Page 112 of Stealing Tink

I don’t think. I just spin around and rush toward her.

She’s being pushed through the crowd by Captain Astor, his hand to her back, clinging to her dress so as not to lose her. To her other side is a golden-haired, brawny fae, who also looks as if his mission in life is not to lose her. My mind races. I still need to pull off this heist, and being seen will only further my chances of getting caught.

So I slam into Wendy as hard as I can, slipping the pocket watch, along with a note I’d scribbled back while we were still in the tent, into her pocket as I do.

She yelps, and both Captain Astor and the other fae turn to her first, rather than look behind her. Before they can check, I hear Wendy’s voice, soft and familiar and with a bite of sarcasm.

“I’ve been run into before,” she says. “I’ll survive.”

And so I slip back into the crowd and make my way toward the performers’ tents, trying to bite back the tears of being this close to my friend, and yet as invisible as ever.

CHAPTER 50

Peter’s tent isn’t difficult to find.

With the circus in an uproar, I’d been able to peep under the circus tent flaps until I found the one most cluttered with trinkets.

I’m unsure whether he’s brought these over from Neverland—probably not, which means he’s acquired these stacks in the months since I last saw him. When we first met, I thought it was an endearing quality.

Now, I can only see the need to possess.

I siphon through the mess, eyes peeled for the artifact. I’d seen it so many times back in Neverland. I can only hope Peter brought it with him. But back in Neverland, he carried it with him everywhere. Perhaps he had it on him the night I slashed his wing from his body.

I’m curious as to how he acquired it in the first place. Did he steal it from the Eldest Sister, or did the Middle Sister steal it on his behalf?

Time slips away from me, but sweat beads on my arms as I search. The only object of use I’ve found is a dagger, which I slipped into my belt. Soon, I’ll run out of⁠—

“Hello, Tink,” says a voice from behind me, as familiar as my nightmares. Except this voice isn’t the Nomad’s. It isn’t the voice of visions. It’s the one of my past.

Peter stands before me, his gaze raking over me. He has his hands tucked into his pockets innocently, and I’m struck by how much he still looks like the boy I first met at the circus, the youth whose broad smile warmed something in me that I’d thought had gone cold forever.

“I see your wings have been healed as well,” he says, and I realize the invisibility salve must have worn off. “Does this make us even?” His new wing flexes, the brandished metal shining in the lamplight.

My hands are shaking. Not that I could speak to him with them anyway. He never learned signs. Never learned a way to communicate with me after I lost my voice.

I used to think it simply never crossed his mind. Or that he thought it was impossible in Neverland, where we had no access to tutors. But John hadn’t had access to tutors, yet he’d found a way.

Now I know it’s because Peter simply didn’t want to hear what I had to say to him.

“You look surprised to see me. Especially for someone who is currently wanted for being in cahoots with the most notorious thief in the world. He didn’t tell you I was your target, did he?”

I swallow, my throat dry, but I don’t answer. After all this time, he’s not getting one from me now.

Instead, I look at his hands. The hands that once caressed my cheek. The hands that took a blade to my wings until they hung in limp shreds. The hands that took the same blade to my skin, to my thighs, to drain the blood.

The hands that strangled John, then tied him up for Wendy to find, swaying from that horrific reaping tree.

And I wonder how I used to love him. Love those hands.

As if reading my mind, Peter takes a step forward. “Let me guess—the Nomad’s seduced you, too.”

I’m not sure what that “too” means. That I, like other women, have been seduced by the Nomad? Or that I’ve been as easily seduced by the Nomad as I was by Peter? I’m also not sure which makes me more livid.

Peter laughs. “Do you even know his name?”

When my hand flinches at my side, intending to answer, but again realizing that it doesn’t matter, because Peter won’t understand, he says, “I didn’t think so.”

And all of a sudden, I’m silenced again. No pen or parchment in sight. No tiles. No one to understand my signs.