Chapter 24
There’s one problem with the Nomad’s train heist plan.
It requires Venus to make herself invisible.
The lot of us sit in the Nomad’s office, hours into trying to figure out how to extract her magic from the empty canvas.
Even Lars has run out of ideas.
Which is probably why he’s currently rambling off statistics about marriages between those who grew up in vastly different classes.
The numbers aren’t good.
You sure all of this is worth it? I write, pushing the writing pad over to Acel.
“I don’t care about Lars’s statistics,” he says.
No, I know you don’t. I mean is the princess worth having to listen to Lars?
That earns a chuckle from Acel, but he quickly turns somber. “I’d give anything to be with her. Were I gifted a thousand lives, every one of them would be spent chasing her.”
The Nomad’s quill screeches against the parchment upon which he’s writing.
“That’s a line straight out of a Noctorious poem if I’ve ever heard one,” says Venus, leaning back in her chair and tossing an apple into the air. If she notices the hurt flash across Acel’s expression, she doesn’t acknowledge it.
Noctorious.
Something clicks into place in my mind.
I grab the nearest sheet of parchment and begin to write. What was the poem you quoted? The Noctorious one?
I shove it toward the Nomad, who reads it, then says, “To look but not see, to touch but not feel, Is this love, or is this real?”
I clap my hands together. Everyone in the room startles except for the Nomad. “Are you finally coming around to the genius of Noctorious, or—”
I stand from my seat and stare at the blank canvas before me.
To look but not see, I write. Venus, you said Vulcan was a Noctorious enthusiast?
“Not the word I’d use, but yes.”
“What are you thinking, Wanderer?” says the Nomad.
To touch but not feel.
I stare directly at the Nomad as I write, Gloves. The thief was wearing gloves.
“As proud of you as I am for noting the man’s taste in fashion…” The Nomad pauses, then… “Ah.”
“Am I missing something?” says Acel.
“It’s just those two speaking their own language,” says Phoenix, but with no vitriol in her voice.
The Nomad breaks into a smile across from me. Then, whipping a pair of leather gloves out of his pocket, he dons them. Crossing over to the other side of the table, he hovers his gloved hands over the painting for a moment.
When his fingertips graze the painting, it vanishes, and so does the Nomad.
Venus gasps, the sound almost strained.
“No,” Phoenix whispers, more in disbelief and wonder than anything.
“Well done, Wanderer.” The Nomad’s voice comes from behind us, and we as a group spin around to find him leaning against the far wall, the painting propped against the wall.
Venus takes a slow step forward, disbelief and longing written all over her face.
The Nomad pulls his gloves off then tosses them. Venus snatches them out of the air, almost greedily. When she touches the canvas and disappears, all that’s left of her is a single choked sob.
When she reappears, tears stain her cheeks.
“Not to be a pessimist,” says Acel, “but isn’t it slightly problematic if we have to carry a canvas around with us during a heist?”
“Yes, well, one step at a time. Why don’t we just celebrate this victory?” says the Nomad.
But Phoenix’s mind is already racing. “No, he used to taunt us. Tell us there was a way to get our power back. We just had to figure it out.”
I can’t help but notice that she’s not exactly racing to her painting.
“My left hand,” Venus whispers. “I don’t have feeling in my left hand.”
This time, when Venus grazes her hand over the canvas, she does so with her left. Immediately, she vanishes, but the canvas remains visible. When she reappears on the other side of the room, she’s grinning.
The Nomad speaks. “Now the question is—”
Without touching the canvas on the other side of the room, Venus disappears again.
“Well,” says the Nomad. “Consider my question answered.”