Page 94 of Stealing Tink

Shouldn’t we be doing this at night? I write.

Lars answers for the Nomad. “See? The faerie agrees with me. But no—no one listens to Lars.”

I shoot the Nomad a questioning look, and he says, “I have my people stationed around the perimeter. They won’t let anyone near. And there’s no reason for a boat to drift close enough to see you. If they did, we’d see them first, and there’s no way they could make out your wings from this distance. To them, we’d just look like a gaggle of irresponsible cliff-jumping adolescents.”

Why day? I sign, but the Nomad doesn’t answer me.

Lars leads us up a trail on the cliff side. We’re a quarter of the way up when I realize he’s not taking us to the top, but to an outlet halfway up.

When we arrive at the outlet, I stare down. Waves lap up against the side of the cliffs, reminding me of the bowl of water my mother used to leave out for stray dogs.

Lars is right. The water here is clear, empty except for the sand underneath. No rocks upon which to be smashed.

Still.

This won’t work, I sign.

Lars is too busy surveying the landscape to see my hands move, but the Nomad lifts a brow.

We’re too close, I sign.

“This is about the height we’ll need you to be able to jump from for the heist,” says the Nomad, “if you can’t do this…”

No. I sign the word with emphasis, frustrated. I can do it—I grab my quill—just not the first time. When I was a girl, my father…

I let my hands trail off. I don’t have the signs to explain the entire story, and writing them—the lessons my father taught me as a youth—would take up the entire notepad.

“Your wings are like any other part of your body,” my father had said. “You can’t expect to only use them once in a while and have them work for you.”

“But I never get to use my wings,” I’d said, frantic.

“I know. I hate that it has to be this way. But don’t fret, little one. You can still use them. You’ll just have to be patient with them. Give them time. After a long time of disuse, their reaction time won’t be what it was the last time you used them.”

Behind me, I flex my wings, the muscles in my back sore from the time I’ve spent in bed the past two weeks. My back muscles aren’t completely useless. They’ve been supporting my wings all these years. Still, I’ve hardly moved them, much less flown with them. My wings aren’t like Peter’s. I can’t simply open them and let them act as a sail or a parachute.

No, I have to flutter. Like a dragonfly or a butterfly or a hummingbird. And movement that quick…well, I haven’t attempted it in quite some time.

Lars was right to think giving me the wind and a fall would help, though it’s less about the aerodynamics and more about the adrenaline. But at this height, with my reaction time hampered by disuse, I’ll never make it.

If I fall, my wings get wet, I sign to the Nomad. I can’t fly again. Need to dry.

It’s not exactly what I want to say, but I hope the Nomad catches my meaning.

“We have all day,” says the Nomad, placing a hand on my shoulder. “We can stay and wait for them to dry if needed.”

I shake my head. He doesn’t understand.

I’ve had my wings shredded, my spine tapped, my fingers and wrists broken, my voice stolen from my throat.

I need this.

“We can go back. Try it tomorrow,” offers the Nomad.

Something about that thought sparks anger within me. I can do this, I just need a higher vantage point. But by the way the Nomad is looking at me like he can’t let anything happen to me—of course he can’t, since I’m apparently key to his plan—there’s no way he’d let me jump from the top cliff.

A thought clicks into place in my head.

What if I try to fly from the ground instead of jumping? I write.