Chapter 38
Our company turns out to be the Nomad’s first mate, who remains unbearably awkward around me. At first, I’m shocked that he managed to find us, but as he and the Nomad talk, it soon becomes clear that this is one of the many hideouts the Nomad has frequented over the years.
What is perhaps more shocking is the information he brings.
Because waiting for us back on the ship are Lars and Acel.
It only takes us two hours to get back to the cove where the Gathers is docked. When Phoenix asks the Nomad why he didn’t push us to walk the extra distance rather than resting in the cave, he doesn’t answer.
“Venus was right about one thing,” Phoenix had turned to me and said. “You’re his weakness.”
Once we board the Nomad’s ship, we’re greeted immediately by Lars and Acel.
“We didn’t think you’d show up,” says the Nomad. “Not after you ran off with our faerie dust in the middle of the night.”
“You didn’t think we’d show up?” Acel says. “We’ve been waiting for you.”
“You went back to the Gathers after stealing our faerie dust?” asks the Nomad. “What? Were you planning on stealing my crew as well?”
“It did cross his mind,” says Acel, looking at Lars.
I can’t tell if Lars pretends not to hear him, or is simply too caught up in the way he planned on this interaction going to notice a deviation from his expectations. “If it wasn’t for me, that Venus imbecile would have handed your faerie dust over to the Company.”
“You’re saying you knew she wasn’t dead,” says the Nomad.
“Of course I knew she wasn’t dead,” says Lars, as if the reason why he believed her not to be dead should be obvious to all of us. “Besides, if it was my intention to steal from you, I wouldn’t have come back to the ship now, would I?”
He has a point.
“All right. Now you,” he says, beckoning to me with an extended finger. “We have work to do on your wings.”
I shoot the Nomad a questioning look.
“You figured out how to make the unrefined faerie dust work?” says the Nomad, giving voice to my question.
“Obviously I figured it out,” says Lars, looking offended.
So when Lars walks down the hallway toward his lab, I don’t think. I simply follow.
“Take a seat on the countertop,” says Lars.
The metal beneath me is cold, even through my clothes.
“Now unbind your wings,” he says. “We don’t have much time.”
I’m not sure how true that is, or if he’s just feeling particularly excited and thus impatient. But I discard my shawl and let it fall to the ground.
The binder is another ordeal entirely, and when it becomes clear I don’t have the dexterity in my fingers to undo the metal clasp, the Nomad does it for me.
Once it falls, I allow my wings to stretch out.
Normally, letting them stretch would feel cathartic.
But my experience with Lars is that he cares very little about preventing pain, and I highly doubt catharsis will be what I feel once it’s over.
As it is, I find the limbs in my wings tense, tight.
“This,” Lars says, holding up and shaking out what looks to me like a strand of golden, glittering thread, “is the product of a sleepless night.”
“…and loud banging right across from my room while I’m trying to sleep,” mutters Acel under his breath.
Lars either doesn’t hear him or is ignoring him. Either way, he says, “It’s magnificent, don’t you see?”
“Is that the faerie dust?” asks the Nomad.
“What else would it be made of?” Lars says. “Or do you not remember all the effort we went to in order to procure this?”
“Right. My apologies,” says the Nomad, not sounding particularly apologetic at all.
“I know that in the past, stitches would have been too heavy to repair the faerie’s wings—”
“Her name is Tink,” interrupts the Nomad.
“—but as this is made from faerie dust itself, my hope is that it will become one with the membrane of the faerie’s—”
“Tink’s,” interrupts the Nomad again.
“—wings,” continues Lars as if he hadn’t been interrupted at all. “Thus solving our weight problem.”
I attempt to grab my quill, but my trembling fingers won’t close around the shaft. I wish to write, You mean they could be as good as new? Instead, I have to settle for using my entire arm to write new in the air in large letters.
“Of course I don’t mean that,” says Lars, apparently understanding my meaning. “I mean they could be better.”
“Right. How dare you imply otherwise?” says Acel to me with a comforting smile.
The Nomad glances back and forth between the two of us, an edge of concern on his face. But he masks it quickly enough when he notices I’m looking at him.
“Are you sure there won’t be any side effects?” he says.
I shoot the Nomad a questioning glance.
The Nomad must understand my meaning because he says, “Your ability to fly won’t do us very much good if you suddenly become a drug-addled lunatic.”
“Faerie dust only causes mental changes when ingested orally,” explains Lars. “Besides, she’s a faerie; it wouldn’t intoxicate her anyway.”
“I believe what he really means to ask,” says Acel, “is whether there’s any chance of physical harm to Tink?”
“Well, I don’t exactly have any other faerie to test it on, do I?
” says Lars. “And even if I did, given this one’s bleeding heart”—he glares at me with the same detestation as if he just found out I was to blame for the extinction of his favorite species of moth—“I very much doubt she would allow such testing.”
I grit my teeth and stare at Lars with a decisive nod.
“All right,” says Lars. “Although, you should know it will be quite painful. And as with anything involving breaking the skin barrier, there’s always a chance of infection. Which can be quite tricky to heal with faeries, given most healers only sell products formulated for humans and unwinged Fae.”
The Nomad tenses beside me. “You don’t have to do this, you know. We can find another way.”
I raise one brow, hoping my meaning is written on my face.
“All right, no,” he says. “This is the only way. But you don’t have to do it.”
Have to. What an interesting concept. If it didn’t hurt I would touch my throat. Feel the absence of my voice in its hollow cave.
Lars holds up two palms. “Do you want me to go quick”—he moves the fingers on his right hand—“or slow?”—he moves the fingers on his left hand.
I nod toward his right hand.
“But not too quick,” says the Nomad. “You know—precision and all.”
“You want me to remove him from the room?” asks Acel.
I give the Nomad a look that says behave yourself, and he opens his palms.
“My hands are yours when you need them,” he says.
And when Lars gets to work, I find that I do.