Page 100 of Stealing Tink

“I would ask you to sit, but I would hate for you to feel as though you had to stand all night,” says the Nomad.

I can’t help my silent chuckle as I find my seat on the couch, but my attention is soon drawn to the stage. These must be the best seats in the house. Even with my fae vision, I can trace every detail of the grand drape, stitched with vibrant threads to look like a tapestry. Even before the show begins, I watch the beginnings of a story unfold.

A fae prince, forced by his father the king to marry. A celebration feast, during which a line of immaculately dressed women are paraded in front of the miserable prince. A girl with a serving tray standing separately from the potential brides. Anger on the king’s face, rebellion on the prince’s, when he declares that girl to be his future wife.

A bloody scene where, on the way back to their home kingdom, they are ambushed by a hooded figure, the king slain.

The prince returning home not only with a new bride, but a crown. The new king and his queen falling in love.

Or so he thinks.

Betrayal. The queen and her lover conspiring to kill the king.

A king who discovers the plot.

A decree that has his citizens horror-struck, though since there are no words woven into the tapestry, I can’t tell what it is.

“Don’t get too invested,” whispers the Nomad into my ear. “I wouldn’t want you to be too disappointed in our missing the second half. Though, I will say, the twist is quite shocking.”

You’ve seen it? I sign.

“Something like that,” says the Nomad.

Instead of pressing the Nomad for an explanation he’s clearly not going to give up, I look for Acel and Phoenix. I find them in the box directly across the theater from ours, Phoenix doing her best to look like Acel’s date, Acel probably also doing his best but failing drastically.

“You would think, by the way he’s tensed up,” says the Nomad, “that the princess herself was in attendance, watching them.”

I smile, contradicting the worry in my chest. Don’t poke too much fun at him. I think it’s honorable that he doesn’t even like to pretend with another woman, regardless of whether the princess is here to see him or not.

“Honorable, maybe,” says the Nomad. “But not clever. If he were clever, and the princess were here, he would lean into pretending.”

That’s not clever—it’s devious, I write. And unnecessary. The princess already knows she loves him. There’s no reason to make her jealous.

The Nomad’s mouth ticks upward, mischievously. “You don’t think there’s any fun in it? Watching the question in someone’s eyes as he stays near you, as he watches you with another man—wondering if every smile, every graze of the elbow, every laugh is a symptom of something deeper?”

My skin goes hot. Is he baiting me right now? Does he actually wonder if something is going on between me and Acel?

“Don’t think I haven’t noticed how you’ve been avoiding—” His words are cut off by the dimming of the lights, the orchestra sounding, and the curtains drawing open. I welcome the interruption, my spine going rigid.

An elderly man takes the stage. The decree that issues from his mouth is cruel. Crushed by his beloved wife’s betrayal, the king will enact his revenge on the women of the city. Once a month, he will take a human bride from among his people.

The next morning, he will slaughter her publicly.

He will continue to do so until a woman offers herself freely.

A shiver courses through me at the actor’s words.

“Love is a dangerous thing, don’t you think?” whispers the Nomad. “It makes people wild. Obsessive. Makes them forget. Makes them overlook the monsters they’re with.”

He turns his head toward me, his gaze a challenge. I swallow and go back to watching the play. To watching a hooded figure push through the crowd of actors. When she runs into a gang of men, one of them pulls off her hood, revealing a face mangled by burn wounds. An eye socket missing its contents.

The crowd gasps. Whispers dance through the audience, wondering if it’s stage cosmetics, or if the girl herself is injured (and did the Eldest do it, I wonder), but I’ve no time to watch the fate of the girl.

This is our signal to move. Across the playhouse, Acel and Phoenix draw the curtain of their box.

It’s time, I sign, and the Nomad makes a noise in his throat that sounds like a grumble, then grabs the rope hanging from the ceiling. One tug, and the curtains are drawn, bathing us in shadows.

Only the Nomad’s blue eyes glitter in the dark.