“In all the years I’ve lived, I’ve never met anyone like you,” he whispered. “And I think I’m going to kiss you.”

“I’d like that,” I whispered back.

He smiled, and that was the last thing I saw before his mouth was on mine. Gentle. Tentative. And beautifully uninterrupted.

I could have stayed in the deadly Trial desert like that for eternity. Built a cottage. Abandoned my skates and love for winter. In that moment it could be home—with Bastiaan—and it would be enough.

But the moment air separated us once again, purpose and memory swept back into focus.

“The Well,” I said. “My curse. The canal. Runt. Your Talent. King Mattias. Sven.” Listing the reasons for our quest brought back the reality—the severity—of what we were trying to accomplish. Somehow during this journey, my purpose for reaching the Well had become about more than just me.

He nodded grimly. “If my Talent weren’t broken, I’d keep us here forever.”

“I know.” I grinned. “If my Talent weren’t trying to kill me . . . I’d let you.”

He laughed. I was glad he did because my curse didn’t feel so daunting in that moment. Had I not been cursed, I never would have been found by Bastiaan and taken to Windmill Cottage.

We stood. I wobbled and sucked in a breath as the pressure of my weight hit my feet.

“Let me carry you.”

“No. I want to arrive at the Well on my own two feet.” If I could still call them that. “Is it . . . Is it far?”

He shook his head. “Just on the other side of the mist.” Hand in hand, we stepped through the wall of dust into a shock of cold. Wind met my peeling cheeks and soft sounds brushed against my ears. Snow was falling.

Bastiaan released a strangled sound of surprise that made me giggle. The thin air rushed into my lungs and cleared my head so I could finally straighten and take in our new surroundings.

We were in the true season of early winter again. If time were still stopped, would the wind blow? Would snow fall?

If not, I wasn’t sure I’d want to be in the Stillness.

“Why do you love winter so much?” Bastiaan tucked his hands under his arms and hunched over. He’d been watching me beneath the snowfall.

“In winter I was free. Spring and summer—the times of markt with Oma selling my wishes—were when I was enslaved.” My explanation sounded dramatic, even to my own ears. But I knew Bastiaan would hear my heart.

Smooth cliff walls rose on each side of us, creating a narrow ravine. The path up the center was smooth and glassy, like a frozen riverbed. Illuminated by moonlight.

“Shouldn’t the moon be higher in the sky by now?”