Page 93 of Stealing Tink

“I saw you when the others figured out how to retrieve Venus’s power from her portrait,” he continues. “They were going on about that poet. But you were staring at a different book.”

“He used to make me read those passages,” says Phoenix.

“Which ones?” says Lars.

“All of them. Any of them. It didn’t matter,” says Phoenix.

“But there must have been one,” says Lars. “One in particular he liked. One that has to do with the painting.”

Phoenix turns her head and stares at him. Finally, for the first time in a long time, she laughs.

“You don’t know, do you? You don’t know how to get the power out of the painting.”

Lars’s ears flush red, matching his hair.

“I admit, I am not a scholar of poetry. I’ve read through all of the books of this poet in the Nomad’s collection. And I assure you that if the correct poem was in these books, I would have figured it out.”

Phoenix considers him for a while. Considers sending him on a wild goose chase for a poem that doesn’t exist.

It might be amusing.

But tonight, she’s feeling generous.

“It’s not about the poetry,” she finally says. “It’s about what we did while I was reading them. He always said that poet was paired best not with wine, but with smoke. We would smoke ellweed while I read it.”

“Ellweed,” says Lars, undiluted pleasure beaming in his eyes. “Sometimes used to make paint. Shall I scrape some off for you?”

“Sure, Lars. Why not?” says Phoenix.

CHAPTER 41

TINK

Lars declares the cliff side under which the Gathers are docked to be too high for my first flight test.

Actually, how he put it was, “Don’t want our faerie dashed against the rocks like a fly on the face of a train engine.”

Even the Nomad has given up on correcting him, and now he and I just exchange a look that feels like an inside joke.

The way it makes my stomach flutter, the way it reminds me of the storage closet in the Company outpost, makes me uncomfortable. I make a mental note not to glance at him while Lars is talking.

The cliffs Lars picked out are a half hour’s walk from the Gathers. My unused muscles ache from the uphill climb, but I don’t mind. It feels good to put them to use after being cooped up in bed for so many days. Even after I’d petitioned the Nomad, Lars had still made me rest an additional week. I welcome the familiar ache of doing something.

And besides. The view is pretty.

When Lars had first told me we’d be practicing my flight skills on a cliff side, I’d secretly dreaded the thought. It’s not heights I fear, but memories.

But the cliffs in Neverland had been dark and looming and broody. These?

These cliffs are cut from red clay and peek out over clear blue waters. The trees here aren’t pine, but maple. Everything is three shades brighter, more vibrant, than in Neverland, and instead of a strong wind coming off the waters that cuts bone deep, the breeze that drifts off the waters is inviting, spraying me gently to keep me from getting overheated in the warm sun.

“What is it?” asks the Nomad as he watches me stare up at the cliffs from down below.

My fingers still ache, but I’ve at least regained my range of motion.

My father and I used to go cliff-jumping, I write. Except we did it at night.

Which begs the question.