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“Yes.” Tin spreads out his arms. “Here’s your proof.” He pulls out a tin from his pocket and pops it open, revealing a row of rolled cigarettes. Sticking one between his lips, he licks the end, wetting the paper, then flicks on a lighter, burning the tip till it flares bright orange.

Smoke curls in the glow of lantern light.

Rook was here … and the first thing he said to me was You survived.

He said it matter-of-factly, as if there had been no question in his mind, as if he knew I would.

Though truly, what an asshole thing to say and do.

Asshole or not, why is my stomach turning?

The old fortune teller’s warning whispers in my mind.

Yours is the kind of love that changes the wind and breaks the stars. Yours is the kind of love that ignites everything it touches.

I suddenly feel sick.

Henrietta must have been mistaken.

Maybe she was a con artist? Then again, she said Rook was going on a spiritual journey to find his soul and that seems extremely accurate because how can he possibly have a soul after what he did?

What else could the fortune teller tell me? If I’d known what questions to ask before, maybe I could have gotten better answers.

“What if I said I needed to go back to Glimming Hollow?”

The Tinman takes a long draw on the cigarette, squinting his eye against the plume of smoke. When he exhales, he answers, “I’d say you’re fucking insane.”

“I have a good reason.”

“Doubtful.”

“There’s a fortune teller there—”

“Crice.” He turns for the door. I trail behind him.

“She gave me a warning about Rook.”

The Tinman responds over his shoulder. “And you didn’t listen to it?”

I ignore him. “She also warned me about you.”

“And somehow you’re still here.”

“Silas—”

He spins on me. “Do not call me that.”

The sudden edge to his expression has me swallowing back a lump in my throat. “Okay. What do I call you then?”

“Tin,” he answers. Smoke ribbons from the cigarette captured between his knuckles. “Tinman. Tin Woodman. Not Silas. Not ever.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.” He turns back around.

“I need to go to Glimming Hollow.”

He grumbles and his pace slows. “I could stand to refill my Oil. But I’d bet a hundred piats you’re dead by tomorrow.”