“I heard it all,” she whispered. “We had no customers so . . . so I stood here. I’m so proud of you, Myrthe.”

My throat burned, but I swallowed it down. If I cried now, I’d prove Oma right. “Was I wrong, Anouk? To help that hurting woman?”

Anouk took my hand. “You are the Wishtress. I’ve always believed you would see things in a way unique to you and your Talent. You showed compassion. And that is never wrong.”

The burning grew hotter and I took several deep breaths. I wanted to be comforted by her words—I wanted to take credit for compassion, but deeper in my heart I knew it wasn’t compassion that drove me to give Coralythe a wish but something far less honorable. A word I didn’t want to voice, but I knew carried the truth within its letters.

Defiance.

Chapter 6
Myrthe

The cold, empty house embraced me with icy arms. Dim moonlight filtered through the windows as I hung up my coat beside my ice skates. The evenings still bit sharply enough to warrant a coat, even at the entrance of summer.

Which meant the canal had less chance of melting.

I’d checked on my walk back, and it was no less frozen than when I’d first used the wish. Anouk was right—the only way to melt it would be with another wish. But my heart felt locked away in a prison of stone. So distant from emotions that producing a tear seemed almost laughable.

I built a small fire in the hearth to tame the brisk night. As the flames licked the logs, crawling between cracks in the bark and sending sounds and woodsy smells that made me long for winter, I couldn’t stop thinking about Coralythe. Little was known about those who submerged in the Nightwell except that they received a Bane—a power in competition with Talents. Rumored to be more weapon than gift.

Talents were supposedly for serving the people and the kingdom. Those with Talents were expected to swear fealty and loyalty to the king. But people with Banes had loyalty to no one but themselves. Or so the tales claimed.

Rumors had a way of painting the Nightwell in a dark light . . . but tempting and alluring as well.

Its location had once been common knowledge until a ruler of old ordered it blotted off the maps. Then the maps of Fairhoven were destroyed by a madman.

That didn’t stop people from searching. King Vämbat set up the Trials, making the Well of Talents so difficult to approach that many people, out of pure desperation, turned to the Nightwell instead. At least, this was what Oma had told me. And her words always came from a place of agenda.