Chapter 32
CHAPTER 32
WENDY
T his time, when the officers of the ship assemble in the map room, I’m actually invited. As the meeting convenes, I sidle in to stand next to Charlie, who is propped on a stool cross-legged. Across the table is Astor, Maddox at his side, everyone else filling up the outer rim of the table.
I fight the urge to brush my fingers over the vellum map spread across the table.
“As some of you know, the tip Miss Darling over here” —Astor nods in my general direction without actually looking at me, and my heart skips at the mention of my name—“procured for us in Laraeth leads us in the direction of the Nomad.”
A series of murmurs bounce between crew members. Most of them sound like grumbles, suspicion abounding.
“I take it the Nomad isn’t going to be easy to find,” I whisper to Charlie, who purses her lips.
I also take it that when the captain said “some of you” he really just meant me, Charlie, and Maddox, given we’re the only ones who don’t seem surprised by the news.
“Not to sound pessimistic—” says Evans.
“Oh, are we trying out a new personality, then?” interrupts Maddox.
Evans just rolls his eyes and continues. “How likely is it that the Nomad even exists?”
Charlie shrugs. “I’ve heard of him.”
“Yes, well, we’ve all heard of embodied magic broken off from the Fabric of the realms, too, but I don’t hear the captain asking us to trek across the sea in search of them.”
“Next time,” Astor says with a sly smile and half of a wink. “And I have every reason to believe the Nomad is as real as anyone in this room. Vale would have known better than to sell the Carlisles information that was faulty. People don’t do that and live to see the light of day.”
“Except for us.”
Heads swivel in my direction. My face flushes. “I…I didn’t mean to say that out loud.”
“Wendy Darling,” says Astor, “are you trying to support my point or disprove it?” His green eyes are shimmering in the dim light, and though there’s nothing but command in his voice, his usual cruelty is absent.
“Neither,” I say, abashed. Astor’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly before he looks away.
The captain continues. “The Nomad has been charged with over three hundred crimes across three continents. The rumors about him might be rumors, but they’re consistent. His crimes are consistent, too. Assassination. Forgery. Trafficking.” Astor’s finger taps against the table at the mention of that last one.
“Yes, well, rumors also say that he never tells a lie, so we know not everything about him is true,” says Charlie.
“Why’s he called the Nomad?” I whisper to Charlie.
When she opens her mouth, Astor answers instead. “We direct our questions to the entire table.” I blush more than his tone calls for. He’s not scolding me, just informing me of the rules. Still, it’s as if everyone’s eyes are on me, considering me unworthy of being here.
“She wants to know—” says Charlie, but Astor cuts her off.
“Wendy can speak for herself.”
Charlie sighs, then nudges me in the side, and I swallow my anxiety, speaking louder than before. “Why do they call him the Nomad?”
Astor’s eyes flicker and take hold of mine. I quickly glance away.
Evans is the one who answers me. “Would you like the realistic answer, or the mystical one?”
“Both,” I say, then quickly add, “But save the best for last.”
Maddox grins. “He’s going to think you mean the realistic one.”
Even Astor’s mouth twitches.
Evans continues on as if everyone at the table isn’t making fun of him. “Those prone to wild fancies believe the Nomad traveled through other realms before settling in this one, though they don’t anticipate he’ll stay long. Thus, the name. Those of us with our heads attached to this realm of existence call him that because he has no home. Unless you count his fleet of ships.”
“How is that different from all of you?” I ask. A few people chuckle, though not at me. Astor’s lip twitches upward.
“If what’s said about him is true,” says Astor, bracing his hands on the map before him, “the Nomad brings his city with him.”
“A fleet of ships?” I ask.
“Something like that,” says Astor.
“That’s beside the point,” says Evans. “Even if we manage to find him, there’s still the problem of being allowed into his…community. Apparently, they’re quite strict about letting people in.”
“Yeah, you have to have a passcode,” says Maddox, looking like a child who’s just been given a baby dragon for Solstice. “That doesn’t sound too complicated. Just tell me who I need to charm.”
Everyone at the table laughs except for Charlie, who takes a drink.
“If only it were that simple,” says Astor. “Unfortunately for us, the password changes every forty-eight hours. Except for those who receive a personal invitation from the Nomad himself, only the inhabitants of the Nomad’s community know it.”
