Page 52 of Stealing Tink

“I’m in quite a bit of pain. It would be nice if you would distract me with your own.”

I can’t help the smile that flickers on the edge of my lips. I don’t particularly like talking about Peter, don’t particularly like thinking of him. But then I look down at the Nomad’s hands, blood already staining through the bandages.

I take my quill to paper.

He was an orphan. That was the first thing I liked about him.

The Nomad raises his brow. “Because you have that in common?”

A lump rises in my throat. I left home the night I had a dream that the Nomad came to find me in my parents’ home. I’d realized they would never be safe if I was around to lure him in. Not that I can tell him that.

Practically speaking, is what I write. Peter hardly had any money, so he pickpocketed circus guests so he could visit me every day. He would always come in the down hours, that way we would have time to

I stop writing.

The Nomad cocks his head to the side. “Have time to what?”

My hand quivers, and so does the quill.

Talk.

A hand, bandaged and bloodied, finds mine, wraps its fingers around my trembling hand to steady it.

Once my hand is steadied enough to write again, I pull it from his grasp without ever looking at him.

Do you want to hear something disgusting? I write, though even as I do, I realize with a pang that the Nomad won’t be hearing anything.

“Consider me hanging on your every word.”

My chest tightens, and I write, I still think about those conversations sometimes. Still replay them in my head.

“Let me guess, you’re trying to figure out how you didn’t realize earlier what kind of person he turned out to be.”

I shake my head. I wish. I replay them because I liked those conversations. Because I liked having someone to talk to.

For a moment, the Nomad goes silent, and I regret admitting this to him. How pitiful I must seem.

Just as I’m about to stuff the notepad away, he says, “If I were to bet, I’d bet he thinks about those conversations too.”

The response shocks me so much, I glance up at the Nomad, expecting to see mockery on his face where I can’t find it in his voice, but I don’t find it there either. Just sincerity.

No, I write. He only ever approached me because the Sister needed my voice. Anything he ever did regarding me was so she would give him Wendy. Or, at best, so she would save the Lost Boys in Neverland.

“Perhaps so. But we sentient beings are complicated. He thinks about your conversations, I assure you.”

How would you know? I write.

The Nomad sighs. “Because you’re clever. And fiery. And because, even if everything Peter ever did was to get to Wendy, that doesn’t change the fact that you’re right—you and he did have something in common. You were a companion to him when he was lonely.”

I was stupid for ever trusting him, I write, suddenly feeling tense.

“Why?” asks the Nomad. “You were in a cage, and he set you free. What reason did you have to mistrust him?”

I should have known, I write. There were signs, I’m sure of it. And had I seen them, I would still have my voice. Still have my wings.

“Maybe,” says the Nomad, not at all sounding convinced.

What? I write, annoyed.