He eyed me, fully aware of what I was trying to do. I gave a weak shrug, and he indulged me. “My mother and I restored and converted part of it into living quarters. The other part is for grinding grain, which we then sell to the villagers and the schloss. The bread you sell—rather, that you give away—is likely made from our grain.”

No, it was made from wishes Oma used to create our own flour to sell. Did she know that her actions were taking away a part of Bastiaan’s livelihood? “Your farmers. I saw all women.”

“Strong, capable women who escaped oppressive employment. The land is for them. They dwell on it, farm it, sell its produce, and keep the profits. My mother is one such woman. I’m simply the man who tends the windmill.”

I sensed far more to the story existed. How did Bastiaan find these women? What compelled him to turn over such a large piece of land to their keeping? He was hardly older than me, yet had accomplished so much. I was the Wishtress, and what had I done? Allowed my wishes to be sold to the wealthy elite . . . and then misused for personal gain, which ended in murder.

“And how do you know where Sven is since you’re not one of his supporters?” I shouldn’t reenter these waters, but the question had been niggling in the back of my mind.

“Heard him speak in the markt. Runt gathered his location. It’s one of Runt’s many gifts—not being seen yet hearing and remembering everything.”

“Is it a Talent?” Could children gain Talents? I hadn’t cried until I was twelve, so I’d assumed Talents manifested at that age. Runt seemed to be somewhere around ten.

Ahead, Runt’s shoulders tensed and he inclined his head ever so slightly. Listening.

“Runt . . . er . . . Runt doesn’t have a Talent. Not from the Well. Not yet at least.”

Not yet. So did Bastiaan plan to visit the Well someday? With Runt? He spoke as if it was accessible. As if he knew the location.

“How old does one have to be for a Talent?”

“Talents come at all ages.”

He said it so certainly. “Where do you get your Well knowledge from?”

“Books. Interviews. Travel.” He shrugged. “I’ve collected it piece by piece, year by year. There’s so much more I still desire to learn. So many mysterious Talents that have such little research.”

I felt his eyes on me, the same way I’d felt watched in deserted Fairhoven.

Did he suspect what I was?

“Halt!” Two men stepped into our path, bows drawn and arrows nocked.

My horse tossed her neck. Before I even tugged on the reins, Runt had leaped from the back of his steed and sprinted into the woods.