“So we find a way to get invited,” says Maddox, who I imagine has never suffered the experience of being left out.
Evans rubs his temples. “There’s slim chance of that.”
“You said the inhabitants know the passcode,” says Siv, the bald man who was in charge of securing Michael the night of the masquerade. He hasn’t exactly been polite to me since my arrival. Then again, I did distract him so that John could strike him over the head. “Meaning they leave the bounds of the community at some point. We could convince one of them to give up the password.” He strokes the edge of his dagger in emphasis.
Astor shakes his head. “Torture proves rather ineffective on those loyal to a cause. The Nomad isn’t simply a leader, he’s their purpose. By the time he’s done recruiting his followers, he has their loyalty for life.”
“Well, even that has an expiration date,” I say. Again, every head turns to me, and I realize I’ve mumbled under my breath again. I expect Astor to remind me of the table rules, but Siv answers first.
“How insightful. Really, Captain, I can’t believe you didn’t invite her to our meetings before now,” he says.
The words land at my chest, striking a blow in an already tender place. I stand on my tiptoes, waiting for Astor’s reaction. I can’t decide if I’m waiting for him to join in on scolding me or if I expect him to rip into Siv for openly disrespecting him.
He does neither.
Instead, he just looks at me, a challenge in his fiery green eyes. Go on , they seem to taunt. Or maybe taunt isn’t the right word. Prod. Stoke.
I search for my voice, and I find it somehow. “His followers might be loyal to him while they’re alive, but that doesn’t mean we can’t get the information out of them.”
“Do you speak to ghosts then?” says Siv.
Astor holds his hand up, silencing Siv, and smiles at me, the realization of what I’m thinking dawning on his face.
“Not quite,” I say, though not yet is what I should say. “But wraiths have a fondness for me. And they’re not always loyal to the people who created them.”
I would know, I don’t add, thinking of the wraith who succeeded in talking me off the side of this ship.
“Are you suggesting, Darling,” says Astor, “that we torture and kill one of the Nomad’s followers, then use the wraith that’s formed from their pain to obtain the passcode?”
The words get hung up in my throat. Astor’s staring at me. His question wasn’t a taunt. It’s genuine. Do you really want to become this? is the question dancing in his eyes.
I think back to Zane’s brothel. How many patrons Vulcan said frequented their business daily.
“I’m sure we can find someone who deserves it,” is all I say.
As the rest of the crew files out of the map room, I stay close to Charlie. It’s pitiful, but I’m still shaking from having spoken up in front of the entire crew.
“Charlie,” Astor calls out from behind us as we reach the door. “Do me a favor and leave Darling behind.”
For a moment, I consider whether my heart has actually ceased to exist. Charlie tosses Astor a conniving look over her shoulder, winks at me, then leaves me stranded.
“How’d you enjoy being a part of the scheming?” asks Astor, still rolling up maps on the table, clearing the space.
“Better this time,” I say, interlocking my fingers behind me so Astor won’t see me wringing them. “The sound quality is much better in here than it is in the hall.”
The captain presses his lips together in a half-smile. “Plus, you get a better view this way.”
I refuse to let myself blush. The captain isn’t referencing his own appearance anyway. “Much better than peering through the crack in the door,” I say. “You should really consider getting that fixed.”
“Noted,” he says.
I find myself swaying, bouncing on my toes impatiently as I pick at my fingernails behind my back, but the captain doesn’t seem to be in a hurry to address whatever it was he kept me back for. Finally, when I can’t stand it anymore, I clear my throat.
“Yes, Darling?” he asks, peering up from his papers, his green eyes lined evenly with his dark eyelashes.
“I…” I shake my head. “Was there something in particular you wished to discuss with me?”
The captain’s eyes flicker with amusement. “Nothing in particular.”
When I reach my rooms, I’m still buzzing from the excitement of having spoken up at the meeting. While I return to my usual habit of analyzing my words—annotating them and revising my points to sound more fluent, infusing my voice with more confidence than I’d had in the moment—I’m not as embarrassed of my imperfections as usual. It ends up being for the best that I can’t seem to calm my mind, because Charlie clearly has no intention of me getting any sleep.
She bursts into the room, then promptly drags me two floors below deck, explaining on the way that she has something to show me.
