Chapter 19
CHAPTER 19
JOHN
D isappointment jabs at my side. Like when Father used to make me run with him in the morning and I always ended up with cramps.
So, Tink doesn’t like it. I shouldn’t care. It’s not like I’ve stayed up until the wee hours of the night the past several days planning the perfect communication board for her. I’d had to recruit Benjamin for help—he’s excellent at whittling, and my left hand presents a dexterity problem. I’d told him it was for Michael, of course. As much as I trust Benjamin to be well-meaning, he doesn’t know when to keep quiet, and I don’t want him knowing I’m making this for Tink and that information getting back to Peter. I’d ended up asking Benjamin for two boards. In truth, I’d wanted one for Michael as well, as his is collecting dust in Darling Manor. I’d claimed that it’s useful to have one that’s portable and one that stays in our room. Benjamin had over-delivered, presenting me with two wooden boards with carved inlets in which to place communication tiles.
Still, I’d put a lot of thought into the words (and symbols to match the words) that I’d had Benjamin carve into the wood.
A faint giggle echoes from behind the bars. Tink is watching me. Laughing at me. When she sees I’m paying attention to her now, she pushes out her bottom lip in a dramatic pout.
Great, my prisoner is mocking me.
I’m afraid your son doesn’t possess the presence befitting a male heir , I hear in the back of my mind.
I shouldn’t have held onto the words of my father’s advisor this long. I shake the voice, grasping at me from the past, out of my mind.
I release a slow exhale and adjust my glasses, still sliding down my nose. If only I’d remember to fix the wire frame, this wouldn’t happen. I’ve just been so busy with everything else.
As if on cue, Tink pushes at the bridge of her nose, the space between her eyes crinkling. There’s cruelty in her eyes when she opens them.
“Ah. Acting like a child today, I see,” I say back, impressed with my ability to keep my voice unaffected. “Well, that’s good, because since you don’t like my communication board, we have to resort to childish drawings.”
I push the journal back through the bars, which she plucks up with her hideously long fingernails.
Hideous is a strange word when referring to Tink. It truly only applies to her fingernails, nothing else. I note as much as she tucks the journal into her lap and draws her knees into herself, I assume to keep me from seeing whatever she’s sketching. Like she doesn’t want to give it away before the big reveal.
There’s a softness that overcomes her usually harsh features as she draws. Maybe it’s the way she bites her bottom lip in focus, or the slight crinkle on the skin between her eyebrows, but when Tink’s focused, she almost looks pleasant.
Almost.
She’s always pretty. Always beautiful. But never in an inviting way. That’s probably fair, I remember with a sting of guilt. I’ve tortured her, after all. There’s no reason for her to want me to look at her.
When she’s done, she plops the quill back into the bottle, splashing ink on her already stained fingers, then waves the journal in the air like a fan. Once the sketch is dry, she hands it back over to me.
I’m not sure what I was expecting, but it wasn’t for my bowels to turn inside out at the sight of the rendering.
It’s a sketch of me. More accurately, it’s a sketch of my corpse. A rather accurate rendering of what I might look like dead. And it’s a sketch of Tink, too, munching on my arm like it’s the perfect breakfast.
I look up at her over the journal. “I see you started with my already maimed hand,” I say, holding up my left hand and my stump of a finger.
The caged faerie winks.
Later that evening, I can’t help but notice that Smalls is sulking in the Den.
“What’s wrong, buddy?” I use the gentlest, most brotherly voice that I can. Like I would use with Michael, who sits beside me, lining up the peas he pocketed during dinner—organized largest to smallest, of course.
Smalls shoots me a look of suspicion. “Nothing,” he says, pushing past me, his face reddening.
“That’s not true,” says Benjamin, without looking up from the toy boat he’s whittling for Michael. “Smalls is upset because he’s been leaving food out for Tink, and she hasn’t come to get it in a while.”
My stomach turns over, and I don’t miss the way Simon, who has been tossing loose roots into the fire, perks to attention.
“Why are you leaving food out for Tink?” I ask, trying to keep my pitch from hiking.
Smalls turns around and shrugs, his shoulders slumping. “I dunno.”
I turn to Benjamin for another answer, but he’s back to whittling, his focus homed in on the anterior mast.
“Probably has a little crush on her, don’t you, Smalls?” says Simon. Though his voice is just as cheerful as when we first arrived on the island, there’s no missing that he’s dropped several pounds, the way his fingers tap against his thighs. Perhaps he’s still dealing with the aftereffects of killing Nettle in defense of the rest of us.
“No!” Smalls’s face has flushed red, his quick outburst causing his hair to flurry up on his forehead a bit. “I just thought she might get hungry, that’s all. And now that she hasn’t picked up the food I set out…” He trails off, unwilling to finish the sentence.
Despite myself, a bit of sympathy flares up in my heart for the boy. I understand the aching disappointment that comes from failing to protect another. “I’m sure a faerie like Tink knows how to take care of herself,” I say.
Smalls looks less than convinced, but more than that, he looks like there’s something he’s not telling me. He darts his gaze about the room, as if checking for the other boys’ permission.
