She didn’t respond, nor did she bend. He wouldn’t let her leave the Stillness until she did. No one could restart time except him. Coralythe was trapped and she knew it. But she didn’t know the clock was against him as the Nightwell continued inching its way higher and farther with each minute.

He pulled the corked vial from his pocket. “Would you consider an exchange?”

She peered at the droplet inside the glass. “What is that?”

“Myrthe’s last wish.”

“She’s dead then,” she breathed.

Bastiaan stumbled back as if an arrow had struck his chest. It took him a moment to recover his voice. “I’m hoping not.”

Coralythe cackled. “She’s dead!” She actually danced for a moment. “You couldn’t have that wish in your hands if she were alive! I know my curses. I know how they work.”

“Then remove it from her corpse.” He held the bottle between them with two fingers. “Let me bury her free of the curse. And you can have this.”

She eyed it, then must have concluded she had nothing to lose. “Mattias will be most pleased.” She took the wish from him, turned the bottle over in her hands.

She tucked it into a fold in her dress. “It’s not as easy as you’re saying . . . removing a curse.”

“Whatever it takes, do it.”

“Curses cannot be destroyed. They can only be created or transferred.” She lifted her eyes to his, and the twisted, delighted confidence returned to them. “I’m not about to waste a fresh curse just to make your poor bleeding heart feel better.”

That left one option: transfer Myrthe’s curse. To him. He tried to think back to the last time he wept a tear. It would be far easier for him to manage such a curse than Myrthe because neither crying nor emotions affected his Talent.

“Very well. Transfer it to me.”

“It won’t be the same, Bastiaan. The curse will be unique to you, as it was to Myrthe.”

He swallowed hard. “Okay.”

She smiled. “I like seeing you nervous.” Then she closed her eyes and lifted her hands. Bastiaan kept his eyes open. He would face this curse head-on. Where Myrthe was the Wishtress—chosen by the Well to bring its water and Talents to the people—Coralythe was the opposite. Child of the Nightwell spreading curses and Banes, welcome and unwelcome.

No matter her power, Bastiaan had to believe the Well of Talents was stronger than the curse of the Nightwell.

A spire of smoke rose from across the flooded valley. Lifting from where Myrthe’s body lay. Bastiaan held his breath as it flew over the water toward them. Toward him. He settled his weight into his legs and steadied himself for the impact.