Page 77 of Stealing Tink

“Yes, well, you’d better learn, because there’s going to be an additional obstacle in our way.”

“Which is?” asks Lars.

“The faerie dust—it’s unrefined.”

“Oh, excellent,” says Lars, throwing his hands up in the air.

That night, the nightmares don’t come for me. In fact, I don’t even dream.

I don’t get the chance.

Because I wake that night to the sting of rope scraping against my wrists and ankles. My eyes fly open, my arms making to swing, but they’re already restrained. I swivel my head around, searching for the Nomad. My mouth calls out to him, but of course, it’s no use. All I know is that someone is dragging me across the hard cave floor.

A moment later, a damp cloth covers my face, and I’m submerged in emptiness.

CHAPTER 33

Usually when I wake, the first thing I notice is that I am not dead, not dying, that my throat is not being crushed, and that my blood is not flowing freely.

This time, when I wake, the first thing I notice is that my hands are bound.

My arms are pulled behind my back, rope painfully tight around my wrists. Opening my eyes does little to help make sense of the sensation, because when I do, the room swirls. I blink, the scene around me slowly coming into focus.

It’s dark, lit only by a single grimy faerie-dust lamp hanging from the center of the ceiling. My head hurts. Blood throbs at my temples and my ankles where ropes are tied too tightly against the chair legs. I crane my neck to the left and find the Nomad slumped beside me, chained in the same manner to his own chair.

My first instinct is to call out to him. Strange, how after all this time, my instinct is still to use my voice. Instead, I work with what I’ve got and throw what little strength I have into jerking my chair.

It scrapes loudly across the floor, having the intended effect. Next to me, the Nomad stirs.

“…Wanderer…” he groans. He must notice his restraints too, because he jerks his head up, his eyes shooting open. Swiveling his head, he finds me immediately. Concentration and fear tighten his expression, honing his gaze into focus. “Wanderer,” he says, more firmly this time. “Where are we?”

I don’t know, I sign behind my back. My wrists may be bound, but I at least still have some movement in my hands.

At first, I worry he won’t realize I can still communicate, but the Nomad cranes his neck so he can get a good look at my hands.

“What’s the last thing you remember?” he asks.

I can’t sign the word for sleep—not when the sign requires bringing my hand to my face—but I do my best to approximate the motion.

The Nomad frowns for a moment before understanding clicks into place.

“Phoenix was supposed to be watching guard,” he mutters.

“Yes. Well, you were supposed to get me off that train,” a voice cuts in. We both snap our heads toward the corner of the room, but there is no speaker to be found.

Until a woman materializes, that is.

Venus.

“I thought you were supposed to be dead,” the Nomad says dryly.

“Oh, no,” she says. “I was supposed to be alive and escaping with you. Except you all left me.”

“Left you?” the Nomad scoffs. “You do remember the part of the plan where Tink and I were supposed to jump onto another train. So if that’s what you mean by leaving—guilty, I suppose.”

“Well, you didn’t come back for me.”

“We were under the impression you were dead. Were you expecting a funeral?”