“She’s not emotionally stable,” Simon explains, noting the younger boy’s distress. Even as he says it, something I can’t quite place flashes across his face. A hint of irony in the way he chuckles and supports himself on his knee while sitting. I can’t get a read on Simon lately. It’s like he’s still himself, just on the edge and at risk of teetering off. “Before Neverland, Peter took care of her. Made sure her needs were attended to.”
I frown. The Tink I know can write, though not in any language I understand, and seems rather capable of taking care of herself. Though maybe she’s afflicted with an illness that causes that to fluctuate. Or maybe Peter assumed Tink couldn’t take care of herself because of her inability to speak vocally. Either way, it doesn’t sit quite right with me.
“And once she got here?” I ask, uncomfortable with where my curiosity is coming from. Doing this for Wendy, I remind myself.
Simon sighs. “Peter tried, but she couldn’t be reasoned with. She ran off, but still wanted him. Her moods were all over the place. He was worried she’d starve, forget to eat, that sort of thing. So he always left out food for her.”
“Until?” I ask.
“Until she attacked Wendy. That was it for him. After that, he cut her off,” admits Simon.
I turn to Smalls. “So you started sneaking food to her?”
Smalls looks down at his feet. “She shouldn’t have hurt Wendy, but…” He swallows. “I just didn’t want her to be hungry.”
I nod, not knowing what else to say.
Once Smalls shuffles back out of the room, and Benjamin has retired for the night, I turn back to Simon.
“What happened to her before Neverland?” I ask, too cautious to ask why Tink can’t speak. I’d rather not tip Simon off regarding my close encounters with the faerie. Still, my curiosity can’t help itself. I have to know if it’s a congenital condition, or something that happened to her.
I worry that it’s abuse she endured.
Simon just stares at me for a moment, then says, “Ask Victor.”
I find Victor in his room, sharpening the blade of his dagger on a piece of flint.
“What happened to Tink before Neverland?” I ask.
“What happened to Tink before Neverland?” Michael repeats, in an almost exact impression of my tone.
Victor frowns at me, looking up from his blade as he shifts on his bed. “Why? Have you found her?”
“No.” I tuck my hands into my pockets, shaking my head. I know better, but I look away, not able to bear lying to Victor’s face.
If he notices, he doesn’t bring it up. Instead, he says, “When Peter found her, she was with a traveling circus.”
I frown. “Tink worked for a circus?” It’s hard to imagine Tink having the patience to entertain crowds.
Victor grimaces. “She didn’t work for a circus. She was one of the displays.”
My stomach turns over, hollows out. “Why would anyone want to put Tink on display?”
Victor frowns in confusion, then realization dawns on his face. “Right, I’ve forgotten you’ve never seen her.”
My face must turn green, because Victor shakes his head. “I’m with you. It’s disgusting. But that doesn’t mean I can’t infer what their motives were. She has the misfortune of being both beautiful and rare.” He runs his hand through his dark hair, sighing. “That’s probably why Thomas and I used to chase her down and torture her, as much as that makes me sick to think about now.”
“How do you know this? About the circus, I mean?” I ask.
Victor places his blade on the bed next to him, then rubs his palms over his thighs. “When Peter discovered what Thomas and I were doing to her, he took us aside and explained the horrors that had happened to Tink. How they made her who she is today. I’ve never felt so guilty as the moment he told us about finding her in a cage, lined up next to the circus animals.”
It feels as if I’ve been dunked in ice water. They kept her in a cage.
“Why didn’t you tell me this before?” I ask.
Victor frowns. The bed creaks as he shifts his weight, cocking his head. “I didn’t know it was relevant.”
I groan, rubbing my eyes. “Of course it’s relevant.”
“Well, now you know.”
I wish I didn’t.
That night, I sneak back to the cave.
As I undo the latch on the cave cell, Tink watches me, gaze steady.
Her hands are trembling by her sides. When she notices me glancing at them, she tucks them behind her back and offers me what I imagine is the most intimidating smile she can muster.
It’s fairly effective.
“I’m not here to hurt you again,” I say, fiddling with the lock. I can hardly look her in the face as I say it, so I have to avert my eyes. My mouth goes dry, and as I feel for the feedback of the pick, the lock clicks. For a moment, I wonder if I’m about to die. If she’s going to come bursting from the cage and break my neck. Maybe that will be too quick of a death for her captor, and she’ll want to feast on me alive instead.
I’m fairly certain she’s not actually a cannibal. But technically, eating me wouldn’t be cannibalism since she’s fae and I’m human, so I’m beginning to rethink that one.
Tink stands, her legs shaking, though I can’t tell if it’s from fear or lingering weakness from the rushweed. Still, she doesn’t attack. At least, she hasn’t yet. She looks me up and down, as if searching for evidence of some kind of trick or treachery. She must not find any, because she strides past me, hardly offering me a second glance as she exits the cage.
It’s as if I’m invisible to her. A mere blip, an inconvenience in her life’s story. I think back to what Simon said about Tink being mentally unstable. Will she even remember me, or will her time in this cage be indistinguishable from her nightmares?
“I apologize,” I say as she makes her way out, “for hurting you. It was morally wrong, and I can’t tell you how ashamed—”
When I glance up, Tink is already gone.