Page 102 of Stealing Tink

With Venus’s skills, I correct.

The Nomad’s smug grin falters, but I’m already pulling costumes out of the nearby closet. We change into them quickly, then I prepare for the part I’ve been dreading.

The Nomad takes a step closer, a glint in his eyes. “How do you wish to hold me? Like a lover, or would you rather cradle me like an infant?”

If I had my pick, I’d throw him over my shoulder, but that would make for a difficult flight. Still, I refuse to answer with “like a lover,” so I simply step forward and wrap my arms around his torso, careful to keep my arms hooked underneath his armpits.

“Glad to see we had the same preference,” says the Nomad.

I ignore him and push us off the ground.

My wings struggle against the air, beating against the weight of the Nomad in my arms. A bead of sweat breaks out on my forehead as we ascend, and the Nomad glances down and says, “As someone who would likely not survive a fall from this height, I can’t say I love the look of you straining. Please, do me a favor and take a break if you need it.”

I’m not sure where he intends for me to take a break, if not the ground from where we just came, so I simply persevere.

When we make it to the top, he grips the siding of the window and hauls himself up, the muscles of his back rippling underneath his shirt. When he offers me his hand, I take it, and he pulls me through, my wings wrapping me in a cocoon so as to fit through the hole.

“It won’t be long before someone discovers that guard isn’t making his rounds at the correct time,” says the Nomad.

I nod, and we race across the rooftop, the moon a haunting crescent peeking through the clouds.

The next point of breaking in isn’t quite so complicated. There’s a vent at the top of the theater to keep it from getting overly stuffy due to the number of warm bodies. It comes undone with a simple turn of the handle, and we slip through, onto the rafters. Below us, a lighting mechanic works the stage lights from a bridge, but we’re too far up for him to see. Unless he looks up. But that would make him rather bad at his job.

My hopes are resting on him being good at his job.

We climb the rafters, the play continuing below.

Below, I hear the lead actor cry out, a sound of agony and loss.

A shudder runs through me, but I keep going, slipping from the rafters lithely, treating them like balance beams, until I’m next to the rope that handles the curtain. It’s thick, and according to the Nomad, it will remain taut so long as it’s fastened to the wheel down below. I grab on and slide down, the friction from the rope stinging my hands.

My feet graze the ground almost soundlessly, the rope having deposited me behind the curtain. I sidle out of the way just in time to hear footsteps land right where I was just standing, the Nomad having turned invisible.

Just as he said there would be, there’s a trapdoor entrance near where we landed.

Together, we slip through the trapdoor and into the undercroft, and wait.

CHAPTER 46

The show ends with deafening applause.

Underneath the stage, beams crisscross, keeping the stage intact above us while we pad silently through the alcove. Although there’s enough noise from the stage crew’s bustling footsteps that I’m not sure they’d hear us even if we weren’t being quiet. There’s a door on the other end of the stage, one that leads back up to where the actors are now chatting above us, but we don’t bother with it. The Nomad had informed us beforehand that the blueprints of the playhouse showed multiple entry points, for when actors needed to enter the undercroft straight from their dressing rooms, in case a quick costume change was necessary that left no time for a margin of error.

We wait until the crowd of actors above us breaks apart, then follow the voice of the lead back to her dressing room, which, according to the blueprints, should be adjacent to the Sister’s room.

“Your Excellence, there are two guests who wish to see you,” says a servant’s voice from above, the room adjacent to the lead’s dressing room.

“It’s been a long night, and I’m ready to retire,” says a cloying voice that makes my skin crawl.

I don’t know why I’d been expecting her to sound like the Middle Sister, voice deep and sultry. No, this voice is just as intentionally sensuous, but higher, girlish, in a way that almost sounds unnatural.

“They wish to have their fate read,” says the crew member.

“I said that I’m tired.”

“Very well. But they’re leaving tomorrow morning, and one of them—the fate he wants read—it’s with the Princess of Irethden.”

A pause from above. Then, “Does he have a tattoo of a dragon wing on his face?”