Page 35 of Stealing Tink

Aren’t you trying to steal from a Fate?

“Yes, well, it’s less shocking when I manage it, considering my skill level. May I ask why the sudden fascination with the class system?”

Thankfully, the queen clinks her crystal goblet—empty, at the moment—and addresses the ballroom.

“We’re gathered here today not to mourn my late husband,” she says, though her voice is somber, reeking of heartbreak, “but to celebrate his bravery and the lives he saved when he sacrificed his own.” She nods toward her daughter, who I didn’t notice had returned to the room until just now. From the poise with which she holds herself, you would never know about the conflict that had happened in the hallway just a few minutes ago.

I glance over to Acel, curious, but he’s not looking in her direction. Of course he’s not. The man seems to be as by-the-book as they come, which is why I have a sinking feeling in my heart about the plan.

The queen goes on, telling stories about her late husband. When she reaches the end, a servant brings out a wine bottle. “My husband and I were saving this for our thirtieth wedding anniversary,” she says. “When he died, I vowed to myself never to drink it. But it recently occurred to me that when my husband was alive, he never wanted me to miss out on life. In fact, I believe it would’ve saddened him to know it was going to waste, collecting dust in the cellar, only to be drunk by one of our rowdy descendants long after I’m gone.”

She says it in a way that earns a nervous chuckle from the crowd, unsure whether she’s making a joke about her dead husband or not.

The queen offers a kind smile, and the laughter intensifies.

“All right, I do feel a tad guilty about this one,” whispers the Nomad in my ear.

I raise a brow at him but otherwise don’t respond.

The servant pours the wine into the goblet, and before drinking it, the queen offers it to Acel, who sips it from her hand. With a barely perceptible nod, Acel proclaims the wine safe.

My gut twists as the queen brings the chalice to her lips.

The Nomad never planned an assassination. The replaced wine was only supposed to make the queen ill—on the verge of death—and since Acel would have no symptoms, it would be assumed that he had planted the wine himself. He was the only one to touch the wine other than the queen, and after he drank it, it would be assumed he’d tampered with it somehow.

Sure, there is a crowd full of witnesses who could attest to Acel never placing anything into the goblet, but with someone as important as the queen involved, the target and circumstances matter more than hard, fast evidence. The mind is a funny thing. All it takes to rewrite a crowd full of memories is the insinuation of a crime.

Moments pass. Next to me, the Nomad remains completely still. It’s one of his tells—one that means he’s up to something. Most people’s tells involve glancing down, avoiding eye contact, twirling a ring, tapping their fingers. But the Nomad is practiced at keeping such tendencies at bay. He doesn’t realize that that’s what makes him suspicious. Everyone has some nervous habit. Even when they’re not lying.

Even when they’re not poisoning a queen.

But the queen smiles and lifts her goblet. “This I drink on behalf of my late husband.”

The crowd cheers. Next to me, the Nomad claps slowly. Deliberately.

The music starts back up, and as I’m still fixated on the queen, the Nomad sweeps me into a dance. When his staring at her can no longer persist without drawing suspicion, he turns his head in my direction with such deliberation you’d think he was afraid his neck was going to snap.

“Tink.” My name has never sounded more like a question. Well, more of a demand, really.

I offer him a smile.

Seconds later, he’s sweeping me off the dance floor and into the hall, his grip firm around my upper arm. I expect him to push me up against the wall, but instead, he pulls me into an alcove much like the one where I eavesdropped on Acel and the princess.

“I know you’re not a fool, so please, do tell me where I was unclear in my instructions. When I told you to poison the queen’s cup, did I not specify that I meant tonight? Or perhaps you took it literally, and poisoned the actual cup instead of the wine within it.”

Before I can answer, a voice bellows softly behind us. “So you’re the one who planned to frame me for treason.”

The Nomad looks at me, crinkles his brow, and sighs before turning around and loosening his grip on my arm.

“Ah, the man of the hour,” says the Nomad, a slick grin on his face. He extends his hand to shake Acel’s, but Acel leaves it to hover in midair. “Allow me to introduce myself. I’m⁠—”

“If I didn’t know who you were, I wouldn’t be fit for my job.”

“Right. Eh…” The Nomad slips his hand back down to rest by his side, though his fingers are still tensed, as if readying to grab the hilt of his blade any moment. Though they checked us as we entered the palace, so reaching for a weapon would be simply reflexive. “Well, this is a tad awkward, isn’t it? Allow me to explain.”

“No need. She already did that for you,” says Acel, nodding toward me.

“Did she, now?” The Nomad’s tone is pleasant, though his words have to squeeze through his clamped teeth.