He placed a jug of water on the table before seating himself. The breeze delivered birdsong and earth scents alike through the open window. Beyond the rhythmic passing of each windmill blade stretched row after row of raised soil. Woven baskets on their hips, women chatted with each other as they plucked weed sprouts with careful fingers so as not to uproot the newborn grain stalks.

Mother strolled among the rows with a bag of canal water, testing the dirt’s dryness. Bastiaan had repeatedly told her she need not work, but her reply was always the same. “I worked alongside these women in captivity. You rescued us and I am now blessed to work alongside them in freedom.”

She reached Runt in the field and they spoke briefly. She gestured toward the windmill, spotted Bastiaan through the window, and smiled.

He waved, but his stomach recoiled. She always looked so pleased—so proud—when she saw him. But she didn’t know what he’d done. How would she look at him if she knew? He wanted to tell her about the king—about how conflicted he felt over the king’s death. His regrets and how they were too late. Bastiaan didn’t have the strength to grieve alone.

So he wouldn’t.

He would let the people of Fairhoven do the grieving, and he would move on. Find a new plan.

“You missed the census!” Runt exclaimed from the doorway. “We had to go to the schloss and everything. It was gargantuan! And I think I saw the Murder Prince through a window!”

Bastiaan’s mood lightened at Runt’s enthusiasm. “That’s amazing.” There had been a census?

Mother entered at the tail end of Runt’s story. “You need to report to the schloss.”

“I’d hoped to meet with the prince anyway.”

Mother sat at the table and slid a piece of parchment toward him. “Runt, fetch him some ink.”

It was on the table in front of him with a quill and blotter within seconds. Then Runt climbed onto a stool and eyed the cheese. Bastiaan wrote a letter to the prince’s generaal, requesting an audience with Prince Mattias as soon as possible. It wasn’t likely to happen. Bastiaan was no one to the prince. But maybe the census report would grant him an opening. He made sure to include that he was a Talented.

He signed and sealed it, then slid the letter across the table to Runt’s left. “Deliver this to the schloss for me?”

Runt brightened at the prospect of a job—something he alone could do to help—and snatched the letter from the table. “Yes, sir!”

He moved to bolt out the door, but Bastiaan caught him by the back of his shirt. “Eat first, wild one. And call me by my name. I may be older, but my value to this world is equal to yours.”

Runt plopped into his seat. “Okay, Bastiaan.”