Bastiaan gained his feet and took a breath. “I tried using it when Sven threatened us.” He flexed his gloveless hand.

“Is that how you enact your Talent? By snapping your fingers?” He nodded. “And what about me? Can I affect it at all?”

“You’re in the stopped time—the Stillness—until I start it up again. Trapped, essentially.”

I didn’t feel trapped. I felt free. “But what if you die?” Why was my mind always going there? Thinking of death and the end and broken Talents?

“I . . . I don’t know. I think time would start back up for you.” He turned his hand over and over, delight and wonder spreading across his face.

I had so many questions but spent a moment absorbing Bastiaan’s joy at his restored Talent. No wonder he’d traveled so much and learned so much while researching the Talents—he had unlimited hours!

“How often can you stop time?”

“Once per month. My snap resets each full moon.”

“Tonight’s a full moon.”

“So it is.”

“You’ll have another snap by nightfall then?”

“I hope so.” Was he afraid the king’s Bane might still be tied to his Talent? “That doesn’t explain why it’s working right now. Maybe it’s because I’m getting closer to the Well.”

I tried to be happy for him. Bastiaan had regained his heart’s desire. Now it was my turn.

“We should keep going then. Get to the Well before . . .”

Before Sven caught up. Before the Trials reset. Before we ran out of time.

Except there was no time. My brain strained to understand it.

“How long does this last?”

Bastiaan laughed and jumped to his feet. “As long as we want! A day. A month. Years!”

“Years?” I balked. “Have you tested it that long?”

A cloud blocked the sun of his mood. “Yes. To my great regret.”

I waited for more. The silence waited for more. Bastiaan’s jaw worked, twisting his lips to the side before he finally nodded toward the Trial mist. “Shall we continue?”

Disappointment settled in my gut. Bastiaan had chosen not to open up to me. I wanted to respect his right to his own secrets, but he now knew all of mine—my Wishtress Talent, my curse, and the fact that I’d murdered two boys.

Hollow illness churned inside me. Was that why Bastiaan wasn’t sharing his own story? Because he knew who I was? What I was?

I pulled off my skates, trying to distract myself from the emptiness spreading in my chest. I wanted to know about him—wanted him to open up and share. I thought we’d reached that depth, but maybe he was no longer comfortable with me.

“What Sven said about me . . .” Winter’s breath, this shouldn’t be that hard.

He paused in his movement toward the third Trial. “You don’t have to defend yourself. Sven is a rat.”