the king when he comes back to the schloss!”

“The goal is to keep him from getting that Well water, Runt.”

“And to get me a Talent.”

“Of course.”

Runt eyed his sharpening stone, then wrapped it in a cloth and packed it. “She sure is nice, though.”

“That she is.”

Mother hadn’t said a word, but her posture said enough. He tried to keep preparing. To wait her out. She didn’t soften. Every movement rigid and more vocal than words.

“Just say it,” he said.

She faced him and folded her arms. “You demand that the king keep the waters free for all people—royal and common—yet you are equally as guilty of picking and choosing who receives it.”

Her words were akin to a garden hoe to the head. She didn’t unders—

“And don’t you say I don’t understand. I don’t need to read all the books or texts to know hypocrisy when I see it.”

Runt gave a low whistle, tucked his chin, and shuffled into a shadow.

“You’re on a roll, Mother.” First her reprimand about Myrthe and then this. “And as usual, you get your way.”

Very well. If the queen wanted to freeze to death on a pilgrimage, so be it.

He threw on his coat and reached for the door handle as another knock sounded. Firm and fierce. Bastiaan’s heart thundered in response. Who else lurked about the windmill at this time of night?

The knock repeated, a pounding this time. The militairen had finally come. He swung open the door.