Page 90 of Stealing Tink

“Is that right?” he asks. “And what does your oh-so-compassionate and concerned-for-your-health physician think of this idea?”

He likes it, I sign.

“Liar,” says the Nomad.

I grin.

“Don’t you think you’re a little beaten up for a flight test?” he asks.

I’m not— I pause, and the Nomad shows me the sign for beaten.

I’m not beaten up, I sign. I’m healed. Mended is the word I’m thinking, but healed will have to do.

I gesture with my chin toward my wings. Look, I sign. Where my wings once fell into tattered pieces, they are now whole. Sure, there are slivers of gold where the tears used to be, but the thread has melded nicely with the natural membrane. It’s only been two weeks, and the wings appear close to healed.

Even if I have those golden scars forever, it’s still better than the alternative.

“May I?” the Nomad asks, reaching out his hand.

I nod before I can convince myself to say no, before I can remind myself why it’s a bad idea to let him touch my wings. Though I’m reminded quickly enough. As soon as his skin touches membrane, I try to fight back a shudder and fail miserably. The Nomad doesn’t mention it, but his lips tilt upward all the same.

When he runs his finger down the line of gold, a tingling warmth follows it all the way down.

“Does that hurt? Am I hurting you?” he asks.

The flesh is still tender, like touching a bruise lightly, but I shake my head. And it’s not entirely a lie.

“Stunning,” he says, breathless.

If I had the signs, I would ask him if he’s talking about me or Lars’s handiwork with the stitches. Or perhaps I wouldn’t. Perhaps I’m only thinking myself bolder because I don’t have the option to prove otherwise.

The Nomad swallows when he reaches the end of the line of stitches. When he looks at me, his eyes are burning into me.

“Fine. We’ll do a field test,” he says, scooting backward in his chair and making to leave.

But then he glances at the tea and realizes I can’t bring it to my mouth. Regret instantly swarms his face.

“I forgot. I can stay if…” he says.

I lift my hands, readying to tell him no.

Instead, I find my hands forming other words.

I do like tea.

CHAPTER 40

PHOENIX

Phoenix sits alone in the Nomad’s office, staring at the painting.

She is not alone for long.

It is dark in the room. She could light a candle, but Phoenix is not fond of fire.

The door creaks open, and in slinks Lars.

She recognizes him by his plodding footsteps. The man knows every species of insect, can spot a loose thread in one’s button from across the room, but has no awareness of how loud he is when he ambles.