“I don’t even know how to use a quill,” he said. “And I can’t read any of that stuff anyway. The ring doesn’t let me read, I can only understand your language when you speak.”
“I can show you how to use a quill. What do you write with where you’re from?”
“That’s not the point. I’m stuck here with nothing to do, no way to communicate, and no idea if I’m ever going to see my home again.”
He was right. I’d been so focused on the immediate questions—where he’d come from, who might have sent him—that I’d forgotten about the practicalities. I stood, moving to the desk, and picked up a quill.
“Come here,” I said, sitting at the desk and pulling a small footstool over beside me.
He didn’t move, just stared at me for a long moment.
“Listen, I can’t control what happened to you, but I can give you this. I’ll get you as much paper as you need.”
He blinked at me, then sighed and slid off the bed and sat on the stool beside me. He was small—barely coming up to my chest—and he smelled of the lavender soap I kept in the guest water closet. I dipped the quill in ink and made a mark on the paper.
“Like this,” I said. “You hold it here, and move it across the page.”
He took the quill from me, his fingers brushing mine, and tried to mimic my movements. The result was a wobbly line that bore only a passing resemblance to the mark I’d made.
“It’s different where I’m from,” he said. “We write with ink, but they’ve invented a way to keep the ink inside the pen. You don’t have to dip them.”
I nodded. “That sounds efficient.”
He tried again, with the same result. “This is stupid.”
“I can see what else we have.”
He looked up at me, eyes wide. “You’d do that?”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“I don’t know. Because I’m a prisoner?”
“But not because you did something wrong. Just because some in the court don’t understand you. Personally, I’m fairly certain you’re exactly what you claim to be.”
“Which is...”
“A twink,” I said, and he laughed, the sound bright and sudden in the quiet room.
“Exactly,” he said. “Just a regular twink, dropped into a magical land.”
I pulled a stick of charcoal from the drawer and handed it to him. “Try this. Do you like to draw?”
He took it, his fingers warm against mine, and guided it across the paper. This time, the line he drew was smooth and controlled. “I’ve used charcoal before.”
“That’s better.” He made another mark, then another, his hand moving quickly across the page. “I used to draw all the time when I was a kid. Before...”
“Before?”
He shrugged. “Before life got complicated. Back when people paid for me to take art classes.”
I watched as he worked, his hand moving with unexpected grace. He was drawing a flower—a simple thing, with five petals and a stem. It was crude but recognizable, and there was something about the concentration on his face, the way his lower lip caught between his teeth, that made it difficult to look away.
“This is awesome,” he said, stepping back to admire his work. “I mean, it’s not going to win any awards, but it’s better than nothing.” He turned to me, beaming. “Thank you.”
“Perhaps I’ll bring you paints, too?”
“Ooh! Paints? Really!”
