He paused for a single pass of the windmill blade. “I merely remember you and Sven interacting at the markt when he rang the frost bells. I’ve been keeping up on his new, ah, pursuits.”

“That was a full season ago. How could you recall such a brief interaction between us after so long a time?”

“For you, giving bread to strangers is so frequent the events blend together. For me . . . it was a gift much needed but unlooked for. Those are the moments that brand one’s memory.”

It was foreign to imagine leaving a positive impact on someone after all the horrible revelations I’d awoken to. Perhaps I could use this to my advantage. “Do you know where Sven is?”

“I do.”

So Bastiaan might be an ally. He might be trustworthy. At the very least, I could ask Sven about him.

“In that case, may I hire you as a guide?” What other choice did I have? Fate had handed me this gift. I’d best not waste it.

“I don’t need coin.”

“So you won’t take me?” I placed my small purse on the kitchen table. It didn’t contain many coins. Was this how Coralythe felt when trying to bargain for a wish? Destitute but desperate?

Bastiaan stared at the coin purse for a long time but didn’t seem to be thinking about the munten. After a moment’s thought, he took a deep breath. “I’ll take you.”

*  *  *

We were ready within an hour. Bastiaan refused to touch the coin purse, so I tucked it in my pack to give him later. If he was doing this for free, there had to be a reason. Possibly sinister. Or perhaps just stubborn gallantry.

The boy named Runt prepared three horses. Even though Bastiaan was my escort, Runt was our guide.

“We’ll be there before dark.” The boy hauled himself atop the tallest of the three steeds.

I lifted myself into the saddle of the mare designated for me—Diantha’s own horse. I had ridden twice before in my life but enough to know that the oft-ridden horses were accustomed to being willing followers and less likely to bolt. I preferred the risk over riding in Bastiaan’s arms again . . . unconscious.

He drew my gaze a bit too easily with his gentle voice and demeanor. Best keep my distance. What would Sven think if I arrived astride the same horse as another man?

Bastiaan exited the windmill in low conversation with Diantha. He carried a shoulder pack, which he slung over the rump of his coal-black stallion.

Despite the crisp air, the fields around Windmill Cottage were sprinkled with groups of women workers. They chattered together, finding joy in their work. Some rested; others beat away the chaff from the harvested stalks or hauled buckets of water from the small stream that wasn’t connected to the frozen canal.