Page 89 of Stealing Tink

“But not too quick,” says the Nomad. “You know—precision and all.”

“You want me to remove him from the room?” asks Acel.

I give the Nomad a look that says behave yourself, and he opens his palms.

“My hands are yours when you need them,” he says.

And when Lars gets to work, I find that I do.

CHAPTER 39

When my door creaks open later that week, I’m surprised to find that instead of Lars come to check on his patient, it’s the Nomad, looking even more mischievous than normal.

“Did I wake you?” he asks.

I shake my head, though I don’t sit up in bed. I’m not keen on admitting that the reason I haven’t sat up in the hour since waking from my nap is because it hurts too badly to prop myself up on my arms. I can do it with my elbows, but it’s a strain and, to be frank, too much of a bother. I’ve been in bed for two weeks, waiting on both my hands and wings to recover.

“What a shame,” he says. “I was desperately hoping to bother you.”

I hunch forward in a noiseless laugh.

He comes to my bedside holding what looks to be a solid silver tray, complete with an equally expensive teapot out of which comes a warm plume of steam. I smell the hint of jasmine and rosemary, my mouth watering as I anticipate the warm liquid on my throat. I’m not ill—not in that way—but there’s something about the gesture that reminds me of my mother back when I would fall sick, coughing my head off, or in bed with whatever disease I had contracted as a child.

He sets the tray on the bedside table. “May I?” he asks, extending his hands.

I nod, and he loops his arms beneath my armpits, dragging me up in bed to sit upright. Once I’m contentedly propped against the headboard, he pulls up a chair next to the bedside table and pours the steaming liquid into two teacups.

Look, I sign, motioning with my hand, though it wobbles and the sign is feeble.

The Nomad smiles softly. “Glad to see that the range of motion in your hands is returning.”

Me too, I sign.

“Does it still hurt?” he asks.

I nod, and he makes a noncommittal noise. He’s just gone back to pouring my tea when I make another sign with my hand.

Nomad.

My fingers linger in the position long enough that it’s not the pain that has me considering placing my hands back in my lap. But then the Nomad’s eyes dart to my hands, and the tea he’s pouring sloshes over the side of the cup and onto his hand. He yanks his hand back, making the spill worse and cracking the edge of the cup on the table, and makes a hissing sound as the tea sears his hand.

“Oh,” he says, looking a bit frazzled. My heart skips in my chest. “Well, I suppose I’ll be taking this one,” he says, looking almost bashful as he stares at the cracked teacup.

You hurt? I sign, noting the red mark on his hand.

“I didn’t come to check on the patient just to steal the pity,” he says with a wink, but I don’t miss the way he winces. He then goes to hand me the unchipped teacup, but then hesitates, glancing at my hands. “I didn’t think of this,” he says. “Have they been spoon-feeding you?”

I nod. I’m not easily embarrassed, but heat flushes my cheeks all the same.

“Well,” he chuckles nervously, “believe it or not, this wouldn’t be the first time.” When I give him a strange look, he adds, “That I’ve offered someone their tea, of course.”

He brings the teacup to my lips. “It’s hot,” he warns, and I blow on it softly, feeling the air bounce off the surface of the tea and back into my face. I can’t help noticing the way the Nomad watches the shape of my lips.

“When you signed my name earlier,” he asks, “was that simply because it’s one of the few signs you can make right now? Or were you about to say something?”

I stare at my fingers, concentrating on making the shapes. I want to—agh, I don’t know the sign for test— I want to try my wings.

He pauses, then tips the teacup again. The warm liquid touches my lips. It occurs to me that this would be a way to silence someone who spoke verbally.