His arms trembled, but he held her tight. The only warmth came from the burn in his eyes. He kissed her face. Gently. Tenderly.

Like a goodbye.

“You weren’t supposed to die in my arms,” he whispered. “You weren’t supposed to die at all.”

Crusted blood held strands of her hair against her cheek and temple. He couldn’t bring himself to wash her with Nightwell water, so he pulled out his canteen. He’d gathered this water from the Well of Talents to give to Runt but spared a few drops into his cupped hand, then dabbed it on the small gash along her brow line. It mingled with the blood, sliding down her face in a light pink line like the sunrise.

The tinted water met the tear trail of her final wish and converged, making a single drop. Wish water, Well water, and blood united as a liquid three-cord strand. As the droplet slid down her face, it changed course, curving around her chin and back up again. Weaving past creases and freckles and a stray eyelash until the new drop shone like a freshly made wish. It slowed its course and slipped back up toward her eye, where it latched onto her eyelashes.

The whole splay of them turned white, like her Talent Mark.

Bastiaan’s hands shook, but he dared not move for fear of interrupting whatever magic was taking place.

He stared at the new fan of ice-white eyelashes. What did this mean? What was the Well—

The eyelashes lifted. One set ice, the other black.

No confusion. No surprise. Myrthe didn’t even blink—just held his gaze as though she’d expected to wake to him holding her the whole time. A smile. A breath. And finally, a voice.

“I love you, Bastiaan.”

He dropped his forehead to hers, and a single broken sob cut through the gentle silence. “And I, you, Myrthe. Beyond time or wishes or Talents or Banes.”

She was alive. Alive! Breathing. Blinking. Smiling.

And his.

Chapter 59
Myrthe

I was new. There was no other way to put it. When I gave up my final tear, I’d prepared to exit this world and enter whatever eternity looked like. Instead I’d entered someplace wholly separate. Somewhere only the Well of Talents existed—deep within myself and yet separate from me.

It had met me in darkness. It had met me in light.

I chose you to show the people that I choose everyone. Men tried to lock me in a Well, but walls do not control me.

The Well had chosen me. But it took my seventeen years of life to choose it in return. All this time I’d believed my wishes were commodities to be sold or traded or used for personal gain. But they were Well water to bring to the people.

“What happened?” Bastiaan asked.