Page 20 of Stealing Tink

I recede my chin, to which the Nomad waves his hand. “I’m not coming on to you.” He says it as if the thought repulses him, which I might find offensive if I didn’t feel similarly. “You are in my employ, after all.”

I roll my eyes. It’s not as if you’re against coercion.

“Yes, well, even coercion has its line. That’s why it’s not called force. But that’s beside the point. I’m not coercing you. What would be coercion is if I had your voice and was holding it over you so that you would do my bidding. What I meant, before you assumed me vile once again, is that we’re going to have to find a more efficient way for you to communicate.”

Reflexively, my hand covers the pocket that contains my tiles.

“I’m not talking about those,” says the Nomad. “Clearly they’re sentimental and you’ll refuse to use them anyway, but even if you agreed, they’re rather cumbersome.”

Writing works just fine.

“Yes, well, it’s not much use from across a room. I don’t know how many heists you’ve conducted, but occasionally we will have to communicate from a distance. Do you sign?” He says it, not condescendingly so much as in confirmation, which is why I don’t mind shaking my head and admitting to that gap in my knowledge.

I lost my voice as an adult, I write. There was never any reason for me to learn signs as a child.

“That’s what I figured,” he says, “I imagined Peter didn’t bother teaching you while on the island. We’ll have to have lessons then.”

I frown. With you?

“Yes, with me,” he says. “What? Do you think me incapable of teaching?”

Why do you know sign?

“I steal things for a living,” he says. “It is in my best interest to be able to communicate silently with my team.”

Your crew can sign?

He nods.

All of them?

“Every last one. Although, we will be bringing some new members onto the crew. Which means that—don’t you worry—not all of our lessons will be one-on-one. I’m sure you’re thrilled to discover that.”

I consider this for a moment. I don’t love being alone with the Nomad, but something tells me having Venus as a classmate—assuming she and Phoenix decide to join us—is not going to be particularly pleasant either.

When I write as much, the Nomad laughs. “Well, I can’t argue with that. Good to know you find me more pleasant than Venus.”

I refuse to let a smile grace my lips.

“I’m working under the assumption that you’re a swift learner,” he says. “Estellian is a complicated language to learn to write, especially since it shares so few similarities with Kruschian. Yet you’ve mastered it in less than a year, assuming Lady Whittaker taught you.”

How the Nomad knows I’m Kruschian, I don’t know. But he did tell me he does his research.

I’m a quick learner, is all I write.

“Good,” he says. “Then let’s begin.”

Not yet.

“What else do you plan today?” He scowls at me.

Eat, I write.

The Nomad dons an expression that could only be described as perplexed, then rings the bell on his table. A server enters.

“Bring me an order of pheasant and greens,” he says, “and mutton pie for my colleague.”

I would argue with the word “colleague,” given how he’s coerced me into this, except that I’m too hung up on the order he placed for me.