The militairen murmured between themselves and the crowd stilled, anticipating their response. Then a young woman—not Myrthe—tugged Sven down from the crate. She was all sharp angles and dark coal eyes. Fierce and warrior-like. She whispered in Sven’s ear. He glanced at the militairen, then nodded to her, and they slipped away. A few spectators noticed a minute too late and searched the sea of heads for him.

Bastiaan had not taken his eyes off the stocky blond man. “Runt . . .”

“I’m on it.” Runt slipped into the thickness of the onlookers. He’d follow Sven, learn where he was hiding out, and return with far more information than Bastiaan could ask for. He always did.

Meanwhile, Bastiaan’s gaze turned to the departing militairen. Their report would not bode well with the prince, and Bastiaan expected a swift reaction. What that reaction would entail, however, he could not guess.

He wrote another letter to the generaal all the same.

*  *  *

Marriage. That was not the response Bastiaan expected, but Prince Mattias chose a bride from among the people of Fairhoven, wed her, and was then crowned the new king within two weeks. What Bastiaan found most interesting was that Mattias chose a commoner. A young woman with little to no family history or status.

It gave Bastiaan hope. Maybe this was a sign that King Mattias would care for and consider the commonfolk.

Sven could no longer claim allegiance to no king. His resistance would now be seen as rebellion. But maybe his fire had died down after the marriage.

Runt returned after the coronation.

Bastiaan had grown antsy for news. And though Mattias had a private coronation with the country’s elite in attendance, Runt had turned snoop and observed nearly the whole thing from an alcove in the schloss. This was after he’d already dogged Sven for a week like the thorough eavesdropper he was.

Bastiaan plucked a dead leaf from Runt’s shaggy head. “You need a haircut, young friend.”

“And a bath.” Runt plunked himself down, cross-legged, against the inner wall of the windmill.

“If you’re the one suggesting it, your reek must truly be great.”

“The greatest.” Runt pretended to waft fumes toward Bastiaan.

Bastiaan threw one of their empty water pails at him. “Don’t bring that greatness into our home. Come on.”

“It’s cold outside!”

“Hardly. Summer’s barely yawning and it’s going to get colder as autumn comes. Do it now and I’ll let you burn an extra log on the evening fire.” It was nice to feel a changing season, though Bastiaan hardly noticed the passing of summer during his recovery from the Stillness.

Runt rolled his eyes. “What bribery.”