Chapter 14
The next morning at breakfast—a spread of wild berries, roasted pine nuts, and spindly red citrus fruits—Simon recites The Lost Boy code of conduct to us.
First, and most importantly: There’s no trying to escape Neverland. Apparently, this rule is to do with safety and not the fact that Peter is a maniacal overlord intent on kidnapping the young.
John seems less than convinced.
“Most of the island is free range, but we’re to be back in the Den by last light, no exceptions,” says Simon.
“Makes sense,” says John. “I assume the wildlife is most active at night. Do you set traps during the day?”
Simon appears impressed, if not a tad annoyed that John is a know-it-all. I can’t blame him.
John is a know-it-all. Always has been.
“And what of the part of the island that’s off-limits?” I ask.
“Ah, Wendy Darling, always looking for the boundaries in which she can cage herself,” says an amused voice.
Those at the table go quiet in reverent awe. Except for John, who bristles, and Michael, who couldn’t care less about Peter’s entrance.
He waltzes in like a prince, flicking a few of the boys on the ears on the way, stealing the plumpest berries off their plates. But he doesn’t stop with them. Instead, he appears behind me, pressing his fingertips into my shoulders.
There are legends of fae males claiming human females. Of the gentle glamour they seep into their prey over countless touches, their magic building up over time.
If there’s a wall to keep it out, I raise it. But there’s no ignoring the gentle flare of delight that crops up in my belly at Peter’s obvious claiming. In the hushed corners of my mind, I know that as soon as he lets go of me, the thrill will dissipate and dread will seep in to fill its gaps.
“Did you tell our guests what the last rule is?” Peter asks Simon.
I expect Simon to flash a smile. Instead, he glances at me and blushes.
I can’t help it. I crane my neck up toward Peter, drinking in his every word.
“No girls,” Peter says, flashing me a smirk.
As soon as he releases his grip, the dam holding back my good sense bursts. Fear of him, of my reaction to him, drenches the tantalizing attraction that swarmed me just moments ago. How long until Peter’s glamour finds a foothold? How long until it overcomes me so completely, there’s no flushing it out when he leaves the room?
“Obviously, we’re happy to make an exception for you,” says Simon, placatingly, if not apologetically. I can’t help but notice the way his shoulders relax when Peter steps away from me.
John rolls his eyes. “And how glad we are for that.”
“How very glad indeed,” pipes up Michael.
When the boysset off to hunt and set traps along the island, I volunteer to go with Simon.
Most of the boys give me an unsure look, but Victor speaks up dryly from the corner. “Please. The lot of you act like because she’s a female, she can’t tie a knot.”
I neglect to add that I could learn to wield a bow and arrow if given the opportunity. My entire life’s purpose up to this point has been to snare a husband rather than dinner. Given I’d failed miserably at that, I need to prove myself to myself before worrying about anything else.
Simon seems rather pleased that I asked to accompany him, though John is less than thrilled. My brother might be brave, but he’s practical and levelheaded enough to know it will only cause more problems if he tries to hunt with the others before his knuckle heals over, so he stays behind to keep watch on Michael.
In the end, Smalls volunteers to come with us, which doesn’t seem to surprise Simon at all. “He’ll be enthusiastic but utterly useless,” he leans over and whispers to me.
“I’ll go too,” says Victor, at which Simon blinks several times.
“What? You don’t want the help?” asks Victor, folding his sturdy, pale arms across his chest.
Simon clears his throat and the casual charm returns. “Of course you’re welcome. You can keep Smalls in line.”
Smalls, who has just dropped his fork and is scurrying to find it underneath the table, doesn’t seem to notice.
Our escapefrom the reaping tree is just as unpleasant as our entrance. At least I’m prepared to feel suffocated and strangled this time.
Victor and Smalls separate from us quickly, headed to check a few of the smaller traps toward the center of the island, though they’ll meet up with us at the traps meant for larger game in case we need to drag a boar back to the Den.
By the time Simon and I reach the beach, the sun is mostly risen, which I find a tad disappointing.
“What’s wrong?” Simon asks good-naturedly.
“I just thought it would be nice to catch the sunrise.”
“You act as if you won’t get another chance,” he says, nudging me in the shoulder.
“Are sunrise privileges a perk to eternal captivity, then?” I ask dryly.
“Oh, don’t look at it like that,” says Simon, though he’s clearly wincing underneath that bright smile of his.
“How should I look at it, then?”
He gestures toward the sun. “Well, I look at it as an opportunity to sleep in late for the rest of my existence.”
A soft smile frames my lips. “I suppose there’s that. But then you miss the sunrise.”
“Trust me. Get used to the feeling of sleeping in as long as your heart desires, and you won’t be worried about missing anything.”
I nod, standing in the bright sun for a moment and letting myself soak it in. I always imagined that being captured by the Shadow Keeper would mean never feeling the gentle caress of sunlight on my skin, but it’s here. Granted, it’s cold on this island, and Simon has to give me his overcoat to supplement the little my ball gown does to protect me from the elements.
