Chapter 18
While the fear of my brothers and I losing our memories still lingers, my mind clings onto the face of the missing Lost Boy. Stories weave themselves into my dreams—all of them tragic, most of them bloody and reeking of death.
He becomes my new obsession, and I can’t help but wonder if he has something to do with Victor’s warning on the day we went trapping.
To my shame, it’s not the fear over what happened to him that grips me, so much as the dread that my brothers might meet the same fate. I try to get Victor alone, but he’s been elusive. Mealtimes make up our only interactions, and he usually leaves the table early, disappearing to who knows where.
Speaking of our dining situation.
After several meals with the Lost Boys, most of them featuring boar meat so tough I fear I’ll break a tooth, vegetables that are so underdone they’re chilled on the inside, and liberal use of sea salt that causes inflammation in my throat, I decide something must be done.
At first, I thought the meals were only so horrid because the boys rotate who’s on cooking duty for the day. I figured Smalls and Benjamin must simply be dreadful at it.
But days have passed, and I fear Smalls might actually prove to be the most talented of the group.
I can handle many things in life.
Knowing even as a youth that I was born to be given over to the shadows? Handled. Well, sort of.
But if I’m to be a prisoner, I intend to eat well if I have anything to say about it.
It’s certainly not that we don’t have the facilities to make an excellent meal. I peeked in the kitchen, and it’s complete with a cast-iron oven, its vent carved into the earthen ceiling. There are also plenty of knives, spices, cedar cutting boards, and pots and pans. Some appear to have been shaped by Benjamin’s blade. Others appear aged and like they might have been stolen from the kitchens of the unsuspecting.
One day during our trapping excursion, I ask Simon if I might help him with his cooking shift. Simon appears thrilled, though I’m not sure if it’s for my company or my assistance, but at this point I can’t worry about these things.
Later that day when I arrive at the kitchen, it’s Nettle who meets me, his blond bangs already sweat-soaked from the heat of the stove.
“Are you on duty with Simon?” I ask, confused.
Nettle shakes his head. “Simon’s got a bad stomach. He’s holed up in the outhouse, so I told him I’d trade shifts with him.”
I examine the thin boy. “That was kind of you,” I say.
Nettle gives me a bemused look. “Why do you sound so surprised?”
“No reason,” I lie, as Nettle has certainly not struck me as the kind and selfless type. Although, I’m unsure whether my impression of him is based off his actions or what the other boys have told me.
“You’re right though,” he says. “I didn’t do it out of kindness. Simon was bragging earlier about how you asked to help him tonight. I figured if I traded with him, I’d only have to do half the work.”
I let out an exasperated laugh. “And here you were, making me feel bad about my assumptions.”
Nettle turns to me, a smile threatening the edges of his mouth.
“Well, you’ll be displeased to discover that I have slightly higher expectations than you might be used to,” I tell him.
Nettle whisks out a kitchen knife. “Just tell me what needs to be cut.”
By the end of our first hour of preparation, Nettle is muttering something about regretting switching with Simon, but I flash him a smile and tell him he’ll be reconsidering that when he tastes the fruit of our labor.
Actually, I tell him we’ll be tasting the vegetables of our labor, at which point he almost boos me out of the kitchen.
As the heiress of a grand estate, it wasn’t within my training regimen to learn to prepare meals. Only to delegate them. But, same with climbing the clock tower, I found the intricacy that goes into cooking, coupled with the head chef’s outlandish stories, to be a welcome distraction from the dreadful future that plagued my mind.
After beating the boar meat until it’s dead all over again with a mallet I found in the hunting closet and teaching Nettle how to properly salt the meat, I’m rather pleased with how my—our, I suppose—labor is coming along.
“Nettle, can I ask you a question?” I ask as we work on slicing the vegetables.
“Sure. If you agree to finish the rest of this on your own,” he says.
I ignore him and ask anyway. “The other boys say you remember what your life was like before Neverland.”
“That doesn’t sound like a question to me.”
I bite the inside of my cheek. “Do you really remember?”
He looks up at me, blue eyes watery as he slices into the onions. “Sure I do. The rest of the boys claim to be orphans, and maybe they were, but I think they like the romantic notion of it. I’m not an orphan, though. My father’s a duke. Owns a massive estate out in Hestershire.”
“Hestershire?” I ask, trying to hide the way my pitch rises. Our nanny used to sing us a nursery rhyme about Hestershire, but that’s all it was. A made-up place only named as such because the lyricist needed something to rhyme with the next verse.
“Yeah, it’s at the farthest corner of the world.”
“Where the sea is blue as sapphire?” I ask, thinking of the rest of the nursery rhyme.
“You’ve heard of it?” he asks, eyes brightening. I can’t tell if it’s the heat from the stove that’s blotching his pale cheeks with color.
Sadness and guilt pinch my chest. “Yeah, I’ve heard of it.”
Nettle smiles, and I feel as if I might weep. “Well, you’ll have to tell the others then. They think I made it up.”
