No key rested on the nightstand, nor in the drawer. I ran my hands along the smooth sheets and pillowcases. Nothing. There weren’t many places to search. Knowing Oma, she probably kept the key on her person.

What was I doing?

I paused but couldn’t seem to turn away from the trunk. I knelt beside it. Why did I want to see inside so badly? With all these papers and Oma’s contract writing, perhaps she’d hidden her notes and instructions about the Wishtress power. They could be right here, beneath this lid.

I stared at the trunk. The lock. Though I’d not found the key, there was another way to open it. The same way I could thaw the canal ice.

I closed my eyes and let my mind jump back to Oma’s comment about merchandise. It burned my heart. Then I thought of Sven and how uneasy I felt after telling him about my gift. How I didn’t feel valued by him even after revealing the most hidden part of myself. That stung.

But no tear formed.

I shut my eyes tighter and willed up the feelings of being used, of losing Mutti and Pappje, of how captive I always felt when summertime came. Still nothing. I was too angry to cry. So I did the next best thing.

I grabbed the fireplace poker and smashed it against the trunk until the lock lay on the ground in pieces. Since I’d broken the rules by freezing the canal, it seemed I now had no care and no self-control to keep them again. What was the point? I’d already rebelled.

I eased open the lid.

The first item lay flat and enticing—a book. A single word appeared on the black cover, painted in gold ink.

Wishtress

I snatched it and cracked it open. The pages cracked and groaned like ancient voices pleading to return to their slumber. Some pages clung to the spine by mere threads. But page after page revealed handwritten notes like journal entries, several in different penmanship.

I skimmed some of the larger-print headers on different pages and found what looked like instructions for different aspects of the Wishtress Talent. How to store unused wishes. Ungrantable wishes. Using wishes on oneself. And on and on.

This was it. An entire manual about . . . me. My Talent.

Everything Oma knew she must have learned from here. She could have taught me years ago! Could have handed me this book when my Talent first showed itself. But she hadn’t. She’d hoarded it for herself.

I tucked the book down my shirt and took in the rest of the trunk’s contents.