Chapter 42
“Where will you go? When all of this is over, I mean. Once you have your voice back?”
The question comes out of nowhere, the Nomad staring off into the night sky.
The way his feet dangle off the edge of the cliff—the lower one, as we didn’t have the energy to climb back up to the top—almost makes him look childlike.
Boyish. And I wonder if this is the first glimpse I’m getting of the child who was silenced by his father, silenced by a dangerous world he didn’t choose for himself.
Lars headed back to the ship an hour ago, after diagnosing us with both being alive and being idiots.
We’d stayed behind, giving our clothes a chance to dry in the sun and for the Nomad to recover from his fall.
Now the sun has slipped over the horizon. The stars twinkle above us, curious and quiet.
I don’t know, I sign.
The Nomad turns toward me. “Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it.”
My stomach twists, and because I’m not fluent enough with the signs to say what I’m thinking without it sounding choppy, I take the pen and write, I’ve mostly just thought about what it would be like to have my voice back.
“Tell me what it will be like.”
I swallow, then write, I’ll feel the vibrations in my throat.
It’s a strange thing to miss, I know. But…
I take my hand and caress that small area of skin.
And my nose too, I write hastily. When I was a child, I used to sing, then touch my nose to feel the vibrations.
It’s stupid, not at all the point of speaking, but there’s something about…
I pause.
“I love when you do that.”
I lift a brow to him in question, and he nods toward the quill pressed to my lips. I hadn’t even noticed I was doing it.
I blush, my mouth hanging slightly agape. Now that I’ve completely forgotten my train of thought, I dart my eyes back over the paper, scanning it for clues. One of the few benefits of having to write down my conversations, I suppose.
I miss having an impact on the world, on my environment, I write. It’s stupid, but the vibrations—they’re proof my existence affects something. Changes something. That I’m not simply gliding through this world aimlessly.
“You freed all of those faeries,” says the Nomad. “I highly doubt they consider you to be ineffectual.”
Yes, well, that was something, I suppose, I say. But there’s something about my voice—I used to be able to change minds, not just situations. Now—
Again, my pen hovers.
Now, no one has to listen to me. It’s much harder to stopper one’s ears than it is to avert one’s eyes. I’m so easily ignored.
I think back to Venus, to her disdain for having to wait on me to communicate. Tears sting at my lids, and I swallow.
“I would have to disagree with that,” says the Nomad. “I personally have quite a lot of difficulty averting my eyes from you. And believe me, I’ve tried.”
When I look up at him, he’s staring at me as if he’s finally given himself permission.
Something taps at the back of my mind. Why did you learn to sign?
“I told you, it comes in handy during heists.”
I shake my head. There were multiple times during the heist on the train when it would have been more prudent for you to sign to the others. But you didn’t think to. Because you’re not used to signing during heists.
The Nomad’s lip upticks. “Why can’t I get anything past you?”
Why did you learn to sign?
I bear down too hard on the question mark, and the ink makes blotches on the page. I don’t know why this feels so important. So crucial. But there’s something about the question that bears down on me.
The Nomad grimaces. Opens his mouth, closes it, then tries again. “When I met Wendy Darling, she told me you couldn’t speak. I sent one of my officers out to find a tutor fluent in sign that very day.”
Why? I ask. Why am I so crucial to your heist that you would put in all that effort? Why not just find another faerie? You broke those out of the train easily enough.
“I didn’t want another faerie. I wanted you.”
My pen trembles in my hand.
“You’re not going to ask me why again?”
I swallow, not sure I want the answer anymore.
Over the past few days, I realize I’ve convinced myself that I can change the future. For years, I believed the Nomad was hunting me down to kill me, and though that’s how our story always ends, I can’t help but wonder if he doesn’t know that. If he has no idea.
“Come with me,” he says, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t make indication of where he means.
I cock my head in question.
“When all of this is over, when we’ve robbed the Eldest Sister and you have your voice back, I’m asking you to come with me.”
My eyes go wide. My heart stops in my chest. My pen hovers over the parchment, dripping ink.
Why? I sign after placing the ink quill down on the grass beside me. It occurs to me only afterward that I should have asked where instead.
The Nomad leans forward, placing both hands on either side of me. “Because, Wanderer. I’m tired of waiting.”
He searches my face for an answer, but all I can give him is wide eyes, a look of terror and indecision.
You barely know me, I write.
At that, the Nomad releases the wryest of chuckles. “Is that so? I’ve spent years learning you.”
My heart patters in my chest, and I write.
You can spend years researching someone, chasing the person they are on paper.
Years crafting them into the image of who you think they are, who you’d like them to be.
But that’s all it is. An image, one that came from your head, not a reflection of who I am.
“And what is the image your mind has come up with for me?”
The question strikes deep, and not for the first time, I find myself wondering if the Nomad knows about my dreams after all.
“Come with me,” he says again, this time leaning in and whispering it in my ear.
“Wherever you want to go, Wanderer, I’ll make sure you not only find your destination, but are catered to on the way.
If you want a seaside cottage, it’s yours.
If you want to spend the rest of your years at sea, I’ll captain the ship.
If you want to hide away in a mountain, I’ll carry you to the top and never feel the need to climb back down. ”
I don’t have an answer for him, but when he presses a kiss to my ear, then trails his lips down my jaw, ending a hair’s-breadth away from my lips, I don’t have a no for him either.
He pulls away first, leaving my stomach hollow.
When he turns his eyes down to my hands for my answer, I sign, and he lets out a chuckle, then runs his hands through his hair. “Well, I suppose that’s better than I’d hoped for.”
When he turns to go, I stay for a while, my hands still folded in the shape of maybe.