And he heard enough.

She was the Wishtress, and it was because of her that Sven had made it to the Well. But hauling her to the schloss was a different matter altogether. If she wasn’t able to thaw the canals—or chose not to—that would land her in the schloss dungeon.

He wanted to understand.

The one upside was that he’d be attending the king’s next council meeting. At the very least he could make himself heard and hopefully learn if Mattias had any other plans for the canal.

“Are you sure you want to stay here?” he asked Myrthe for the third time. He’d escorted her to keep her within sight, but he didn’t like the idea of leaving her with Sven.

“I’m sure.” Her gaze flicked to where Sven sat near the fire, his eyes burning with thoughts hotter than the coals. “I’ve nowhere else to go.”

She spoke this last sentence in barely more than a whisper. Did she mean to say it aloud?

“Come back to Windmill Cottage. You’ll be provided for there.”

She shook her head and he let it go. Though he still stood by his dislike of Sven, he was willing to give the man a chance for Myrthe’s sake. She had secrets—a Talent she wouldn’t speak of, no home to return to, and a boy she said she once loved but seemed uncomfortable around now. Whatever other secrets she held seemed to torture her.

He knew how a Talent could be both gift and torment.

“Thank you, Bastiaan. Truly.” She sent a resigned smile his way. “But I know my next course of action.”

“Very well.” If he’d learned anything from thirty-two years in the Stillness with the late king, it was patience. If he truly wanted to serve the king, he would handle Myrthe’s Wishtress Talent delicately. And that meant he needed her to feel safe with him.

He swung himself into his saddle. He needed time to think, and he knew where to find her. “The mare stays with you. Hobble her near the stream and she can graze.”

“That’s not necessary.” She fingered her skates as though they were an adequate replacement for a horse. But if he left the mare with her, she’d have to stay with it. His own stallion, Sterk, could always find the mare—so much so that Bastiaan often wondered if horses could have Talents. He attributed it to the canal water the horses drank. He’d always suspected a small vein of Well water resided in the canals.

The mare also offered a reliable escape if Myrthe needed to get away from Sven. Bastiaan wanted her to have something faster than skates and far faster than her limp. He nodded toward Sven. “Be careful with that one.” Then he left.