Page 110 of Stealing Tink

I shift uncomfortably, disconcerted by the warmth flaring up in my chest. As unsteady as Peter’s presence makes me, it’s even more upsetting how steadying the presence next to me is.

I won’t kill him. I can’t.

And so I refuse to accept comfort from him either.

Instead, I watch Peter, though I can feel the Nomad’s eyes on me. Watching me watch him.

Peter soars over the crowd while foolish women squeal pleas for him to fly them away. He must have his eyes on one in particular, because he keeps circling back to the same spot. Stupid girl. I’d warn her after the show if I thought it would do any good.

But then I get a better look at her face, and I realize I’ve warned this girl before.

Wendy.

My heart stops in my chest.

I can’t believe my eyes.

Why is she here?

At first, a terrible thought assaults me. That even after all that went down in the courtyard of Lady Whittaker’s, Wendy went back to him. That in the end, his abusive sway has his claws in her too deep.

But then I glimpse to her left, and relief floods my heart.

Captain Astor is seated in the place next to her. I expect him to be staring down Peter with a gaze so sharp it could kill. Instead, he’s watching Wendy, measuring her response and, my guess is, how to best support her.

My heart warms, but only for a moment before the fear spills back in. If they’re here, if they would come all this way and risk seeing Peter again, they must be in trouble.

In fact, there’s something different about Wendy. She’s still her, but I get the sense that something about her has permanently changed. I can’t decide if it’s added or subtracted, or perhaps both.

But it’s there, and it’s pronounced.

“What is it, Wanderer?” whispers the Nomad next to me.

I nod in Wendy’s direction. I’d point, but I don’t want to risk garnering Peter’s attention so soon.

“Oh, old friends,” says the Nomad, and to my surprise, he sounds genuine.

I’m not sure that Wendy and Captain Astor see you that way, I scribble on the pad next to me.

“What?” The Nomad feigns offense. “You doubt my ability to make friends other than yourself?”

The Nomad sighs. “Fine. So I’m not great at reciprocal friendship. But I happen to like other people all right. They just don’t happen to like me. And besides, I don’t need other friendships when I have you.”

You’re assuming I like you, I write.

The Nomad smirks. “I have evidence that would support my theory.”

My stomach twists as the vision of his blood on my hands fills my memory at the same time the memory of our kiss does as well.

If Wendy is here, she’s in trouble, I write.

“And?”

And she’s my friend.

“I’m not keen on the idea of derailing our mission because you happen to be in the same place at the same time as an old friend,” says the Nomad.

I thought you said you were her friend, I write, giving him a look.