Page 88 of Stealing Tink

The binder is another ordeal entirely, and when it becomes clear I don’t have the dexterity in my fingers to undo the metal clasp, the Nomad does it for me. Once it falls, I allow my wings to stretch out. Normally, letting them stretch would feel cathartic. But my experience with Lars is that he cares very little about preventing pain, and I highly doubt catharsis will be what I feel once it’s over. As it is, I find the limbs in my wings tense, tight.

“This,” Lars says, holding up and shaking out what looks to me like a strand of golden, glittering thread, “is the product of a sleepless night.”

“…and loud banging right across from my room while I’m trying to sleep,” mutters Acel under his breath.

Lars either doesn’t hear him or is ignoring him. Either way, he says, “It’s magnificent, don’t you see?”

“Is that the faerie dust?” asks the Nomad.

“What else would it be made of?” Lars says. “Or do you not remember all the effort we went to in order to procure this?”

“Right. My apologies,” says the Nomad, not sounding particularly apologetic at all.

“I know that in the past, stitches would have been too heavy to repair the faerie’s wings⁠—”

“Her name is Tink,” interrupts the Nomad.

“—but as this is made from faerie dust itself, my hope is that it will become one with the membrane of the faerie’s⁠—”

“Tink’s,” interrupts the Nomad again.

“—wings,” continues Lars as if he hadn’t been interrupted at all. “Thus solving our weight problem.”

I attempt to grab my quill, but my trembling fingers won’t close around the shaft. I wish to write, You mean they could be as good as new? Instead, I have to settle for using my entire arm to write new in the air in large letters.

“Of course I don’t mean that,” says Lars, apparently understanding my meaning. “I mean they could be better.”

“Right. How dare you imply otherwise?” says Acel to me with a comforting smile.

The Nomad glances back and forth between the two of us, an edge of concern on his face. But he masks it quickly enough when he notices I’m looking at him.

“Are you sure there won’t be any side effects?” he says.

I shoot the Nomad a questioning glance.

The Nomad must understand my meaning because he says, “Your ability to fly won’t do us very much good if you suddenly become a drug-addled lunatic.”

“Faerie dust only causes mental changes when ingested orally,” explains Lars. “Besides, she’s a faerie; it wouldn’t intoxicate her anyway.”

“I believe what he really means to ask,” says Acel, “is whether there’s any chance of physical harm to Tink?”

“Well, I don’t exactly have any other faerie to test it on, do I?” says Lars. “And even if I did, given this one’s bleeding heart”—he glares at me with the same detestation as if he just found out I was to blame for the extinction of his favorite species of moth—“I very much doubt she would allow such testing.”

I grit my teeth and stare at Lars with a decisive nod.

“All right,” says Lars. “Although, you should know it will be quite painful. And as with anything involving breaking the skin barrier, there’s always a chance of infection. Which can be quite tricky to heal with faeries, given most healers only sell products formulated for humans and unwinged Fae.”

The Nomad tenses beside me. “You don’t have to do this, you know. We can find another way.”

I raise one brow, hoping my meaning is written on my face.

“All right, no,” he says. “This is the only way. But you don’t have to do it.”

Have to. What an interesting concept. If it didn’t hurt I would touch my throat. Feel the absence of my voice in its hollow cave.

Lars holds up two palms. “Do you want me to go quick”—he moves the fingers on his right hand—“or slow?”—he moves the fingers on his left hand.

I nod toward his right hand.