Chapter 7
It’s a stupid move, one driven by emotion alone, but before I can think about my safety, I fold to my knees, scrambling after the runaway tiles. The men cackle, the rest in the tavern either laughing along or going silent as they watch the scene unfold.
With the edges of my palms, I slide the tiles across the floor, gathering them in a pile, but one of the tiles gets stuck in the floorboards. Laughter echoes across the tavern as I try to scoop them back into my hands.
Before I can gather them back into my pocket, one of the men kicks them with the side of his foot, sending them shooting across the floor.
My mouth struggles in an effort to cry out. As always, no sound emerges.
“Poor thing can’t even cry,” says the red-shirted man.
I lunge for the scattered tiles, but the men outnumber me, the other two joining in, this time launching them toward the fire with the sides of their boots.
“Shouldn’t be playing with children’s toys at your age,” says the leader of the pack.
“That’s enough,” shouts the man behind the counter. It’s not the bartender. No, this man has an air of authority about him.
The tavern goes silent.
I must be getting soft as I expect him to kick the men out. Instead, he points to me and says, “You. Out.”
I go to pick up the tiles, but just as my fingers linger over the “JOHN” tile, the man’s voice booms.
“I. Said. Out.”
And then I do something I figure I’ll be ashamed of the rest of my life. I stare up at him, not with anger, but pleading. Please, I beg silently. Please don’t make me leave them.
But the man’s arms are crossed. His head makes a sharp jerk toward the door.
I glance around the room once more, surveying my options.
Everyone is staring, no one bothering to raise a finger to help.
The hooded man in the corner is nursing his drink, either oblivious or indifferent to the scene unfolding across the room.
I long to fight, but this isn’t one I would win.
Even though there’s a part of me that would rather die than part with these tiles, I know it’s not what John would want.
It’s impractical, illogical. The tiles can no more bring me back than your mind can. Always the voice of reason, that stupid friend of mine.
When I haul myself to my feet, I’m not leaving behind carefully crafted pieces of wood, but fragments of myself. Stolen smiles. Silent laughs. The first joke I made in my years trapped in Neverland. A kiss that never was.
But when I turn and dust myself off, I don’t look back.
At least they won’t see the tears streaming down my cheeks.
The sky is cruel tonight, but who isn’t?
As I wander around town, searching for shelter for the night, rain pelts my face, soaking my cowl. The already heavy fabric clings to me, dragging me down. Not that it needed much help with the mud-soaked streets suctioning my boots.
It’s dark enough now that no one takes note of me. Well, that’s the one advantage of the downpour. I might have my head down to keep anyone from noticing me, but everyone else has theirs down too, desperately avoiding the cold pulse of rain on their faces.
I finally find an alley with the back door to what looks to be a tailor’s shop. A lean-to rests over the back door. While I imagine whoever owns it will kick me out come morning, I’ll at least get a few hours of shelter from the rain.
Tears have been streaming down my face ever since I left the tavern, melding with the rain.
So far I’ve kept the sobs in—the silent ones, but when I drop to the ground and find the dirt under the shelter just as muddy as the street—the lean-to, unfortunately, lacks a drainage system—the sobbing begins.
I can’t honestly say I’ve ever enjoyed crying, but there used to be a certain catharsis about it, a settling peace that washed over me after choking out sobs. Like they were releasing the tension from my chest. Now sobs are merely silent convulsions, a series of gagged seizures.
What I would give to scream—to take the stopper out of the bottle of rage bubbling inside of me.
My empty pocket might as well be a gaping hole in my chest.
I’ve hardly used the tiles since Lady Whittaker taught me to write, but tucked away in my pocket, they had been a steady weight at my hip, a gentle caress.
A way to stop thinking about John. A way to tuck him away for a while without feeling as if I were dismissing his memory.
The weight could remain with me, but instead of in my chest—inside my body, eating it away—it lingered on the outside, with my skin and clothes as a barrier.
Now that the familiar weight is gone, I have nowhere to hold the pain except inside me.
I’m so absorbed in my grief, face tucked into my cold hands, I don’t notice the footsteps approaching until a figure stands covered above me.
“Fancy meeting you here,” says a voice I’ve known since childhood.
I lift my face from my palms to find the Nomad, hooded and towering over me.
I should have known he never truly let me leave.
“Don’t worry. I didn’t follow you,” he says. “Well, not technically. I may or may not have gone ahead and bought a room at the only inn in town before you left the ship. Although I must say, I wasn’t certain you would show.”
I recall the hooded figure in the corner of the tavern, the one who had gone on drinking while everyone else jeered.
Anger simmers in my chest, at my fingertips, the realization that as I was humiliated, he sat and enjoyed a pint of ale.
“I won’t force you to come back with me,” the Nomad says. “But let me be clear.” He crouches so that he rests his elbows on his knees, so that I can see his full face now, his blue eyes dark. “I wish you would. At the risk of sounding petulant, you are my last hope.”
I turn away, choosing to stare at a knob in the lean-to instead of those haunting, familiar eyes. He’ll think I’m ignoring him, not that I’m uncomfortable making eye contact with him.
The Nomad sighs and stands, stretching his legs out. I think he’s about to leave when he turns back around and says, “Oh, almost forgot.” He reaches into the pocket of his cloak and draws out a coin purse. “I believe these are yours.”
He tosses it into the air, and I catch it just before it slams into the muddy ground. I don’t dare peek inside, but I don’t have to. I can feel the curve of the tiles through the fabric of the purse.
My breath catches, and before I realize what I’m doing, I glance up at him, eyes wide.
“I considered placing the thumbs of those men in the satchel along with the tiles, but I wasn’t sure whether that was the sort of gesture you would appreciate.”
He offers me a small smile, then turns to leave.
When he rounds the corner, I frantically open the satchel, the coin purse heavy. I have to see them with my own eyes, count them myself.
They’re all here—not one of them missing. The cool wood rubs against the pads of my fingers as I clutch the one that says my name to my chest and breathe.
I’m not foolish enough to believe this was a gesture of kindness.
Retrieving the tiles for me wasn’t about trust. Otherwise, he would have rescued me in the tavern instead of watching and waiting, allowing me to be humiliated.
My guess is that if this wasn’t exactly what he planned for, it had been a convenient surprise he’d quickly worked to his advantage.
He was hoping I’d be reminded of how helpless I am without my voice.
It’s not until I round the corner, racing to catch up with him, that I realize his plan worked.