Chapter 10
I had him back there, I scribble on the notepad as soon as the Nomad leads me back to his office. The slog through the mud on the way back to the Nomad’s ship was frustrating, to say the least, and not because of the pelting rain.
I’d wanted so badly to tell him off. But one can only do so much with facial expressions in the dark.
The silent treatment doesn’t go quite as far when you can’t speak to begin with.
“Ah, couldn’t wait to get that out, could you?” he says, glancing at the parchment before taking a seat at his desk.
I freeze, all except for my fingers, which tremble on the quill in reaction to his flippant comment. I would snap back at him, except my shaking hands render my retort illegible, anyway.
The Nomad glances at my hands, then back up at me, his smirk disappearing somewhere between the shaking quill and my flared nose.
“I shouldn’t make light of your condition,” he says.
It’s not quite an apology, and it sounds more like a statement about some code he’s violated than anything to do with my feelings.
It surprises me all the same, though the concession is probably only because he’s not stupid and wants to keep me from leaving.
“I know you had him back there,” he says.
Then why did you sabotage me?
“Because you’re not a killer.” He says it so casually.
You don’t know me.
The Nomad pauses, watches me for a long while. It’s a game, and he’s waiting for me to break eye contact. I don’t.
Finally, he’s the one to break, but not with his eyes.
“I don’t mean that you don’t have it in you.
Granted, I don’t think you’d murder anyone in cold blood.
But I think if it came down to your survival and theirs…
Well, you don’t keep your fingernails that long to serve as a letter opener, I presume.
What I mean is that you haven’t killed before. ”
I blink, confused. How did you know that?
“I just know,” he says, frustrating me all the more.
You could answer at least one of my questions directly, I write.
The Nomad nods toward the desk chair facing him. “I’d ask you to sit, but that particular gesture has not been well received as of late.”
When I don’t sit, he says, “Killing taints the soul in a manner nothing else quite matches. I didn’t want you to waste it on such a boring kill as that buffoon.”
He’s teasing me, but there’s a hint of sadness behind his words, something I can’t quite unlock.
Surely the Nomad, the notorious criminal, feels no guilt about all the people he’s killed.
He might be correct about it tainting the soul, but from everything I know about killers, the act calluses the soul as well.
“Don’t worry,” he says. “I won’t stop you from killing the right person.”
Not sure what to make of that, I tap my fingers on his desk.
“Well, now we wait, I suppose,” he says. “Assuming you’re correct about Phoenix and Venus returning. But I would have preferred avoiding a delay.”
I take the notepad and write, If you’re waiting for an apology, you’re not going to get it.
The Nomad actually laughs at that one. “You think me simple. Still, while we wait to see whether you’ve ruined any hopes of us getting what we want, we might as well make the time productive.”
I recede my chin, to which the Nomad waves his hand. “I’m not coming on to you.” He says it as if the thought repulses him, which I might find offensive if I didn’t feel similarly. “You are in my employ, after all.”
I roll my eyes. It’s not as if you’re against coercion.
“Yes, well, even coercion has its line. That’s why it’s not called force.
But that’s beside the point. I’m not coercing you.
What would be coercion is if I had your voice and was holding it over you so that you would do my bidding.
What I meant, before you assumed me vile once again, is that we’re going to have to find a more efficient way for you to communicate. ”
Reflexively, my hand covers the pocket that contains my tiles.
“I’m not talking about those,” says the Nomad. “Clearly they’re sentimental and you’ll refuse to use them anyway, but even if you agreed, they’re rather cumbersome.”
Writing works just fine.
“Yes, well, it’s not much use from across a room.
I don’t know how many heists you’ve conducted, but occasionally we will have to communicate from a distance.
Do you sign?” He says it, not condescendingly so much as in confirmation, which is why I don’t mind shaking my head and admitting to that gap in my knowledge.
I lost my voice as an adult, I write. There was never any reason for me to learn signs as a child.
“That’s what I figured,” he says, “I imagined Peter didn’t bother teaching you while on the island. We’ll have to have lessons then.”
I frown. With you?
“Yes, with me,” he says. “What? Do you think me incapable of teaching?”
Why do you know sign?
“I steal things for a living,” he says. “It is in my best interest to be able to communicate silently with my team.”
Your crew can sign?
He nods.
All of them?
“Every last one. Although, we will be bringing some new members onto the crew. Which means that—don’t you worry—not all of our lessons will be one-on-one. I’m sure you’re thrilled to discover that.”
I consider this for a moment. I don’t love being alone with the Nomad, but something tells me having Venus as a classmate—assuming she and Phoenix decide to join us—is not going to be particularly pleasant either.
When I write as much, the Nomad laughs. “Well, I can’t argue with that. Good to know you find me more pleasant than Venus.”
I refuse to let a smile grace my lips.
“I’m working under the assumption that you’re a swift learner,” he says. “Estellian is a complicated language to learn to write, especially since it shares so few similarities with Kruschian. Yet you’ve mastered it in less than a year, assuming Lady Whittaker taught you.”
How the Nomad knows I’m Kruschian, I don’t know. But he did tell me he does his research.
I’m a quick learner, is all I write.
“Good,” he says. “Then let’s begin.”
Not yet.
“What else do you plan today?” He scowls at me.
Eat, I write.
The Nomad dons an expression that could only be described as perplexed, then rings the bell on his table. A server enters.
“Bring me an order of pheasant and greens,” he says, “and mutton pie for my colleague.”
I would argue with the word “colleague,” given how he’s coerced me into this, except that I’m too hung up on the order he placed for me.
“My apologies,” he says. “I should have let you order for yourself.”
I don’t answer. I just swallow and stare down at the quill and parchment in front of me.
