The curse slammed into him. Though his body did not move, his subconscious stumbled back. Then fought tooth and nail. He forced it to relent and let the curse take effect. It wound through him, and Coralythe’s voice rose over a rushing wind in his ears.

He couldn’t make out her words until the wind stilled. Only then did he catch the details of the curse.

“. . . for eternity. The next time you stop time, you will never be able to start it again.”

Chapter 58
Bastiaan

He left Coralythe on her self-made Bane island. Paddled a dead log from the dam site across the Nightwell water, though it didn’t matter so much now if he went under. He already had a Bane. And now a curse.

He’d never be able to enter the Stillness again. Unless he wanted to be trapped there forever.

He was tempted to despair over having received healing and renewal from the Well of Talents only to give it back up again. But this was not the end. Not even a curse could unseat the power of the Well. He hoped.

He’d freed Myrthe. That was what mattered.

Once back at the kleinschloss he loped across the flooded courtyard. He needed Mother or Hilda. A healing touch. All the book knowledge he’d gained from years in the Stillness had not prepared him to care for the ones he loved—King Vämbat. Runt. Myrthe.

But Mother was days away at Windmill Cottage, and the Nightwell was not sleeping. The water roiled and pushed against his Talent, trying to move toward the canals and Fairhoven. It was gaining ground, and he felt the strain against his Talent.

It was all up to him. He didn’t have the endless time he’d grown so used to with past visits to the Stillness.

He found Myrthe at the base of the statue just as he’d left her. Water lapped at her lower lip, trickling drop by drop into the crook of her open mouth.

She looked even paler than before. Was that because the curse was gone? Or because her life was flickering? Fading? Snuffed?

Please, he begged the Well. Don’t take her yet.

Ever so carefully, he slid his arms beneath her body. She melted into the movement, her form softening as she entered the Stillness. He pulled her free of Sven and out of the icy water, ready to sprint to the warm interior of the kleinschloss.

But she was too heavy in his arms. Too cold. Too . . . still. He stumbled to a raised patch of dry grass and knelt there. Holding her. Ear pressed to her chest. He detected no heartbeat. He put his cheek to her mouth, waiting for a weak puff of warm air.

Nothing.

“Myrthe,” he whispered, desperate for his voice to be the one thing that brought her around. “Wake up. I’m here.”