Page 72 of Stealing Tink

“It did get us in trouble,” says the Nomad. “Where would you like to start?”

I shouldn’t have to ponder. Other than thinking of the escaped faeries and their fate, this is the other topic that’s kept my mind off of our failed mission. I’ve been considering this the entire dusty trek up the mountain, but it’s not so simple. On the train, I needed the signs for railing capping, which hardly seems as if it will come up again.

I communicate as much to the Nomad in writing, adding, That’s the problem. I don’t know what I’ll need to be able to sign in the future. I need to know everything.

The impossibility of that statement steeps between us.

Eventually, he looks at me quietly, then says, “Empty your pockets.”

I tense.

“Just do it,” he says. The words, as commanding as they are, are gentle, soft.

So I comply, pulling the satchel of John’s tiles out of my pocket. I scoot away from him, leaving a space between us on our makeshift rock seat, then spread out the tiles face-up so he can look at them.

Why do you want to see these? I write.

The Nomad doesn’t answer. Instead, his eyes examine the tiles like he’s searching for one word in particular.

I point to what I had just written, not appreciating being ignored.

“How long did it take the two of you to come up with this list of words?” he asks.

“THREE MONTH,” I tap onto the tiles, finding them quicker than writing in this instance. “WHY.”

“I just wanted to know what words were important to you,” he says.

My heart stalls in my chest.

“What you most wanted to say,” he continues, his eyes lingering on one tile in particular—LOVE. But then his voice snaps from pensive to practical. “I figure why waste time coming up with a list when you and your friend have already done the work?”

I nod and press the OKAY tile with my finger, then write, It still wouldn’t have helped us on the train. There’s no RAILING CAPPING tile.

“Perhaps not,” says the Nomad, “but…”

He scans the tiles, and I see it before he points it out. Slowly, I pick out two tiles. GRAY OBJECT.

Of course. John had made a series of what he called generic tiles for when I needed to describe something I didn’t have a word for. It wasn’t a perfect system, but with context, he could usually figure it out.

I’m not sure how much time passes, but we only make it through a third of the tiles, the Nomad showing me the corresponding signs, before my brain decides it’s had enough. I get the sense the Nomad could do this all night, but he concedes when I ask for a break. On one condition.

“One last sign,” the Nomad says.

I narrow my brow at him—not in consternation, in question.

He reaches out and takes my hands, and I flinch at his touch. All of the other words he’d simply modeled for me, allowed me to imitate him. But he runs his fingers through mine and twists them, and I get the sense it’s not because the sign is too complicated for me to learn without his touch.

Warmth caresses my skin at each place he touches. The scars that have developed where I dug my nails into his palms scrape over my skin, but instead of feeling abrasive, they feel like a comforting reminder. As if they don’t need to form a sign to say, I will hurt for you.

I’m a fool to listen to hands such as these, hands that have murdered and robbed and hurt.

Still, I let myself bask in the warmth of his hands for a moment as he twists my fingers into place. He stares at our hands, intertwined, for a long moment. A word sits on his tongue—one he can’t make himself form.

My throat hitches.

“You flinch every time I touch you,” he says, his gaze still lingering on our hands. “Act as if my touch repulses you. Why?”

I can’t answer him. Not with our hands intertwined.