Page 44 of Stealing Tink

I blink, my wings going rigid.

“Eh…” says the Nomad, glancing warily back and forth between me and Lars, which has me wondering which one of us is more important to his plan. Although, if the Nomad needs me to be able to fly, and Lars to fix my wings, then I suppose we’re a package deal.

I cross my arms and shake my head. There’s no way I’m giving this creep free access to anything.

“I see,” says Lars. “Well, it was good seeing you, old friend. Feel free to visit me, but please make it a time when I’m less busy, or when you have more to offer.”

The Nomad pulls his lips under his teeth and glances at me with what looks to be a pleading wince.

This time, I simply glare.

“You don’t want to fly again?” he says, his voice low, though it doesn’t matter. Lars doesn’t seem to be paying much attention anyway.

I take my notepad and write, Faeries have been hunted for our dust my entire life. It wasn’t as if I got to fly much anyway.

A divot forms on the Nomad’s brow. “It was never special to you?”

My heart gives a lurch as I remember my joyful squeals as my father tossed me off a rock into the ocean beneath. It had been our special place—the roar from the ocean protective against anyone hearing us, the water below protecting me from the times I fell. And I fell often.

But then there were the times I didn’t fall. The times my wings caught the wind, and the sky whisked me away, and I was weightless.

I don’t remember the last time I felt weightless.

The Nomad is watching me carefully, and I wriggle underneath his gaze. When I take my quill to the parchment again, it’s with reticence, and the fact that I can sense the Nomad’s excitement building next to me only irritates me, but I write all the same. You may study me, but I have conditions. You may not be alone with me, and I choose who else is in the room. You also must explain everything you plan to do before you do it and give me ample time to refuse. And this agreement isn’t for life. You may have one session, lasting an hour at most.

Lars’s eyes dart over my note, and when he gets to the end, he scoffs. “I couldn’t discover enough in a single hour for it to be worth my time. I require at least three two-hour sessions.”

One two-hour.

Lars glances up at the ceiling, his monocled eye still filling most of the glass. “Fine,” he says.

Then without speaking to us again, he goes back to dissecting a wing.

When it makes a crunching sound, I consider that my cue to leave.

* * *

By the time we get back to the Nomad’s office, to say I’m fuming would be an understatement.

What was that? I write on the pad.

The Nomad looks up from his desk, now donning his own spectacles, though I’ve never seen them before and can’t imagine why he as a fae would need them. “What was what?”

Back there. You knew Lars would want to experiment on me.

“Were we not in attendance at the same conversation? Because what I heard was that Lars wanted to study you.”

We both know the two are interchangeable for someone like him.

“Eh,” says the Nomad, tipping his head to the side in concession.

I roll my eyes, then spin on my heel to leave.

“Oh, come now,” he says from behind me. “You act as if I forced you into it.”

I spin back around and yank the quill from his hand. You knew I wouldn’t be able to turn down the opportunity to have my wings healed. You knew

I stop mid-sentence, my hand lingering over the parchment.