“We’ve got to get you some furs or something,” he says. “Though that would be unfortunate, considering how pretty you look in that dress.” I scrunch my nose at his shameless flirting, causing Simon to shrug. “Worth a shot. You probably are the only female I’ll ever get a chance with.”
“Simon, I—”
“Just teasing,” he says, nodding for me to follow him down the shore. I do, reveling in the way my feet feel pressing into the dark sand. I was right last night; it’s the color of charcoal. Between it, the steady spray of the frigid ocean water, and the dark cliffs in the distance, there’s a sort of gloominess here that feels comfortable. Like it’s the same color and scent and texture as my soul, and I could melt right into it and finally be one with something, even if it’s not a sentient being that would know me back.
I follow behind Simon for a while, allowing the crash of the waves to drown out his vibrant chatter. After a while, we veer off the beach and into the forest, where Simon shows me how to set a trap aiming to capture a wild hare. When I make one on my own and it snaps shut at the gentlest touch, the slightest thrill ripples through me.
I’m not fond of the idea of coming back here and finding an animal dead in my trap, but just the feel of my hands doing something other than embroidering, or playing the pianoforte, or any number of things my fingers only learned to do so that someone might place a ring upon one of them—it sets something aflame within me. It’s barely a flicker, but it’s pleasant against my listless heart all the same.
“Are you going to cry when we come back and there’s a cute little bunny wrapped up in this?” Simon asks.
“Why? Did you the first time?”
Simon laughs. “Most definitely.”
We set a few more traps as Simon shows me how to spot where the underbrush is matted, marking paths where animals frequently travel. Once we’re finished, we trace our own footsteps back to a nearby clearing and meet up with Victor and Smalls, who’ve come back empty-handed from their traps.
“No luck?” asks Simon.
“Not for us, at least,” says Victor. “Though the rabbits might beg to differ.”
I let out a nervous chuckle, but Simon must not appreciate Victor’s joke, because he ignores him and instead shows me how the boar trap works.
There’s a hole in the ground covered by a lattice of sticks, upon which is perched the bait. Above the hole is a trapping system that keeps a considerable log suspended by rope—until the boar steps on the sticks, that is. We spend at least an hour with Simon and Victor showing me how to assemble and disassemble the trap.
“Who knows,” says Victor when I finally get the trap assembled correctly. “Wendy here might just kill something yet.”
I offer him a noncommittal noise that falls short of my intended laugh, and Simon looks up apologetically through his long, dark eyelashes as he pushes himself from the ground.
“If we’re not careful,someone is going to come along and track us,” I say, pointing at the footprints as we make our way across the beach.
“Nah,” says Simon, “but even if something did, Peter would protect us.”
“Is that what he’s doing?” I ask. “Protecting you?”
“Of course,” says Simon. “What else would he be doing?”
He says it with such nonchalance, he must be genuine. I want his confidence in Peter to be comforting, to put me at ease and convince me my brothers are safe here, but it’s a monumental task to believe something so counter to everything I’ve been raised to think.
“It doesn’t bother you that you’re not allowed to leave?” I ask.
“Where you came from, were you allowed to leave?”
I stop, my mouth going dry. “I’m not sure that I ever asked to.”
“Exactly. Why would we want to leave when we have all we could ever want here?”
“I thought you said you wanted to pursue a woman,” I tease.
Simon gestures open-palmed at me. “Like I said, everything I could ever want, right here.”
I don’t miss the way his jaw ticks on the side.
I can’t help it. Years of keeping my thoughts to myself have helped me hone my skills at interpreting people. Making others comfortable. I suppose some would call what I’m about to do manipulation, but I don’t know the harm of it when all it does is make someone else feel seen.
“You’re telling me you never think about swiping some of Peter’s faerie dust and getting out of here?” I ask. When Simon bunches his brow, I add, “Just to see what it’s like, then sneak back, I mean. You don’t dream of finding a pretty girl you visit once every full moon or something ridiculous like that?”
Simon’s shoulders relax. “I might have tried once, a few years back. Snuck into Peter’s supply of faerie dust. Got my hands on a pouch, too, before a nightstalker jumped out of the trees and attacked me.” He pulls down the neck of his shirt to show me the scar sliced over his collarbone. It must have been deep if the scar still mars Simon’s fae skin. Then again, legends of nightstalkers claim they rip their victims’ minds apart along with their bodies. It’s a wonder Simon’s speaking to me at all. “Peter tore it to shreds, of course. Ripped it straight out of its pounce. Started hiding the faerie dust in a storehouse on the cliffs after that, where only he can fly to get to it. He was…well, Peter doesn’t ever let it show when he’s upset. But he wasn’t happy. All the good-natured teasing—that was all gone. At first I worried he was angry at me, but then everything went back to normal after that.” Simon turns to me, examining me. “I know you’re afraid of him, but you shouldn’t be.”
“Well,” I say, tucking my hands into Simon’s coat pockets. “I’m at least not afraid of you.”
Simon offers me a toothy grin, then nods his head and leads us to the next trapping location.
On the way, Smalls lets out a yelp. Simon and I spin around to find him screaming and red-faced as a crab dangles out in front of him, its pincer sunk into his fingernail.
