Bastiaan had stopped, his skates sending a spray of ice shavings along the edge of the canal. “What’s your name, boy?”

“I have none,” the boy answered through blue lips.

“All things have names.”

“What need is there for a name if I’ve no family?”

“A name is your own. No matter how poor you get, you can never lose it.”

“Then give me one.”

Bastiaan blinked and returned to the present. The boy still stood in front of him, only in this scene he was taller. No black fingers, no sallow skin. Healthy. Hopeful.

And this time, the boy had a name.

“Runt,” Bastiaan said.

Runt’s round face broke into a toothy grin. “Welcome home, sir.” Then, as though recovered from Bastiaan’s appearance and memory lapse, Runt returned to his stool and slapped his small book onto the table. “How long were you in the Stillness?”

“Thirty-two years.”

The scribbling stopped. Runt lifted his head slowly and swallowed hard. “Thir . . . thirty-two?”

“Years.” Bastiaan released the word as though expelling the weight of two lifetimes. It was supposed to be days. A few weeks at most. But things hadn’t gone as planned. Not at the start.

And certainly not at the end.

Fire. Illness. Father.

Bastiaan shook his head. No, that wasn’t right. “I’m . . . confused.”

“You look it.” Runt slid from his stool and disappeared up the spiral stairs. He descended moments later with a leather-bound book in each hand, both much thicker than the one he’d been taking notes in. He slid one toward Bastiaan. “Usually you retrieve these on your own, but . . . I think you need my help.”

Bastiaan opened the book and saw two words scratched across the first page in his own handwriting. The Stillness.

Runt passed him the dipping pen and inkwell. “Write about the past thirty-two years in this one. Then read through them both.”

“What’s the other book?” Bastiaan thought he should know.

Runt flipped open the cover on the second journal and Bastiaan read The Aging.

“I can’t write in these.” Bastiaan pushed The Stillness journal away from himself. “It would endanger me should anyone find it.” He was surprised his old self had even started the habit. Then again, he’d changed a lot in thirty-two years.

“Nah, no one but you can read them or write in them.” Runt had adopted the role of mentor—albeit a half-grown one. “You got the journals from a Talented in Gevanstad, remember?”

A rush of warmth toward the boy filled Bastiaan’s chest. Right now he needed Runt more than Runt knew. Because returning from thirty-two years in the Stillness—thirty-two years of failure and heartache that weren’t supposed to have happened—seemed impossible.

Bastiaan’s fingers itched, longing for his time snap to renew. “How long until the full moon?”

“More than a fortnight.”

“That’s a long wait.” Could he handle the Awake that long? He’d have to.