Chapter 20
Benjamin lets it slip during breakfast that on the full moon, Peter goes away for a while. This lines up with what I might have expected. The shadows always spoke to me more frequently when the moon was at its brightest.
I can’t help but wonder if Peter’s trips will end now that he has me in his possession. Given he’s yet to seek me out since I arrived, I doubt it. The Shadow Keeper might as well be a child who spent months begging for a puppy for winter solstice, only to toss it aside upon the realization that having a pet paled in comparison to their anticipation.
I suppose that’s me, Wendy Darling, always coming up short of expectations. Granted, usually it’s my Mating Mark that does that for me, though I’m unsure that’s what’s keeping Peter away. Fae males are known for being possessive, and I can see my Mark turning Peter off of me.
One would think that the fact that he has me secluded, tucked away within a mostly abandoned realm, would diffuse some of the jealousy.
Apparently not.
Not that I’m complaining.
It’s been to my benefit that Peter rarely comes near me, a blessing I didn’t expect from my captivity.
Still, I watch Peter stride past the dining table and allow the reaping tree to form clots of vines around him, stealing him from our sight.
Later that night,when I’m certain John and Michael are both sleeping soundly, I sneak out of our room and down the long hallway where Peter’s room lies.
It’s lit dimly by the gentle glow of green lichen that line the walls. In the dim lighting, my shadow diffuses, cresting the earthy ceiling above me as I creep through the tunnel.
For a moment, when the divots in the wall rise and fall, it occasionally appears as if my shadow is the one creeping, moving and dancing in ways my limbs cannot. Fear threatens to turn me back, but I don’t let it, not when I don’t know if I’ll get another chance like this within the next month.
The image of Thomas has been eating away at me at night. His laugh echoes in my ears anytime I traverse down a dark tunnel in search of materials from a closet. His happy-go-lucky grin warps into a scowl in my dreams, fangs ripping from his full lips.
I have to know. If only for the peace of mind that whatever happened to him won’t befall John and Michael.
People have a tendency to blame the victim when calamity befalls them. When I was young, I thought it a by-product of some innate cruelty, but when I matured, I recognized it for what it was—a symptom of fear.
We like to think victims had something to do with their own pain, fault to take in their own misfortune. Because if that is true, then, so long as we avoid walking the same path, we need not worry about suffering the same fate.
Perhaps that’s what I’m looking for. Reassurance that there’s something I can do to keep John and Michael from turning up on a charcoal parchment, their lopsided smiles smudged in the crease of its folds, collecting dust.
Peter’s roomis the only one that actually has the luxury of a door. It’s wooden, as opposed to the leafy curtains that separate the rest of the rooms from the outside tunnels.
At first, I worry it may be locked. It’s not that I’m concerned about my ability to pick it, but last time I was that focused on an activity in the dark, I had an episode. And with my shadow playing tricks on me, it’s not as if this is the optimum environment for things to go any better. Except that this time I’m pretty sure I’m not being stalked by a wild animal, so that’s a mild comfort.
As it turns out, my apprehensions are for naught. A gentle push on the door knob results in a creak as the door opens up for me. Peter’s room is…well, cluttered. It’s the neat sort of clutter. The type where no one can accuse you of being a hoarder, because at least everything has its preordained place and there’s nothing in the walkway. But it’s cluttered all the same.
Trinkets line the walls, decorate the tables. Silver candlesticks, wax still dripping down their sleek bodies. Pocket watches, much like mine and John’s, though varying in color and size. Saucers, painted with cherry blossoms and tigers and everything in between. They’re all organized about the room in clusters. There’s even a book on etiquette sitting atop Peter’s bedside table. It’s not even collecting dust because of course it’s not. He probably only keeps it to maintain his aura of being unpredictable.
Unfortunately, I have the feeling Peter will notice if one of his many trinkets goes out of place. This might be more difficult than I thought. Oh well. I’ll just have to be careful to put everything back where I found it.
As I rummage through Peter’s belongings, I realize I’m not sure what exactly I’m looking for. Another likeness of the Lost Boy, perhaps? Or maybe I’m looking for some type of journal that might explain the circumstances surrounding the boy’s disappearance. A token of Thomas’s that Peter keeps to remember him by?
There’s also the possibility I discover something explaining why the Lost Boys are in Neverland. The idea of uncovering such information fills me with as much trepidation as it does a thrill.
As I’m searching, a shadow flickers in the corner. I jump, but I’m pretty sure it’s just my own shadow, bouncing back and forth against the undulations of the candlelight. Still, my imagination warps the shadow into that of a tattered wing.
I need to stop. Spooking myself isn’t going to help anything. And I certainly don’t want to have another episode like the one at the warehouse.
I return to examining the chipped teacup in my hand, but for the second time, something shifts in my vision.
When I turn around, I’m too late to avoid the flashing, bared teeth.