Page 96 of Stealing Tink

I take two of my knuckles, grasp the skin of his neck. Squeeze and twist.

The Nomad’s eyes shoot open. He gasps in pain, inhaling a gulp of saltwater, but it’s enough. Alert, he grabs me and hauls us both to the surface.

CHAPTER 42

“Where will you go? When all of this is over, I mean. Once you have your voice back?”

The question comes out of nowhere, the Nomad staring off into the night sky. The way his feet dangle off the edge of the cliff—the lower one, as we didn’t have the energy to climb back up to the top—almost makes him look childlike. Boyish. And I wonder if this is the first glimpse I’m getting of the child who was silenced by his father, silenced by a dangerous world he didn’t choose for himself.

Lars headed back to the ship an hour ago, after diagnosing us with both being alive and being idiots.

We’d stayed behind, giving our clothes a chance to dry in the sun and for the Nomad to recover from his fall.

Now the sun has slipped over the horizon. The stars twinkle above us, curious and quiet.

I don’t know, I sign.

The Nomad turns toward me. “Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it.”

My stomach twists, and because I’m not fluent enough with the signs to say what I’m thinking without it sounding choppy, I take the pen and write, I’ve mostly just thought about what it would be like to have my voice back.

“Tell me what it will be like.”

I swallow, then write, I’ll feel the vibrations in my throat. It’s a strange thing to miss, I know. But… I take my hand and caress that small area of skin. And my nose too, I write hastily. When I was a child, I used to sing, then touch my nose to feel the vibrations. It’s stupid, not at all the point of speaking, but there’s something about…

I pause.

“I love when you do that.”

I lift a brow to him in question, and he nods toward the quill pressed to my lips. I hadn’t even noticed I was doing it.

I blush, my mouth hanging slightly agape. Now that I’ve completely forgotten my train of thought, I dart my eyes back over the paper, scanning it for clues. One of the few benefits of having to write down my conversations, I suppose.

I miss having an impact on the world, on my environment, I write. It’s stupid, but the vibrations—they’re proof my existence affects something. Changes something. That I’m not simply gliding through this world aimlessly.

“You freed all of those faeries,” says the Nomad. “I highly doubt they consider you to be ineffectual.”

Yes, well, that was something, I suppose, I say. But there’s something about my voice—I used to be able to change minds, not just situations. Now⁠—

Again, my pen hovers.

Now, no one has to listen to me. It’s much harder to stopper one’s ears than it is to avert one’s eyes. I’m so easily ignored.

I think back to Venus, to her disdain for having to wait on me to communicate. Tears sting at my lids, and I swallow.

“I would have to disagree with that,” says the Nomad. “I personally have quite a lot of difficulty averting my eyes from you. And believe me, I’ve tried.”

When I look up at him, he’s staring at me as if he’s finally given himself permission.

Something taps at the back of my mind. Why did you learn to sign?

“I told you, it comes in handy during heists.”

I shake my head. There were multiple times during the heist on the train when it would have been more prudent for you to sign to the others. But you didn’t think to. Because you’re not used to signing during heists.

The Nomad’s lip upticks. “Why can’t I get anything past you?”

Why did you learn to sign?