Page 50 of Freeing Hook

Still, I’d put a lot of thought into the words (and symbols to match the words) that I’d had Benjamin carve into the wood.

A faint giggle echoes from behind the bars. Tink is watching me. Laughing at me. When she sees I’m paying attention to her now, she pushes out her bottom lip in a dramatic pout.

Great, my prisoner is mocking me.

I’m afraid your son doesn’t possess the presence befitting a male heir, I hear in the back of my mind.

I shouldn’t have held onto the words of my father’s advisor this long. I shake the voice, grasping at me from the past, out of my mind.

I release a slow exhale and adjust my glasses, still sliding down my nose. If only I’d remember to fix the wire frame, this wouldn’t happen. I’ve just been so busy with everything else.

As if on cue, Tink pushes at the bridge of her nose, the space between her eyes crinkling. There’s cruelty in her eyes when she opens them.

“Ah. Acting like a child today, I see,” I say back, impressed with my ability to keep my voice unaffected. “Well, that’s good, because since you don’t like my communication board, we have to resort to childish drawings.”

I push the journal back through the bars, which she plucks up with her hideously long fingernails.

Hideous is a strange word when referring to Tink. It truly only applies to her fingernails, nothing else. I note as much as she tucks the journal into her lap and draws her knees into herself, I assume to keep me from seeing whatever she’s sketching. Like she doesn’t want to give it away before the big reveal.

There’s a softness that overcomes her usually harsh features as she draws. Maybe it’s the way she bites her bottom lip in focus, or the slight crinkle on the skin between her eyebrows, but when Tink’s focused, she almost looks pleasant.

Almost.

She’s always pretty. Always beautiful. But never in an inviting way. That’s probably fair, I remember with a sting of guilt. I’ve tortured her, after all. There’s no reason for her to want me to look at her.

When she’s done, she plops the quill back into the bottle, splashing ink on her already stained fingers, then waves the journal in the air like a fan. Once the sketch is dry, she hands it back over to me.

I’m not sure what I was expecting, but it wasn’t for my bowels to turn inside out at the sight of the rendering.

It’s a sketch of me. More accurately, it’s a sketch of my corpse. A rather accurate rendering of what I might look like dead. And it’s a sketch of Tink, too, munching on my arm like it’s the perfect breakfast.

I look up at her over the journal. “I see you started with my already maimed hand,” I say, holding up my left hand and my stump of a finger.

The caged faerie winks.

Later that evening,I can’t help but notice that Smalls is sulking in the Den.

“What’s wrong, buddy?” I use the gentlest, most brotherly voice that I can. Like I would use with Michael, who sits beside me, lining up the peas he pocketed during dinner—organized largest to smallest, of course.

Smalls shoots me a look of suspicion. “Nothing,” he says, pushing past me, his face reddening.

“That’s not true,” says Benjamin, without looking up from the toy boat he’s whittling for Michael. “Smalls is upset because he’s been leaving food out for Tink, and she hasn’t come to get it in a while.”

My stomach turns over, and I don’t miss the way Simon, who has been tossing loose roots into the fire, perks to attention.

“Why are you leaving food out for Tink?” I ask, trying to keep my pitch from hiking.

Smalls turns around and shrugs, his shoulders slumping. “I dunno.”

I turn to Benjamin for another answer, but he’s back to whittling, his focus homed in on the anterior mast.

“Probably has a little crush on her, don’t you, Smalls?” says Simon. Though his voice is just as cheerful as when we first arrived on the island, there’s no missing that he’s dropped several pounds, the way his fingers tap against his thighs. Perhaps he’s still dealing with the aftereffects of killing Nettle in defense of the rest of us.

“No!” Smalls’s face has flushed red, his quick outburst causing his hair to flurry up on his forehead a bit. “I just thought she might get hungry, that’s all. And now that she hasn’t picked up the food I set out…” He trails off, unwilling to finish the sentence.

Despite myself, a bit of sympathy flares up in my heart for the boy. I understand the aching disappointment that comes from failing to protect another. “I’m sure a faerie like Tink knows how to take care of herself,” I say.

Smalls looks less than convinced, but more than that, he looks like there’s something he’s not telling me. He darts his gaze about the room, as if checking for the other boys’ permission.

---