Page 21 of Stealing Tink

“My apologies,” he says. “I should have let you order for yourself.”

I don’t answer. I just swallow and stare down at the quill and parchment in front of me.

Mutton pie has been my favorite since I was a little girl. A nightmare comes to mind, one in which I could smell it wafting from my parents’ cottage. My mother was calling me in for dinner—except it wasn’t my mother, but a dream version, as dreams often twist reality. I was lingering by the flowerbed, playing with my favorite rag doll, when a stranger came by, asking for directions.

By the time the dream was over, he was holding me to the ground by my throat.

Now, here in his office, I search his face for any sign that he’s taunting me, but the Nomad seems as oblivious as ever to his appearances in my nightmares.

“Would you like to reorder? I can call the servant back in here,” he says.

I shake my head.

“Very well,” he says. “We’ll start with the simple signs.”

He shows me things like “eat” and “drink,” mostly actions. And while they’ll be useful when I’m around the ship, I write a question onto the parchment: Are we going to be doing much eating and drinking during the heist?

“You never know how long it’ll take and whether you’ll need a snack for sustenance,” he says, then smiles. “But fine. You caught me. I was trying to be polite. I thought we’d start with words that would be useful to you while onboard, but I see you’re all business.”

I raise my brow at him. Are you complaining?

“You’re right. You are a quick learner,” the Nomad says after an hour or so of lessons.

I smirk as I draw the sign for “retreat.” I’ve been sketching pictures of the signs in the notepad he gave me since the lesson started.

By the time I glance back up, the Nomad’s face has turned serious. “In that tavern—you could have left. Surely somewhere in town, you could have procured yourself some parchment and a quill, or wood to carve your own tiles.” He glances at my pocket. “What makes those so special? Why couldn’t you leave them?”

I did leave them, I write.

“Only once it was clear you had to, or else suffer physical danger. But in the moment,” he says, “before you were thinking of your own safety, you were thinking of how you couldn’t lose those. Those little chips of wood.”

All of a sudden, it feels like my heart is gnawing on itself. They help me communicate, I write, then, feeling as if that isn’t enough, add, Of course I didn’t want to leave them.

The Nomad gives me the kind of look that says, Do you really think I’m stupid enough to believe that?

You wouldn’t understand, I write. I’m sure with how much you enjoy hearing the sound of your own voice, you’d get sentimental about some tiles too.

“It is quite a nice voice,” says the Nomad with a smirk. “You can tell me, you know,” he adds. “I won’t mock you. Who made them for you?”

I made them myself.

“Well, that’s a bald-faced lie, isn’t it?” says the Nomad. “Who made them for you?”

When I don’t answer, he says, “What? Are you afraid I’m going to hunt this person down?”

I stare at the Nomad. The weight of the tiles, usually comforting, now feels so heavy pressing against me. There’s nothing I can do to protect John. No harm the Nomad could bring to him.

That would be difficult to do, I write, considering he’s dead.

I can’t quite decipher the look on the Nomad’s face. But he pauses and says, quietly, “I’m sorry to hear that.”

I snort. The Nomad leans back in his chair. “Truly—what have I done to make you believe I’d be happy about the death of someone kind enough to make those for you? I might not be a hero, but I’m not completely depraved. What was his name?”

I give him a look that says, Why do you care?

“You said it yourself,” he replies. “There’s nothing I can do to hurt him.”

If John were here, he’d tell me to be strategic about this. Barter for information. Tell me how you intend to get my voice back.