Sven rounded the statue. He grabbed my hair and slammed me against the stone. “Give me the wish.”

It would take me less than a second to send his body careening backward. I could make him bash his own skull on the stone. Force him to release me, to turn himself over to Mattias’s men.

But to do so would allow the Bane authority over me. Again. Somehow I knew that the one way to defeat the Bane was to starve it.

But this moment is desperate!

Every moment thus far had been desperate. If I told myself I’d use my Bane only in desperate moments, there’d be no end. Someday I’d have to put my trust in something beyond my own power. That was the power of the Well of Talents. It chose me to be its Wishtress. It must have had a reason—and if I could trust its plan for me before my own birth, I could trust its power and purpose for me. Even now.

Sven pinned me. I let him scream in my face. But I closed my eyes and breathed deeply, entering a refuge in my mind far from his frantic demands.

My Bane cried out, indignant.

I served you well! We’re only just beginning!

Oh, Bane . . . for you to exist my Talent needs to die. And that’s not an exchange I’m willing to make.

“Give me my wish,” Sven growled in my ear. He wrapped his bowstring around my neck and tightened it, taking my air.

I used to turn to sad memories—pain and sorrow and anger—to draw up a wish for Oma. This time I followed a different path in my mind: to the happy memories. The moments that brought joy with a distant tug of sorrow over the fact that they’d already been lived.

Schaat racing with Anouk. Giving button rolls to canal rats. Mutti holding me tight and showing me there were things worth dying for. Bastiaan running down the sand dune to me. Alive.

The tear needed little prodding. It came willingly, like a soldier called to a final fight.

The swell of pain and finality of breath cocooned me and I didn’t fight it. This wish was mine and mine alone. I knew it intimately, and it hummed its excitement to be given a purpose.

“I wish . . .” My whisper was tender, a soft gust of final air.

A hand clamped over my mouth and a glass bottle pressed to my cheek.

Sven.

But he was too late. Though the wish left my skin, it had already declared its loyalty.

I didn’t need to speak the words. It was part of me. And as Bastiaan’s face swam before my fading mind’s eye, I completed the wish.

For him.

For those he loved.

For everyone.

I wish for the Well of Talents to be released and to flow to all people.