Oma whirled on me with a small bottle clutched in her hand. “Because you removed her memory of you.” She sounded . . . triumphant. “I was at the door, listening. You said you wished Ilse had never known you. Your tear struck her hand.”

She pressed the bottle against my cheek. I was so confused—so surprised—I didn’t think to move. A moment later, Oma held the bottle aloft and a small tear bounced around the bottom of the jar like a trapped guppy, flickering silver and white and magic.

“Finally.” She corked the bottle and placed it in her trunk. “You’re the Wishtress, Myrthe. Each tear you cry has the power to grant a wish.”

Wishtress? I’d heard of her—the most powerful Talented in all of Fairhoven. No, in all of Winterune. Maybe even the world. A Wishtress was born every hundred years or so. Always female. A heroine of the kingdom. That’s all I’d ever heard of the Wishtress—all anyone could tell me.

I couldn’t be the Wishtress. I was poor. Brittle boned. Distraught. I couldn’t even cry until today. Then I thought about what Oma said. “You removed her memory of you.” Because I’d cried and made a wish . . . Mutti couldn’t remember me?

Another part of my words—my desperate prayer—teased my memory. “I wish this would end.” I wished their sickness to end . . . and it did.

“I . . . I killed Pappje?” I gripped my hands in front of me, as though they could keep the broken whisper from reaching Oma’s ears.

But she heard. And she nodded. “You used a raw wish. More dangerous than a spark on cotton.” She faced me head-on and grabbed my shoulders. I couldn’t tear away from her intense gaze. “You’re never to use a wish again, Myrthe. Not until you’re trained properly. I’ve studied the ways of the Wishtress my entire life and will teach you in time. Every tear you cry must be bottled. I’ll protect them. I will protect you. Otherwise you could end up killing others.”

My small form seemed to shrink beneath the weight of her words. I was unable to comprehend much other than I killed my own pappje. And I made Mutti forget me.

This was my fault. All of it.

I wanted away from Oma. Away from her knowledge and her icy words. Her lack of feeling and the victorious glint in her eye over this new discovery.

I didn’t want to be the Wishtress.

I wanted to be Myrthe, holding my parents’ hands again . . . before they’d gone cold. Praying for them. Hoping for them. Caring for them and hugging them.

I fled the bedroom, knocking the doorjamb with my hip in my disjointed attempt at haste. I burst into the main room. It was empty of life. Pappje lay on the cot. Cold. Dead.

Mutti was gone.