Mutton pie has been my favorite since I was a little girl.
A nightmare comes to mind, one in which I could smell it wafting from my parents’ cottage.
My mother was calling me in for dinner—except it wasn’t my mother, but a dream version, as dreams often twist reality.
I was lingering by the flowerbed, playing with my favorite rag doll, when a stranger came by, asking for directions.
By the time the dream was over, he was holding me to the ground by my throat.
Now, here in his office, I search his face for any sign that he’s taunting me, but the Nomad seems as oblivious as ever to his appearances in my nightmares.
“Would you like to reorder? I can call the servant back in here,” he says.
I shake my head.
“Very well,” he says. “We’ll start with the simple signs.”
He shows me things like “eat” and “drink,” mostly actions. And while they’ll be useful when I’m around the ship, I write a question onto the parchment: Are we going to be doing much eating and drinking during the heist?
“You never know how long it’ll take and whether you’ll need a snack for sustenance,” he says, then smiles. “But fine. You caught me. I was trying to be polite. I thought we’d start with words that would be useful to you while onboard, but I see you’re all business.”
I raise my brow at him. Are you complaining?
“You’re right. You are a quick learner,” the Nomad says after an hour or so of lessons.
I smirk as I draw the sign for “retreat.” I’ve been sketching pictures of the signs in the notepad he gave me since the lesson started.
By the time I glance back up, the Nomad’s face has turned serious.
“In that tavern—you could have left. Surely somewhere in town, you could have procured yourself some parchment and a quill, or wood to carve your own tiles.” He glances at my pocket.
“What makes those so special? Why couldn’t you leave them? ”
I did leave them, I write.
“Only once it was clear you had to, or else suffer physical danger. But in the moment,” he says, “before you were thinking of your own safety, you were thinking of how you couldn’t lose those. Those little chips of wood.”
All of a sudden, it feels like my heart is gnawing on itself. They help me communicate, I write, then, feeling as if that isn’t enough, add, Of course I didn’t want to leave them.
The Nomad gives me the kind of look that says, Do you really think I’m stupid enough to believe that?
You wouldn’t understand, I write. I’m sure with how much you enjoy hearing the sound of your own voice, you’d get sentimental about some tiles too.
“It is quite a nice voice,” says the Nomad with a smirk. “You can tell me, you know,” he adds. “I won’t mock you. Who made them for you?”
I made them myself.
“Well, that’s a bald-faced lie, isn’t it?” says the Nomad. “Who made them for you?”
When I don’t answer, he says, “What? Are you afraid I’m going to hunt this person down?”
I stare at the Nomad. The weight of the tiles, usually comforting, now feels so heavy pressing against me. There’s nothing I can do to protect John. No harm the Nomad could bring to him.
That would be difficult to do, I write, considering he’s dead.
I can’t quite decipher the look on the Nomad’s face. But he pauses and says, quietly, “I’m sorry to hear that.”
I snort. The Nomad leans back in his chair. “Truly—what have I done to make you believe I’d be happy about the death of someone kind enough to make those for you? I might not be a hero, but I’m not completely depraved. What was his name?”
I give him a look that says, Why do you care?
“You said it yourself,” he replies. “There’s nothing I can do to hurt him.”
If John were here, he’d tell me to be strategic about this. Barter for information. Tell me how you intend to get my voice back.
The Nomad narrows his eyes, but he answers all the same.
“As I understand it, it was the Middle Sister who stole your voice and used it to bind Neverland. I’m sure you’re aware that the Middle Sister and Eldest Sister have a tenuous relationship.
Have had for centuries now. Well, the Middle Sister must have angered the Eldest. Not sure what about, but I suppose it doesn’t matter.
Long story short, the Eldest Sister stole your voice from the Middle Sister.
I suspect she enjoys holding it over the Middle Sister’s head.
Can you imagine the joy she derives from holding the key to destroying Neverland? ”
My gut twists. Not for a love of Neverland. I wouldn’t mind if that place were wiped from existence. But I can’t say I’m fond of the idea of the Eldest Sister threatening to destroy my voice out of spite for her Sister.
It does, at the very least, make me feel the tiniest bit better about initially refusing to help. If it’s the Eldest Sister’s lair the Nomad wants to break into, then I never really had a shot at helping Captain Astor anyway.
“Your turn to answer me,” says the Nomad.
I pull a single tile from my pocket. Feel the familiar weight of it in my palm before I open it to show him. John.
“John,” says the Nomad. “Wendy Darling’s brother.”
An ache rises in my chest, a longing to hold the tile close, but that feels too intimate a gesture for the Nomad to witness.
“That’s why you did what you did to Peter, isn’t it?” he asks, curious.
You shouldn’t be surprised, I write. You knew I wouldn’t be able to resist the opportunity to punish him.
The Nomad answers, but slowly. “I knew from digging around that he was involved in taking your voice. I figured that would be reason enough for revenge. What I hadn’t realized was that he’d taken someone from you as well.”
Guilt stirs in me, sudden and sharp. He’s twisting the death of my friend against me. Using it to make me confide in him, cause me to trust him.
I did what I did to Peter for me and me alone, I write.
“Now, I believe that almost as much as I believe John was simply a friend,” says the Nomad.
I shove the tile back into my pocket and stand to leave.
“Tink,” he says as I reach the door. “If the boy knew you remembered him so fondly, I’m sure he would have been honored.”
I linger like that, my hand on the door, then turn toward him, where I find us locked in eye contact—some unspoken challenge passing between us, though I’m not sure what game we’re playing or what the rules are.
But then the doorknob twists, and as I step back to make room, in enters the servant from before, the smell of mutton pie wafting through the room.
It’s then that I remember to be afraid.