“Oh.” Sven shrugged. “I guess I haven’t found my Talent Mark yet.”

“Didn’t it burn when you received your Talent?”

Sven laughed off the question. “You can’t believe everything you read about the Well of Talents.”

“This isn’t book knowledge—”

“We should gather for the meeting.” Sven crossed his arms, reminding Bastiaan who the leader of the rebellion was.

“Of course.” Bastiaan lifted the bowl back to his lips. I clamped my own shut. I wanted to know more. Talent Mark? Nothing on me ever burned when I made wishes. Was that because I was born with a Talent instead of obtaining one by drinking from the Well?

Bastiaan knew so much about Talents. The more I was around him, the more I was tempted to ask him about the Wishtress Talent. For now I squeezed his hand. “I’m sure we’ll be able to retrieve Runt.”

Sven noticed my hand on Bastiaan’s and I withdrew it, cheeks aflame. My own reaction turned my embarrassment into anger. I had no reason to be ashamed of offering comfort to Bastiaan. I wasn’t Sven’s.

“Hurry up then.” Sven marched back toward the main hub of camp.

“Thank you, Myrthe.” Bastiaan removed the saddle from his horse. This time his packs bulged as though he planned to be in the woods awhile. He rested his head against the horse’s flank for a moment. “My past has caught up with me and Runt is paying for it.”

I returned my hand to Bastiaan’s arm. I didn’t know how to comfort without touch. I certainly didn’t have words for his pain. Although . . . maybe I did. To an extent. “I know what it is to regret one’s past.”

He looked up, a brief sheen of hope in his eyes. Hope for understanding. “I’d undo it if I could.”

“Me too,” I whispered.

Something connected us in that moment—something that transcended arguments, differences, and the unknown. We both had regrets. And somehow we’d found each other almost as though someone beyond us knew we needed each other for this time.

I wanted to know his story. I wanted to share my own story. But for now, the silent shared ache beneath the tangled forest branches was salve enough.

“The mare is doing well.” I gestured toward the stream where the mare had spent three calm days grazing. It had become my companion and listening ears as I shared my secrets and fears, for there was no one else to listen.

“I’ll put Sterk with her.” We headed that way together. Bastiaan didn’t need my help, but I was tired of the emotional dance that took place with every conversation between Sven and me.

“What news did I miss?” Bastiaan led his horse by the reins toward the river at a comfortable pace.