We arrive in a large storage closet where the maintenance supplies for the cannons are kept. In the corner is a table, across which dozens of metallic parts are strewn. Framed in greasy gadgets like the suckling pig at a Solstice dinner party is a long black barrel with a handle. It sits atop a black velvet piece of cloth, like Charlie couldn’t stand for something so beautiful to simply lie upon the desk.
“You know when you were talking about portable cannons?” asks Charlie, bouncing on her toes, her energy filling the cramped storage room with an infectious buzz.
“You invented one?” I ask, wonder striking me as I run my fingers over the smooth barrel.
Charlie looks abashed. “Well, sort of. It still needs some tweaking. And the design didn’t come entirely from me. You see, it’s been attempted before.” She rushes over to a pile of books on the table and flips through one, showing me countless pictures of similar prototypes. “The problem is that the faerie dust burns too hot for such a small barrel. The wrought can’t take the ignition inside, not like the thicker cannon barrels can. Several researchers have tried, but they always end up with damaged barrels.”
“But this one works?” I ask, tempted but somewhat frightened to pick up the small but intimidating object.
Charlie nods, though she bites her lip. “Snuck off yesterday and tested it while the rest of the gunners were firing routine test shots with the cannons.” She takes the weapon, her grip gentle enough to coax a wild creature, then pops open a compartment. She produces a metal ball from her pocket and clicks it in place before pressing the compartment closed. As quickly as she loaded it, she whips open the compartment again, emptying it. “It fired alright,” she says, peering down at the invention like she’s vacillating between pride and regret. “But the aim was off.”
She places the invention back on the table, wraps the handle in the velvet wrap—I assume so I don’t get my oily fingerprints on it—then hands it to me. When I hesitate, she gasps. “Oh, I forgot you hate the feel of velvet,” she says, quickly removing the velvet wrap and flinging it to the side, as if fingerprints no longer matter.
“How did you know that?” I ask.
“The captain told me to make sure that if you needed to borrow a gown again, to make sure that it didn’t have any velvet on it.”
A lump forms in my throat, but it’s not the painful sort. Charlie misinterprets my shocked gratitude for embarrassment and flits her hand. “Don’t worry about it. We all have our quirks. I can’t wear necklaces. Makes me feel like I’m choking.”
“How’d you keep the faerie dust from melting the barrel?” I ask, eager to stop talking about the captain.
Charlie glances up at me, looking somewhat guilty. “The faerie dust that’s used to power the ship or lanterns or whatever else—it’s been altered in the factories. I used to watch them do it—take raw faerie dust and concentrate it—back when my family’s business thrived. I got to thinking, what if the faerie dust wasn’t so concentrated? What if it was raw?”
When I offer her a confused look, she pulls a pouch from her pocket. My eyes widen in recognition. It’s Peter’s pouch, the same Charlie had convinced me to throw overboard.
“I switched out the pouches,” she says, chewing on the inside of her cheek. “What you threw overboard was just a pouch of sand. I’m sorry—I shouldn’t have lied to you. I just thought that if you felt like you had some agency in getting rid of it—”
She sputters to a stop as I wrap her in a quick and somewhat awkward embrace. I’m not one to touch others often, and the gesture feels like it’s all bones and limbs, but when I quickly retreat, Charlie offers me a relieved smile.
“Feeling like it was my choice to get rid of the faerie dust was the best thing that’s happened to me in a long time,” I say, trying to keep my gaze from wandering to the pouch in her hand. To be quite honest, I’d rather she not have even admitted it was still on board. My mouth tingles just knowing it’s near.
“Oh. Right. Sorry,” Charlie says, returning the pouch to her pocket.
“It’s alright,” I say. “I’ve got to learn to ignore the urges at some point.”
“Is that what you tell yourself about Astor?” asks Charlie, not looking up from her new weapon.
My stomach jumps into my throat. “What do you mean?”
Charlie gives me a knowing look. Suddenly the skin between my shoulder blades itches, and I scratch at it absentmindedly.
“I’m betrothed to Peter,” I say.
“Right. That’s why you’re not wearing your ring.”
“It’s too big. It fell off my finger the other night. The last thing I want is for it to slip through the crack in a plank or fall overboard.”
“Mhm.”
