“Myrthe.” The dark spot grew. “Myrthe! I think it’s still damp!” He hurled himself over the edge.

Myrthe cried out but the drop wasn’t far. He kept his feet upon impact and pressed a finger into the dirt. Even as he stared at the wet circle, it shrank before his eyes, receding back into the ground. He dug earth away in great scoops, chasing the liquid. A drop—a mere drop for Runt was all he needed!

He unearthed a thimbleful of liquid, but before he could scoop it into his hand it sank back into the earth. Despair swelled and the water was gone.

“No!” He scraped at the dirt, now drier than ground wheat. “It was here! For a moment it was here.” What made it return? What made the Well heave what seemed a final liquid breath?

Above, Myrthe practically blended in with the stones with how statuesque she stood. He could almost see her schooling her features, ignoring the disappointment, and hardening her will. Her emotions receded from her face, draining away almost like . . .

Almost like the Well water.

“Myrthe,” he gasped. “Were you . . . ?” This was going to sound insensitive. “Were you about to cry?”

“I’m fine.” Her voice was cold. Hard. Empty.

“I think maybe your tears are connected to the Well.”

She finally looked at him, and it was impossible to miss the skepticism on her face. “What does that mean?”

“Just now, the water dampened the earth as you . . . as tears formed in your eyes.”

“It was a moment of weakness.”

She didn’t get it. She thought he was talking about her emotions, but it was so much more than that. Could it be . . . ?

He forged onward. “You pushed back your tears and the water receded. Maybe the Well is dry because you and it are connected.”

“You think this is my fault?” She spun away. “So I should cry to fill up the Well for us?”

No. It wasn’t blame; it was new understanding. He took a deep breath, trying to acknowledge how fragile she was in this moment. He’d been there—dreams shattered, desperation having no escape. If only she could see the hope this revelation brought.

“Myrthe—”

“Be quiet,” she snapped. She was angry. Hurt.

Hear my heart. “I’m sorry—”

His rope sailed into the well, nearly smacking him in the face. The other end was lodged in the stones above. “Get up here.”

He hauled himself out of the Well in five lengths. As he gained his feet he heard the voices. He couldn’t make out the words but didn’t need to because a shaggy blond head came into view around the bend.

Sven. Hedy. Kees.

All three had bows drawn, arrows nocked, and aimed to kill.

Chapter 49
Myrthe