Page 40 of Stealing Tink

“They said it sounded like you were struggling with someone. They tried to come in and help you themselves, but the door was locked.”

I frown, just now noticing the sweat on my brow, and stare at the light coming in from the hallway.

I’m here. On the Nomad’s ship. I can’t speak. I have no children. And the Nomad and I⁠—

“Does this happen often?”

I dart my attention back to him and weigh my response. If I say no, perhaps he’ll think the weight of the heist is getting to me. If I say yes, well, he’ll guess the answer anyway.

I nod as nonchalantly as I can muster with my nightgown soaked in sweat and my hands still trembling.

“May I ask what was so terrifying?”

His words are even, his tone calculated. The perfect level of only casual interest. The drawer of the bedside table squeals as he opens it, retrieving my quill and parchment.

I hesitate before taking them and writing, Someone was trying to murder me.

The Nomad stares at me, like he’s calculating something. “Not particularly original for a night terror, now is it?”

What can I say? My subconscious isn’t all that creative.

At that, the Nomad lets out the first syllable of a chuckle. “I doubt that.”

When I don’t respond, he says, “Did it at least make your death interesting—your subconscious, I mean?”

It was new to me, I write, watching him carefully.

For a moment, I think he’ll press me further, but then he goes to stand. “You seem recovered, but if you need me, you know where to find me. I’ll leave my door unlocked tonight.”

I’ll be sure not to utilize that invitation, I write.

“Oh, it’s a much more innocent offer than it sounds. We never quite grow out of needing to know there’s a bed we could crawl into at night if our dreams are too unbearable, do we?”

And with that, he leaves.

I’m left wondering all night what I did to change the future.

How I end up married to the Nomad.

CHAPTER 19

When the Nomad informed me earlier this evening to prepare myself for the final member of our team to be eccentric, I had not taken him seriously enough.

It’s nighttime when we go to visit this “friend” at an oddities shop full of baubles I can’t make out, not since the lights in the storefront have been turned off.

The doorbell jingles as we enter, the Nomad right behind me, but after waiting a few moments, it seems as if no one plans to meet us at the counter.

Still, as eerie as the place is, it isn’t noiseless. There’s a whirring coming from behind the curtain on the far side wall, the one behind the counter.

The Nomad steps in front of me, then gestures soundlessly with a nod for me to follow.

Why he wanted me to come with him to recruit his friend is beyond me. Then again, “old friend” could mean a lot of things when we’re talking about the Nomad. While most people would use the term to refer to someone they’ve been friends with for years, I could see the Nomad meaning something more along the lines of we used to be friends, but now I wouldn’t be surprised if he tried to slit my throat in the middle of the night.

Given how the Nomad raises a finger to his lips before quietly moving back the curtain, I’m inclined to think it’s the latter.

When he draws back the curtain, he reveals what appears to be a laboratory. Tables line the room, overflowing with glass vials. Most of them are stoppered, the rest looking as though they probably should be stoppered but someone forgot.

I make a mental note not to knock anything over.