My heart hurts when I remember then the third verse of the rhyme, the one about a rich duke who owns the city of Hestershire. I don’t know what magic wiped these boys’ memories, but obviously the nursery rhyme left something planted deep in Nettle’s mind.
I quickly change the subject. “Where do all these vegetables come from anyway?”
Nettle offers me a sidelong glance, before saying, “The ground.”
When my elbow collides with his ribcage, he lets out a startled laugh. “Joel tends to our garden. It’s in a clearing north of the Den.”
My brow curves before I can stop it. “Joel is your gardener?” It’s hard to imagine the boy I caught ushering a rat to its agonizing demise tending to any sort of life.
Nettle is careful not to look at me, his voice even as he collects a pile of sliced carrots onto the center of the cutting board. “Peter thought he’d be better suited to it than hunting,” is all he says.
My skin crawls, and because I don’t want to talk about Joel anymore, I say, “There sure are a lot of onions.”
Nettle’s nose turns up. “I hate onions. They’re not proper food for nobility”—I try to avoid cringing as I recall that verse of the rhyme—“but they’re real easy to grow here, so Peter makes us eat them with everything. Doesn’t like us to waste anything. But I always give mine to Simon.”
“Well, I happen to love onions. Maybe you could share yours with me instead,” I laugh.
Nettle gives me a conspiratorial glance. “But then you’ll stink just like the rest.”
I tryto work up the courage to ask Nettle about the missing boy from the sketch before dinner. The entire time, I’m telling myself this would be the best time, when he and I are alone. But something’s gnawing at my gut, anxiety trapping my tongue behind my teeth. Every time I come close to asking him, my mind comes up with a reason I’m being ridiculous. That there’s some completely reasonable explanation for why I haven’t met the boy in the picture.
Perhaps he’s not real at all. He looked more distorted than the others, after all. Perhaps the artist attempted to draw the face of a boy conjured by his imagination, and this boy simply wasn’t as clear as those for which he had a visual reference. Perhaps he’s a lost memory from one of the boys’ past lives.
These explanations do little to soothe the constriction in my chest, though they do delay me from asking Nettle about them. Eventually, I lose my shot when the other boys clamber into the kitchen, claiming they’re starving and don’t see what could be taking us so long.
So Nettle and I pile the plates high with food, and my moment to question him fades into the prison of my indecision.
The roast is a hit.Part of me is delighted when all the boys go back for seconds. Part of me feels a bit guilty when there’s only enough left for half of them.
Michael must be hungry, because while he normally only picks at his food, he wipes his plate clean tonight. Granted, I did give him an extra portion of potatoes and kept the roast in a separate bowl so they wouldn’t touch.
Even Nettle clears his plate, though he piles his onions on Simon’s. I check Simon’s face for any sign of queasiness, considering he had to switch shifts with Nettle earlier, but if he’s still feeling ill, I can’t tell underneath that dazzling smile.
“We should make Wendy cook from now on,” says Victor, which might be the closest he’s ever come to paying me a compliment.
Freckles nods. “Yeah, you’re much better at it than the rest of us.”
“Can you make us breakfast too?” asks Benjamin.
Oh no. This is definitely not what I wanted. Sure, I don’t mind cooking. Even like it to some degree. But sharing in the task differs greatly from taking on the entire responsibility.
Besides, if I’m in the kitchen all the time, I won’t have time to go hunting with Simon. I’ve come to look forward to our little excursions—the feel of the black sand against the balls of my feet. The spike of pleasure in my brain when I test a trap and find I’ve set it just right.
I would have never thought it, growing up in the aristocracy, but there’s something about working for everything I’ve got, removing the wall of riches between myself and the very nature that sustains me, that provides me a sort of inner peace.
“I’m not confident that’s the best idea,” I say, warily setting my fork down.
“Oh, come on, Winds,” says Freckles. “You’ve been here long enough to know that none of us are any good at it. Nettle, did you even help at all?”
Nettle shrugs. “I mostly just followed instructions.”
Freckles gestures with both palms open toward the sky in a sweeping motion, then props himself back in his chair on only two of its legs and crosses his arms. I suppose he thinks his point well made.
I glance at John for help. He’s sitting next to me, playing with the gristle left on his plate with a wooden fork. When he finally shrugs at me apologetically, he pours salt on the wound by adding, “This is the best meal we’ve had yet.”
I groan, the sight of which has the boys cackling. I seem to have stoked the fire, because now I’m pretty sure they’re just picking on me.
“All right. That’s enough of that. As delicious as this was, we won’t be chaining Wendy’s ankles to the stove anytime soon,” says Peter as he waltzes into the room.
I go tense. Peter rarely eats with us. Tonight, Nettle dropped off a plate by Peter’s room, which is down the long hallway toward the east of the Den.
“As much as it would serve to boost our morale,” he adds, winking at me.
I fight not to blush under his attention, reminding myself that one pleasant conversation doesn’t make him any less of the monster I’ve always known him to be. Doesn’t make me any less of a prisoner. Besides, I still have the drawing of the unfamiliar boy scraping at the back of my mind, giving me a fresh set of chills when I think of him.
