“It’s for a good cause.”

They always said that. “I said I can’t help you.” I was sorely tempted to leave it at that, but Oma would have my backside—or worse, my skates—if I turned away one of these customers. “You have to inquire inside the tent.” I jerked my head to the four-walled tent behind me and then turned to the small line of new customers queuing up for bread.

He sniffed at the dismissal but seemed to swallow his pride and marched into the tent. It took twenty minutes before he swaggered back out again with a smirk. I felt ill. What had he desired enough to purchase a wish?

I slammed a wooden lid back over the flour barrel. “Enough is enough. I’m talking to Oma.”

Anouk’s eyebrows shot up, but then she grinned. “It’s about time.”

I rolled my eyes, yanked off my apron, and strode back to the tent. As I swept aside the flap to enter, Oma barreled out. We collided and Oma regained her feet with a snort and a stamp like a territorial boar. “Get in here, girl.”

Any bold words I had planned to deliver disintegrated on my tongue. “Yes, Oma?”

“When you bring the next customer, you’ll stay too.”

I couldn’t believe my ears. “Truly?”

Oma didn’t bother to respond. She turned to her table of papers and bottles, the glow of candlelight illuminating the bottle of ink.

The joy that struck me was almost painful. At last Oma saw me as my own person, knowing my own mind and capable of using my Talent with discretion. Yet almost immediately a pang of guilt hit. I’d told Sven about my Wishtress Talent yesterday—the one order I was not to have broken. I didn’t deserve her trust.

“Tend the stalls then,” Oma barked, waving a hand without looking at me.

I spun from the tent and rushed back out to the front of the booth, breathing hard. Ears abuzz, I hardly recognized Anouk’s voice until she shouted in my face. “Was it that terrible?”

I snapped out of my reverie. “Huh?”

“Confronting Oma, how did it go?”

Oh. “I . . . forgot.”

“What? You were gone hardly a minute.”

I grabbed Anouk’s hands. “She’s going to teach me!” I squealed. Then, as though at risk of undoing Oma’s declaration, my voice dropped to a disbelieving whisper. “She’s finally going to teach me to control my Talent.”

“Winter’s breath.” Anouk searched the sacks of flour and grain as though she might find her thoughts buried beneath a scoop or price card. “When?”