But they never stole from our booth—and if they did, I wouldn’t care. Anouk and I passed them handfuls of button rolls, taking turns keeping watch for Oma. She’d caught us a few times before and rapped our skulls. The swarm of children descended on the free bread like a crow on a carcass, one grimy hand pawing the contents of the basket and the other yanking a fellow’s hair to keep him back.

One little boy darted away from the stall, rolls stuffed up his sleeves and down the front of his shirt. Anouk grabbed his upper arm before he got too far.

“Leave him be, Anouk.” I laughed.

The boy fought for a moment, but Anouk didn’t try to take the rolls away. She knelt and said something in a low voice I couldn’t make out. The boy shook his head and tugged away. Anouk rushed through another few sentences. He shook his head again and she let him go.

“What was that?”

Anouk’s lips tightened. It took a moment before she responded, and even then it was a dismissal. “Just asking about the frozen canals and if they were okay.”

I didn’t press her. She had a tender place in her heart toward the canal rats—she had instigated our visiting what dwellings we could find in the harsher seasons to bring blankets, logs, and flints. I instigated the free bread. But I always dreamed of using wishes to better their lives, to stop frostbite, to give them warm homes.

I’d once joked that Anouk should get married and raise all the canal rats as her own, but my cousin had brusquely replied, “I will never marry.”

Cheeks, fists, and pockets bulging, the canal rats managed all manner of mumbled thanks and then were gone. I smiled in spite of myself.

“Spoiling the canal rats keeps them from seeking proper work or provision for themselves,” someone said from my left.

“How in winter’s name is feeding a child spoiling them?” Anouk snapped.

The man before us wore tailored trousers with golden buttons along the hips. Tall but not gangly, and a mere handful of years our senior. He certainly wasn’t here to purchase bread.

“I meant no offense.” He held up uncalloused hands in apology, but his shaven face showed no regret, only caution. He feared being denied what he came to buy.

“Why bother yourself over a few button rolls when you’re not even here for bread?” I wanted to deal with him and be done with his face.

He dropped his voice. “I was told to see you for”—he licked his lips—“for a . . . a wish?”

I didn’t miss the appraising flick of his skeptical gaze, taking in my simple clothes—scuffed trousers, a billowy shirt with sleeves rolled up to my elbows. Common clothing. So he thought me too lowly to deal in wishes? “I can’t help you.”