This time, it’s the Lost Boys’ turn to groan.
Freckles laments that he shall never taste a properly salted piece of meat again.
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” says Peter, before turning to me. “What do you say, Wendy? Would you consider teaching the rest of us your ways?”
I go rigid, but it’s no use. The Lost Boys concur that this is the best alternative if I’m not going to agree to become their cooking slave.
“I could do that,” I say, not for Peter, but because I actually did enjoy instructing Nettle tonight.
And besides, the boys aren’t the only ones who benefit if the quality of meals around here increases.
Cheers erupt from the table from everyone except for Joel, who, though smiling, is doing so half-heartedly. We make eye contact from across the table, one I wish he would break, but he’s examining me like he wonders if I’ll tell anyone what I saw regarding the rodent by the fire.
I can’t help myself; my gaze darts to the hearth across the room.
Of course, there’s no trap there.
When I glance back at Joel, a coldness has overtaken his stony expression.
The image of the boy in the drawing flashes against my mind once again.
After dinner,Simon agrees to help me clean dishes, explaining that he feels guilty for forcing me into Nettle’s snooty presence. I try to tell him Nettle wasn’t so bad, to which Simon appears suspicious. I can’t exactly tell Simon that Nettle’s memory of his past life is wrapped up in the boundaries of a nursery rhyme. Pity and compassion might be the reaction I’d be going for, but I’m not confident those won’t be lost on the pointed ears of a sixteen-year-old boy.
“Oh, even you must not hate him so much,” I say. “You take his onions, after all.”
Simon chuckles. “I would take onions from a loose convict. I love them.”
I smile slightly before finally working up the courage to ask him about the boy. Rather, I pull the folded picture from my pocket and show it to him.
“I found this tucked away in the closet. It’s pretty impressive. Which one of you draws?” I ask, careful not to actually mention the boy.
“Oh, it’s Victor who draws,” says Simon without looking at the picture, as he’s focused on scrubbing a piece of gristle off one of the pots. But then he wipes his forehead with his clean wrist and glances my way. As soon as he sees the picture, his entire body goes still, his eyes flickering quickly away from the left corner of the page, where the unfamiliar boy’s likeness lies.
“Does this look like one of Victor’s?” I ask innocently.
Simon pales. “Um. I guess so. It’s not like I pay attention to his drawing style or anything.”
There’s a defensiveness in his voice I’ve yet to hear.
“Oh, I was noticing, too—who’s this boy? I don’t think I’ve met him yet.”
Simon isn’t looking at the picture anymore. In fact, he’s looking anywhere but the picture, his eyes darting around, searching for somewhere to land. He runs his hands through his glossy black hair, seemingly unaware that he hasn’t washed the dish soap from them yet. It leaves grimy little bubbles in between his thick strands.
“Simon?”
When he says nothing, I ask, “Victor didn’t draw this, did he?”
He clears his throat. “We’re not supposed to talk about Thomas.”
Thomas.
Something about the name fits the boy’s face. His vibrant grin and round cheeks.
“Thomas was always sketching stuff like this,” Simon says, turning his attention back to the parchment.
I pause. We’re on shaky ground here, and I don’t want Simon to shut me out. But now that I have momentum, I can’t help but push. “Who’s Thomas?”
Simon’s attention snaps back to me. “I said we’re not supposed to talk about him, okay?” He must realize how harsh he sounds, because he blushes, the ire draining from his face. “I’m sorry. I just—can we drop it?”
I bite my lip, nodding.
The worm in my stomach is still gnawing, but this time, it’s not anxiety alone feeding the sensation.
Because now I’ve got a name for the Lost Boy.
On the wayto my room that night, a hand grips my shoulder. I go rigid underneath the touch, but then a voice swims out of the darkness.
“I just wanted to thank you.”
I turn to find Joel behind me, his hand still on my shoulder.
Worms gnaw at my insides at the feel of his touch. The faint singe of burning rat hair taps on my memory.
“For what?” I ask, wriggling myself from his grasp.
He clears his throat, tucking his hands behind his back. “For not telling anyone about what you saw.” His green eyes flicker. “You…haven’t told anyone, have you?”
“About what?” I ask, wondering now if there’s rat remains in the hearth.
He lets out a relieved smile, running his hands through his silky black hair. “Good. You haven’t snitched. I just…I’d really appreciate it if you kept it our secret.” He scrunches his forehead as he squeezes his eyes shut. “I’m not exactly proud of my little problem. It started after Peter taught me to hunt. He doesn’t let me do that anymore, though. Says I’m better at tending to the garden, but I know it’s because he started to notice…” Joel swallows, his eyes glazing with tears. “Anyway, I don’t want to be this way. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, but I’d rather them not think I’m a freak.”
After my conversation with Nettle in the kitchen, something tells me the boys already know, but I’m not about to share that suspicion.
“Of course, Joel,” I say.
I don’t notice until he’s gone that I’m clutching the sketch of Thomas behind my back.