Page 23 of Stealing Tink

The Nomad assembles us in his office, and after the obligatory “Oh, now you want my help?” speech, actual planning begins.

This mostly consists of Phoenix drawing up a blueprint of Vulcan’s manor for the Nomad, while I wait to the side and Venus explores the room.

While Phoenix is busy sketching, I allow my wings to stretch out. Not only had the Nomad ordered one of his servants to find me some tunics and trousers, he’d also had her alter them to accommodate my wings. Slits on the back of my tunic allow my wings to expand behind me. He’d even provided a binder for when we leave the ship and I need to conceal them, but for now, my muscles welcome the freedom.

As I stretch out, my gaze wanders across the Nomad’s desk, searching for clues as to who this man really is, but his desk is mostly topped with papers. The only other objects on the desk are a small bell for summoning the servants, a lamp, and a sealing stamp.

I glance up at the Nomad, who is focused on peppering Phoenix with clarifying questions about her drawing, then slip the seal off the table. I turn it over in my palm, and my heart skips a beat at the shape of the seal.

It’s an urn. The same shape I’d seen on the sketch of my face that day I’d gone with my father to the butcher. The same shape on the back of Wendy’s neck, the night I’d escaped Neverland with Michael and she’d shown me the mark of her bargain.

I’d been so furious with her then, but only because anger is such an easier emotion to sit in than fear.

Why the Nomad chose this for his seal, I’ve no idea. Perhaps because it symbolizes death, and that’s a good association in his line of work?

Still—I run my fingers over the seal—it’s an odd symbol.

I sense a pair of eyes on me and look up to find the Nomad staring. Quickly, I slip the seal back onto the desk and turn my attention to Venus.

She’s wandering around his office, avoiding sitting, just like I did my first time in here. She runs her hands over the spines of the books on his bookcase, though less in wonder and more in contempt.

“Ugh, Noctorious? Really?” she asks, plucking a scarlet volume with embossed golden roses on the cover, thorns snaking on the vines.

“You’re not fond of poetry?” asks the Nomad, and then, as a person as pretentious as him would, he proceeds to quote, unironically, “To look but not see, to touch but not feel, Is this love, or is this real?”

I snort, and though it’s silent, the Nomad catches it out of the corner of his vision.

“Not you too,” he says, grasping his heart. “Uncultured barbarians, all of you.”

It’s a tad too trite for my tastes, I write.

Venus, unable to see my note from the other side of the room, says, “He could be the best poet in the world and I’d still hate him.”

“Vulcan loved Noctorious,” explains Phoenix.

“Loved?” Venus scoffs. “More like idolized. You know, in Vulcan’s way.”

I get the impression Vulcan was the type to kill his idols out of envy.

“Did he make you read out of this to him when he couldn’t sleep?” Venus says, holding up the book and looking at Phoenix.

“No, it was always Venscre for me,” says Phoenix.

“Makes sense. Venscre wasn’t nearly as obsessed with themes of numbness,” says Venus.

The Nomad and I exchange a confused look.

Under her breath, Phoenix whispers, “Venus suffered an illness as a child that left her without feeling in her left hand. Vulcan liked to find poetry he thought she could relate to.”

Venus makes a noise in her throat, then flips through the book erratically.

“That is a first edition, you know,” says the Nomad.

Venus rolls her eyes, then places the book back on the shelf.

“Well, now that we’ve had that culturally enlightening chat, the two of you are dismissed,” says the Nomad, gesturing to Phoenix and Venus.

I take it that means the Nomad is satisfied with Phoenix’s blueprints. I expect the other two women to argue, but Venus seems indifferent, and Phoenix is probably tired of enduring the Nomad’s critiques for the day, because they both leave eagerly and without question.