Page 3 of Stealing Tink

A simple snap, and a splinter the length of my little finger comes free. One more pry, and I now have a set of lock picks.

Pleased with my work, I glide toward the door and press the side of my face against it. My ear twitches at the sound of shallow breaths on the other side. The guard is sleeping.

I’m never this lucky, which has me wondering what cruel adventure the Fates have in store for me on the other side of this door. Even so, I can’t linger here. Last night (or however long ago it was that I passed out in the Nomad’s arms), I’d been ready to succumb to death. At that thought, a chill taps against my spine, running across the veins of my tattered wings.

The flame in my spirit had burned against Peter for what he’d done to me in trading my voice away to the Sister. For what he’d done to John. But my anger had burned so hot, it had consumed the wick.

Now, rested and in my right mind, terror turns my blood cold at the realization of how I could be dead now, and that the only thing that had spared me was likely the Nomad’s affinity for perfect timing.

I slip the splinters into the lock. Feel the resistance of the inner cogs like old friends. If John were here, he’d ramble on about its mechanism and when it was invented.

I close my eyes and with a strained swallow dismiss the memory of my friend.

A few turns later, and there’s a click. My heart jolts, both with exhilaration at my success and anticipation of the guard posted outside hearing it as well. But when I press my ear against the door again, there’s not a stir. At least, not until I turn the knob. The latch clicks, and there’s a banging sound on the other side as the guard jolts. I swing the door open just as the guard whirls toward me. It’s a woman, shorter than me, with sturdy shoulders and a grim, albeit startled, look.

She reaches for her blade, but I’m faster and get to it first. As I raise the dagger before her, she opens her mouth to cry for help.

So I bring the hilt down across her temple.

She’s still breathing when her body slumps to the floor. I’ll have to be quick. I drag her into the room I just escaped, wincing as her armored legs clang against one another. Once in the room, I shut the door and get to work undressing her.

The armor isn’t too complicated, but what I really need is underneath. Well—what should be underneath. I was hoping the woman would be wearing a binding around her breasts, but apparently I’ll have to make do with her belt.

I slip it from around her waist, her body stirring as I do. Pulse racing, I wind the belt around my tattered wings, securing them to my waist as best I can. I would have preferred a more complete binding, but now’s not the time to be choosy.

Once my wings are secured, I don the armor, the woman’s helmet snug as well. Apparently, even my head is large. Good thing her boots are a size too large. They’re the only place I have room to stuff my pouch where I keep John’s tiles.

I’m about to head for the door when the woman’s eyes open. She takes one look at me and screams. “Escaped prisoner!”

Great.

One swift kick to the head has her out cold again. Not that this does me much good. I can already hear boots pounding down the hall.

CHAPTER 3

I slip out the door and into the hallway, locking it behind me. It’s a long shot, but maybe the guards will hear the cries of the woman I trapped inside and assume there’s a continuing struggle between us.

I race down the hall, agitated by how the armored legs rattle against each other. The guard was shorter than I am, which means the armor’s a tight squeeze, but I’m not exactly in a position to complain.

I round the corner just as I hear a male guard echo down the hall. “Marsa is gone!”

I keep going, turning down a set of stairs. In the distance, I hear wood splintering and a crash. The guards must have broken down the door to the room where I trapped Marsa. It won’t give me much time, but I have to hope it’s enough.

Another pair of guards race past me, heading up the stairs, and I’m shocked they can’t hear my heart rattling against this stupid armor. I do my best to look hurried, like I’m following orders. They must assume I am, because neither of them stops me.

When I reach the bottom of the stairs, I hear someone shout from above, “She’ll be dressed in guard’s clothing! She stole it off Marsa!”

Excellent.

I peek into the corridor, glancing both ways. It’s not what I see that decides my direction, but what I smell—the strong scent of blackened fish wafting from the right. Right it is.

When the smell grows stronger, I find the door it’s coming from and take a steadying breath before throwing it open. The clanging of pots in the kitchen comes to an abrupt stop as the staff freezes, wide-eyed. One woman is even holding a dish halfway in the oven.

This would be one of those times it would be nice to have my voice.

Mercifully, the head cook is chatty enough for both of us. “One of the maids heard a commotion out there,” she says. “Says the prisoner’s on the loose. She ain’t come down here. And if she had, you can bet we’d have turned her in to the master. Got no use for runaways.”

I expect fear in her statement, anxiety over what might become of her and her staff if I escape and someone thinks they helped. But her voice is firm, loyal. Proud, even.