I can feel the blotches appearing on my neck, my chest. “Charlie, please. It’s not going to happen. Between Astor and me, I mean.”
She looks up at me through her pretty, thick lashes. “Because you love Peter.”
A twitch breaks out in my eyelid, but I nod all the same. Charlie looks less than convinced, but as she wipes her grease-laden hands on her apron, she sighs placatingly. “Tell me about Peter, then. What is it about him that has you so smitten?” She smiles, but for the first time, it looks forced.
Still, I’m grateful for the opportunity to turn the conversation away from Astor.
“Peter…” I bite my lip, searching for the words. How does one explain why they love someone, when the feelings come without thought or intention? “It’s like all my life, my feet have been stuck on the ground, but Peter takes me to the heavens.”
Charlie bites the inside of her cheek but says nothing.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing.”
“Charlie.”
She taps her finger on the table and sighs. “It’s just…you talk about having your feet on the ground like that’s not where feet are supposed to go. It’s kind of their purpose, don’t you think?”
“It’s just a metaphor,” I say.
She shrugs as if to say, but not a very good one .
“He’s my Mate,” I say.
Charlie’s gaze flicks across my cheek. “It’s the Reaper’s sickle, right?”
“How’d you know?”
“I’m a pirate, Wendy. I know my constellations.”
I let out a resigned laugh. “You know, it’s sort of embarrassing when you make it sound like it’s so obvious.”
Charlie grins at me. “It is kind of obvious.” She stares at my Mark more intently. “Does Peter have the rest of it, then?”
I nod. “He has the oak on his back.”
Charlie bites her lip.
“What?”
“It’s just—isn’t it kind of a tragic story? Doesn’t the Reaper kill his lover so that he can be with her in the spirit world? But then he ends up trapping her soul inside of a tree or something?”
“I thought you said you knew your constellations.”
“I do,” she says. “I was just making sure you knew them.”
“It’s just a story,” I say, bristling.
Charlie frowns. “Do you trust him—Peter?”
“Of course,” I say, but then the memory of his hands ripping apart my bodice assaults me, making my faith stumble. “Well, I trust that underneath his curse, there’s a Peter I can trust waiting for me. I trust that the good part of him is still there.”
“That you can save him,” she says.
“That I will save him,” I correct.
She nods, looking back down at her workstation. “Does he tell you everything?”
“Neverland is timeless. We have forever to get to all that,” I say.
“Is that your idea or his?” Charlie asks.
I frown, thinking back to the conversation I had with Peter in the vegetable garden after Joel died. I’d told Peter how much it bothered me that we were betrothed, yet I hardly knew him. He’d asked me to be patient with him.
“We both have things we need time before we share. We understand that about each other.”
Charlie glances up at me. “Things you’ve never told anyone else?”
My face flushes hot at the memory of telling Astor about what happened to me in my parents’ parlor. How he’d told me afterward that he didn’t regret killing them after what they’d made me do. “Things that have never gone well when I’ve told anyone else,” I say.
“Mm.”
“I should have trusted Peter,” I say, staring at the wall. “Had I told him that I had Astor on the island, trapped in that cave, none of this”—it occurs to me that I don’t know what I’m referring to, but I won’t admit that—“would have ever happened. I don’t know why I’m like that. Why I have to solve everything myself.”
Charlie’s brow knits together. “I think you’re being too critical of yourself.”
“You’re saying it didn’t land me in trouble not telling Peter about Astor?”
“I’m saying that maybe you’re not giving your gut enough credit,” is all she says. “Have you ever considered that there was a reason your instincts told you not to trust him completely?”
My stomach chills, Peter’s hands on me in the Carlisles’ library annex making my skin go clammy. “Maybe there was part of me that, even then, knew he was cursed.”
“And what if you can’t break the curse?”
I shake my head. “I have to break it. For him. Charlie, you weren’t there when he told me he couldn’t be what I needed. He doesn’t think he’s worthy of my love as long as he’s like this.”
“He told you that he couldn’t be what you needed?”
I think back to the night I overheard Peter speaking with the Sister. “Well, sort of. He told me he couldn’t be the Mate I wanted.”
Charlie offers me a sidelong glance. “Always believe a man when he tells you he can’t be what you need. If you don’t, then you can only blame yourself when he proves you right.”