The door swung closed. The militair tightened his grip and quickened his pace. I could put up very little fight as the increased movement sent knife blades into my joints. The anger I’d felt toward Anouk sloughed away, and instead I felt a surge of despair. Pressure rose in my chest.

I couldn’t get out of the schloss fast enough. I strained against the militair—forward this time. He marched faster.

Anouk’s words rang in my mind. How she called me “this woman,” how she begged me on her knees.

I should have told her. Should have told her everything. I should have tried to understand.

Brisk autumn air hit my face. The militair thrust me onto the cobblestones. I barely kept my feet, stumbling to a halt beside another man presumably waiting for a carriage or horse. The militair set up post in the doorway, blocking reentry.

I suppose I should have been thankful he wasn’t dragging me in front of the king. Hadn’t recognized me, perhaps.

I fumbled with my satchel, biting my lip against the tears. They were coming. Death loomed. I sniffed hard.

“Are you well?” a voice said from my left.

A tanned young man rubbed his gloved hands together against the wind, a crumpled paper lodged in his armpit. My brief look was enough for him to see my face—to see my fight.

He paled. “You?” He reached for me.

I flinched away, my fingers finally closing around the small cloth. “I . . . must go.” I barely croaked the words out. If anything, speaking increased the rise of deathly fire in my eyes.

“Miss!”

I stumbled away, running at a broken gallop toward the gates—away from the schloss. Away from my one dearest friend whom I’d failed and who had failed me. A sob tore from my throat and I splashed sleep herbs on the cloth. As I passed the gates, I clamped the cloth over my mouth and nose, throwing myself into the hedgerow off the road.

Darkness struck me before the earth had a chance.

Chapter 14
Bastiaan

“I wouldn’t touch her, sir. She looks dead.” Runt nudged the woman’s foot with the toe of his shoe.

“Her name is Myrthe.” Bastiaan knelt and gently turned her head so she wasn’t breathing in the dirt. This freed her fist, which clutched a damp piece of cloth. He caught a whiff of heady herbs. Sleep herbs. She did this to herself. Why?

“You know her?” Runt stopped nudging her.

“She gave me bread once.” She saw me. “We’ve hardly spoken.”

And she was supposedly the Wishtress. Right here in the most vulnerable position she could be. He could gather her up and deliver her to the king within a matter of minutes. Prove his loyalty. Gain Mattias’s trust.

“Well, now you have to rescue her.”

Bastiaan looked up, amused. “From what?”