The militair tightened the shackles an extra notch. Runt actually laughed.

Where did that boy get such confidence? Likely the multitude of secrets and stealth he clothed himself with.

Hartmut handled me himself. After securing me in chains he touched my exposed wrist, using his gift of identifying Talents on me.

“Fascinating.” He peered at my white eyelashes. “I’ve seen a Talent silenced by Bane power. But I’ve never seen one . . . run out.”

“If you use your Talent for the Well, maybe someday you’ll understand.”

“Seems to me that just leads to chains.”

“But also peace.” I smiled. “I’d happily live a lifetime in chains if it meant peace in my heart.”

He grinned. “Well, will you look at that? You didn’t even need a tear to make that wish come true.”

Chapter 61
Bastiaan

Bastiaan’s cell smelled of corpse. It likely hadn’t been cleaned for as long as the schloss had been built. This was not how he imagined his return to Fairhoven: he in one cell, Myrthe in another, Runt in a third. At least they were adjacent. Small favor.

They’d been in their cells a mere day. Myrthe could no longer walk on her own. Bastiaan had screamed at the militairen for locking her up. “She needs a healer! Tell the queen!”

“We’re not telling anyone anything,” the militairen responded.

That was the last he’d seen of them. No food. No healer. No news.

“I can hear you fretting again.” Myrthe rested her head against the back of the cell with her eyes closed.

“How can you stay so calm?” Especially while in pain. “Are you sure you don’t have a new Talent?”

She smiled. “I’m used to not having an escape hatch. You, however, no longer have your time snap, so you’re a bit more antsy.”

“It wouldn’t get me out of this cell anyway,” he muttered, unwilling to admit that she was right. It had served him his entire life—having a Talent in his back pocket to use for emergencies. For escape. But he could no longer use it. Not ever, because that would be the end of his life Awake.

He kept his hand splayed, nervous that he’d somehow use the snap without realizing it. If he trapped himself in the Stillness, how would he die? Since he didn’t age, it would have to be an accident . . . or self-inflicted. That wasn’t an option he was willing to consider. He didn’t give himself life; therefore, he refused to put himself in a place of authority in which to take it.

Voices entered the stairwell. Bastiaan pushed himself to his feet and stood inches from his cell door, arms folded and ready to meet whatever was coming. Ready to demand help for Myrthe—despite her eerie calm.