Page 26 of Stealing Tink

Well, that’s as beneficial a conclusion as I could’ve come up with myself. I try to hide my satisfaction, but I can’t afford to be too pleased. I’m not in the clear yet.

“I’m hired out by the bank,” he explains. And though he maintains eye contact with me, shows no tell that would normally convince me he’s lying, there’s something about the way his satchel bulges that tells me otherwise.

I make a point not to stare at it, only examine it in my periphery. It’s to my advantage if he thinks I believe him. Still, I can’t seem too easily convinced. Better if he feels the need to convince me.

Is that why the artifacts downstairs are stolen? I write, knowing full well he wasn’t the one who took them.

“The bank hired me to replace the last guy. I heard he has no fingers left.”

I make a face I hope communicates that the thief got what he deserved.

“So what do you think?” the man asks suddenly, stepping aside and leaving an opening toward the door. His posture relaxes now that he thinks I’m not here to steal anything.

It takes me a moment to realize what he’s referring to. “Like this one?” he says, nodding toward the vacant canvas.

I walk toward it, hands behind my back in that pretentious way people do when examining art, tilting my head slightly as I try to come up with something to say while also taking inventory of my new companion.

He might be a thief, but I think he’s telling the truth about being a hired hand—just not by the bank. Meaning, he’s the type to smash and grab, but not the type to research. At least, that’s what I’m hoping for.

I stare at the painting before us, if one could even call it that, trying to come up with something to say. The only thing of value about it is the frame, which now that I look more closely, is glass rather than crystal. Which explains why no one has stolen it either.

I grab my quill and spout nonsense onto the page.

The vacancy of the painting—I find it fascinating, don’t you? The simplicity with which Vulcan was able to capture the emptiness of life.

To my relief, the man appears not to care about a word I’ve written. “So what’s it worth?”

I write down a number that seems worth smashing and grabbing, but not too good to be true, and flash it in his direction.

“All these like that?” he asks casually.

I shake my head and write, No. This is the only one worth anything.

“What do the Silent Sisters do with this information?”

We’ve been hired out by a client who wishes to know this painting’s value, I write.

“And what does this client want with his painting?”

It’s not our job to ask questions.

“Mine neither,” he says. “So I suppose that’s why you’re here in the middle of the night. To maintain said secrecy?”

I offer him a slight grin, which he returns. Oh, he’s definitely going to be stealing this canvas as soon as I walk out of here.

If he were an actual guard, he’d check my pockets before I left—verify my story. But as it is, he’s too busy staring at the empty canvas. I wonder if he’ll take it back to whoever hired him or just keep it for himself.

I had better keep my guard up. I’ve seen his face, and he thinks someone else is inquiring about this painting. Meaning they’ll want to hunt it down when it goes missing. This man doesn’t strike me as a murderer. Then again, every murderer has a portion of their history where they weren’t.

This painting isn’t valued high enough to interest our client, I write. But I have additional orders to inquire about a piece that has sentimental value for our client.

“What is it?” he asks. “Perhaps I could send you in the right direction.”

Yeah, perhaps he can get me out of this room so he can steal this worthless canvas.

I press my finger to my lips.

“Right. A secret.” He laughs, stroking his chin with his gloved fingers.