“They are not gifts,” Oma snapped. “They are merchandise.”

My face settled into stone. Merchandise. That was how Oma saw me. With all her goodwill of providing bread and grain for the people, she still saw her own granddaughter as nothing more than an object to be used and sold. “If you don’t give her a wish, I will find a way.”

Oma’s eyes widened. She recognized my threat. Good. Coralythe fell to her knees at my feet. “Thank you. Oh, thank you.”

“You’re being rash, child.” Oma’s clipped words came through taut lips.

“The singular reason we’re denying her a wish is because of poor payment. You call rash what I call compassionate. Charge the next purchaser double if you must. If they’re anything like the man who left here this morning, it shouldn’t be too difficult.”

Oma clucked her tongue and unrolled a blank piece of parchment. “Be it on your own head.”

Coralythe clung to my ankles until I finally knelt and guided the woman back to her feet. “May you find peace for your sons’ deaths.”

The contract took several minutes of Oma discussing restrictions and terms. I stood as near as I dared, but much of their exchange was lost on me. Wishes were tricky to control—wording had to be specific and guided, and there were several rules to the wishes that Oma had learned over the years. I had spent hours trying to eavesdrop and jot down any notes, but I’d come away with very little. Once Coralythe left, I would ask for an explanation of the contract.

At last Oma finished the final line and held it out to Coralythe to read. “When you’re ready to use the wish, you must speak these exact words.” Oma gestured to the paper. “Otherwise the wish will diffuse once it’s released from the bottle and shall not work. The wish will reveal a path leading you to the person who took the lives of your children. Once you’ve touched that person, the path will disappear and the wish will be deemed complete.”

Coralythe finished reading the paper and nodded firmly. Her strength seemed to return with each word. She signed the bottom and Oma took a small bottle from her pocket.

A single liquid wish bounced around inside, ready to be given freedom and a purpose . . . not unlike myself.

Oma popped out the cork and poured the drop onto the contract parchment. It landed in the center, leaving a dark spot of wet. The spot spread toward the edges, growing far beyond what a regular drop of water could. Once it filled the entire page with its liquid stain, it retreated back to the center. Oma held the vial beneath the spot and the wish dropped back into its glass cage.