Victor keeps his hands in his pockets, unaffected by the younger boy’s pain.
“You’re really not going to help?” asks Simon, shooting Victor a patronizing glare before prying the pincer from Smalls’s finger.
Victor shrugs. “I told him not to mess with it. He wouldn’t listen to me.”
Smalls whimpers, red blotches refusing to fade from his usually white cheeks. The way he clutches his hand reminds me of John after he sliced off his pinkie, so though I’d never admit it to Victor, Smalls’s dramatic reaction is wasted on me as well.
“Nettle told me crabs can’t reach you if you grab them from behind,” Smalls attests between gasps.
“And that’s why we don’t listen to people who think they know more than they do,” says Victor.
“Well,” says Simon, examining Smalls’s bleeding fingernail. “There’s plenty of antiseptic at the Den. We’ll at least get it cleaned up so it doesn’t get infected. Victor, Winds, think you can handle the last trap?”
I’m about to protest—there’s something about Victor that sets me on edge—when Victor says, “I’m sure we can manage, isn’t that right, Winds?”
Before I can come up with an excuse to return to the Den, Simon and Smalls are gone.
Victor isquiet as he leads me deep into the forest. His hands remain pocketed, his footsteps casual yet sure. He doesn’t seem to be in any rush to reach the trap, though I tell myself that’s probably a by-product of living on a remote island, away from the hustle of port life.
“I wouldn’t be so quick to cast off that healthy skepticism if I were you,” he finally says at the same moment I step on a dry twig. The combination of his voice and the snapping has me flinching, to which he offers me a wry smile. “I guess I don’t have to tell you to keep your guard up, then. Though you shouldn’t have agreed to come into the forest alone with me.”
Slowly, I turn toward Victor, panic seizing my mind, my limbs. I fist my hands, as if that’s going to do anything against a fae. I can’t tell if it’s a trick of the light redirected from the canopy overhead, but the shadows underneath Victor’s eyes deepen.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he says, his gaze dipping to my fist. “All I meant is that you don’t know that.”
“Are we talking about you?” I ask, my mind flitting back to my conversation with Simon on the beach. Was Victor listening in? “Or are we talking about Peter?”
“Simon’s a trusting fellow,” is all Victor says.
“And you’re not?”
Next to him, a butterfly lands on a flaking tree trunk. He stares at its lightning-colored wings. “I used to be.”
A breeze ripples through the leaves, tiptoeing down my spine. “But then something happened.”
Victor doesn’t look at me. For a moment, he seems as petrified as the tree upon which the butterfly has landed.
If this were either of my brothers, or any of the other Lost Boys, for that matter, I might have reached out my hand and placed it on his shoulder. But there’s a clamp on my limbs keeping me from touching Victor, from drawing any closer. “Did someone hurt you, Victor?” I whisper. “Did Peter hurt you?”
The spell over Victor snaps, and his caustic snort sends the butterfly fluttering away. “Trust me. Peter did nothing.”
When I don’t answer, he gives me a grim smile. “Listen. All I meant is that you need to be careful. This island isn’t your friend.”
“I wasn’t under the impression that it was.”
“Good.” Victor cranes his neck, beckoning me deeper into the forest. After his ominous comment, I’m even more reticent to follow him. But we’re already far enough from the Den that no one would hear if he tried to hurt me anyway.
“Victor? Can I ask you something?” I say, my throat going dry.
“Sure.”
“Did you…when you lost your memories…did it happen gradually? Or had you already lost them by the time you got to Neverland?”
Victor furrows his brow, considering. “I can’t remember a time in Neverland when I could recall what my life was like before. But the first several weeks we got here are hazy anyway. I’m not sure I can trust what I remember from that time.”
“So you just woke up one day in Neverland—no memories of who you were?”
Victor’s jaw bulges. “Something like that. Except I remember being feverish when I first got here. Throwing up all the time. Sweating through my sheets. We all were. If I still had my memories at that time, I would have been too ill to care.”
I work my lip, thinking. “How long were you ill?”
Victor wipes his black hair from his brow. “Could have been a week. Could have been a year, for all I knew.”
Dread settles in my stomach. Did Peter take the boys’ memories or did the island? I’ve heard of merchants falling terribly ill when first arriving in new lands, their bodies unaccustomed to the illnesses that inhabit specific regions. It’s dreadful, but I’d be more comforted if I knew for sure that the boys lost their memories before they came here. Otherwise, if it really is the work of a strange illness or a devious magic that inhabits the island, what’s to stop the same thing from happening to me? To John and Michael?
For the rest of our trip, I take account of every memory I can muster. The feel of the clock tower bricks, the rust of the ladder. The sound of Michael’s high-pitched screams when he was a baby. Every story Mother ever read me before bed. The face of every tutor I strove to please.
The memories are still there—but for how long?
When we reach the trap, it’s already caught our meal for the day. A hare is snared in its coil, its body hardened in death, its black eyes wide and glassy.
Later, when Simon asks me if I cried, I lie and tell him I did.