His eyes narrowed. “You’re lying.” He backed toward the door.

“Runt.” Coralythe reached her hand out in a pleading gesture, but it encountered the invisible barrier and her fingers curled into a fist.

“I . . . I need some time.” What an adult thing to say. He fit the makeshift key into the lock and turned it. “I need to think.”

He fled the room, yanking Anouk with him.

“Runt!” Coralythe tried to squeeze past his barrier, but it was too long. Curse it all! The council would murder her for this.

Chapter 64
Myrthe

“You’ll never skate again.” That’s what Hilda the healer said after binding my feet with herbs and poultice. “But you should be able to walk . . . with time. And likely a cane.”

What Hilda didn’t understand was that if I could walk—even minimally—I could skate. I would skate. Perhaps not race and not for long distances, but I refused to allow my passions to perish in this prison cell.

Hilda had used her Talent, but it had limitations. She was able to restore the torn skin and remove the scorpion wounds and sunburns. But frostbite had already claimed several toes, and the muscles in my feet had been so lacerated and wrecked that it was difficult for the healer to return them to something that resembled or felt like a foot. She could do nothing about my pox weakness because it had been part of my body for so long.

Bastiaan and Runt had been gone a long time. I hated not knowing what was happening. I expected my own hearing would take place soon, and I wasn’t sure what it would look like. I was no longer a threat—or advantage—to the crown. I’d loosed the Well of Talents. It all came down to whether the regent and his council saw that as a criminal act.

It would be so easy to let myself spiral into despair.

But even with my Wishtress Talent gone, I felt the presence of the Well of Talents inside me. I couldn’t forget my encounter with the Well at the kleinschloss. It had chosen me as the Wishtress—for a great purpose despite my limitations, selfishness, misuse, and mistakes.

It knew my story from the beginning. And it knew my end. That brought a comfort that nothing was without purpose. Even my time in this cell.

Scuffles on the stairs preceded the appearance of Bastiaan and a militair. Bastiaan walked tall with his chin high, but he appeared . . . resigned. What had happened to Runt?

When he saw my bandaged feet, a sigh seemed to calm his muscles. The militair placed him back in his cell and left. Bastiaan stood for a moment and surveyed the small space. Then grimaced. Something was wrong. Very wrong. And he was trying to be strong. Accepting.

“What happened?”

He dragged a hand down his face. “A lot.”