Glass is replaceable. Gold not so much.
“It’s all right, Tinman.” He avoids looking me in the eye. They all do. Except for Faos. Faos isn’t afraid of me even though the scar running across his face says he should be.
The monkey makes his way out of the tavern and waits in the cold night.
When the door swings shut behind me and I meet him beside the lamppost, the dirty snow crunching beneath my boots, his breath puffs out in an exaggerated cloud. “Did you cheat?”
I unroll my shirt sleeves, warding off the cold, and pull out a cigarette, running the end of the twisted paper between my lips, wetting it. The lighter comes to life when I press the button and the cogs inside whir, flint striking against the wheel.
A spark ignites.
I inhale.
The dried nightshade crackles as it burns and perfumes the air with sweetness.
“Did I cheat?” I repeat, exhaling smoke. “Of course I did.”
Faos scowls. “Have you no honor?”
“Says the monkey who tossed me over the Great Waterfall last we met. My arm was rusted for a week.”
He rolls his eyes. “I had orders.”
I level my gaze at him. “Oh really? The witch told you to toss me over a waterfall?”
He looks away. “Fine. I improvised.”
“See? Was that so hard?” I take another hit and trudge forward. “Anyway, you already know the answer to your question, dear Faos. Do I have honor? No. It’s impossible to have honor when you have no heart. What’s your excuse?”
I hear him grunt behind me and then take to the air.
I guess I’m walking alone then. Just as well. Faos is terrible company.
FOURTEEN
Dorothy
My hands are shaking, my heart racing.
Untying the man from the pole takes longer than I’d like. I’m horrible at undoing knots on a good day.
A hundred scenarios run through my mind as I work at the rope. What an awful thing to do to another person—beat them bloody and tie them to a pole.
Who would do such a thing? Was it the Tin Woodman?The heartless man,they said?
What kind of place is this anyway?
I just want to go home.
When I get the ropes free from his arms, the beaten man slumps forward, the pole sagging in the ground as his weight shifts.
And when I finally get the last rope undone from his waist, he practically melts from his trappings, hitting the ground like he’s boneless.
I hurry to him, kneeling in the dirt. “Are you okay? I almost walked past you. I thought you were a scarecrow.”
His movements are slow and labored. “I’m all right. I’m glad you came by when you did.”
He has an accent, something vaguely British, and when hesits upright, back propped against the pole that just held him hostage, I’m caught off guard by how handsome he is.
