Page 99 of Stealing Tink

Or maybe it’s that when the Nomad asked me to run away with him when all this was over, I hadn’t told him no.

Maybe it’s because yesterday, I realized a horrible truth that I’ve been denying to myself since the Nomad begged the Company guards to stop breaking my fingers.

As the Nomad places his hands on the table, the rest of us gathered around, and explains the plan, my hands take down notes, but my mind is somewhere else, a dreadful mantra playing over and over in my head.

Somewhere, at some time, I’d stopped fearing the Nomad as the villain in my story, the role he’s always been, and I’d started fearing him for something else.

As the thief stealing my heart.

And somehow, that story—the one where I fall in love with the Nomad—ends with him dead.

Of course it does.

It wouldn’t be the first time.

CHAPTER 45

When the Nomad first informed me that the Eldest Sister’s lair resided not in a cave or dungeon of some sort, but a theater, I had been surprised, to say the least.

Not even an abandoned theater? I’d written.

“She’s not exactly the hermit type,” was all the Nomad had said.

Now that we’re here, dressed for a night on the town, I realize that was not where my misconceptions had stopped.

“Is it not what you were expecting?” asks the Nomad, looking at me slyly.

I stare up at the beautiful theater, red as blood and highlighted by butterfly-shaped lights that flit in a dance across the facade. The trim of the theater is gilded, and the crowd outside, waiting to be let into the show, is humming with anticipation.

I just didn’t expect it to be so…popular.

The Nomad chuckles. “The Eldest Sister likes to be…” The Nomad pauses, choosing his words carefully. “Involved in the lives of mortals.”

This isn’t just involved in the lives of mortals, I think, as I listen to the chatter around me. There’s a couple nearby who have clearly already seen the show who are going on and on about the genius of the writing.

“It’s not enough for her to intertwine her life with those of mortals. She’s woven herself into the culture as well,” says the Nomad, with a glimmer in his eye.

We walk, my arm in his, up to the queue, and I try to ignore the flush burning at my cheeks. I try to ignore the pain in my gut as I shoo away the desire for this to be normal—the Nomad and me, arm in arm, going to see something as simple as a show. As if this could ever be ordinary for us.

I glimpse Phoenix and Acel several paces ahead of us in line, and the nerves creep up my spine. We are all ticketed, so it’s not getting in that concerns me. But I still have a bad feeling about Phoenix. Although I can’t tell if my bad feeling is more about her or the power I’ve yet to see unfold.

The Nomad, under Phoenix’s request, did not tell the rest of us what her role is in the heist. When I’d asked him about it, he said not to worry. That it was more a contingency than anything, and more likely not to be used than the other way around.

Either way, if Phoenix is afraid of her power, and if the Nomad is afraid of her power, I figure it would be unwise for me not to have at least a little bit of healthy fear of it as well.

We file inside. A man dressed in a gaudy red jacket rips the ends off our beautiful gilded tickets. It seems a shame to defile such a beautiful piece of paper, and I find myself longing to tell the Nomad as much. But we are being rushed inside, and I don’t have time to pull out my parchment and quill. And I certainly don’t know the signs for it.

Probably for the best anyway. It’s sharing simple thoughts like these with the Nomad that gets my heart into trouble.

The interior of the theater is just as impressive as the outside. Sconces in the shape of broken hearts light the interior. Red velvet carpet directs the audience in the foyer to their seats. There would have been a time when I would have longed to sit even in the back of the main audience hall to watch a show like this. But the Nomad has reserved one of the boxes. He claims it’s for the ease of hiding away from prying eyes—the boxes come with curtains—but I doubt the Nomad would deign to sit with the general public anyway, even if it were the more practical option for one of his schemes.

As we make our way up the steps, an usher dressed in a black tuxedo notes the number on our destroyed tickets and leads us to the corresponding box, explaining that he’ll be around during the intermission should we need refreshments.

“Oh, that won’t be necessary,” says the Nomad, then adds with a wink, “We’d rather not be disturbed.”

The usher’s degree of professionalism is impressive. I would have rolled my eyes. But the usher simply bows and says, “Very well, sir. Enjoy the evening,” before hurrying off.

We enter the box, and I try not to guffaw. In my childhood, I would have thought this a spacious living room. It’s fully decked with a couch that is not quite large enough given who I’ll be sharing it with, and a rolling cart topped with an appetizer tray and an assortment of drinks, all of which sparkle in the dim lighting.