Chapter 17 A Waltz of Shadows and Stars
Chapter Seventeen
A Waltz of Shadows and Stars
As soon as Peter sets me down outside the door of the treehouse, I press him. “What was that?” I ask. “In the woods. That shadow—it spooked the stag.”
He doesn’t look at me. Wordless, he brushes a leaf from his sleeve and sets the bow next to the door.
“I don’t know,” he says flatly.
“I felt it,” I press, pulse still racing. “Like we were being watched. It was huge, Peter, and glowing red—”
“It was probably a wild boar.” His voice cuts sharper now, enough to sting. He finally meets my eyes, and something cold flickers in his expression. “Leave it alone.”
Before I can say another word, he turns and strides off, heading down the path toward the hot springs.
“I need to wash up,” he calls over his shoulder, without so much as a glance back.
I stand frozen, heart thudding, confusion buzzing like static in my chest. His brushing me off stings, but maybe he really doesn’t know. Maybe it was nothing. A trick of the light. A shift in the trees. A deer reacting to something mundane.
Maybe I imagined it.
But I can’t quite make myself believe that.
I trudge into the empty house and climb the stairs in silence.
At the window seat, I curl into myself with a long, weary sigh.
I pick up The Secret Garden, but the words blur, meaningless.
My gaze drifts past the glass, pulled toward the forest. Toward the clearing.
Toward the shadows, still searching for red.
The glow I saw… it’s similar to the golden glow of the runes.
Is there a connection?
Peter had reacted with a cold evasiveness, as usual. I was fairly certain he knew the answers—but for some reason, he didn’t want me to.
Just when I begin to wonder if he’ll come back at all, the door creaks open behind me.
“You’re in luck, darling,” Peter says, voice low and teasing—like we hadn’t fled the woods earlier. Like he hadn’t shut me out again.
He stands in the doorway, holding a mask of silken silver and sapphire, feathers sweeping up like wings. Draped over his arm is a gown that gleams in the light, twilight-hued and iridescent, like mist spilling over moonlit water.
“What is that?” I breathe.
“The fairies are throwing a ball tonight,” he says, tilting his head, all effortless charm. “A moonlit masquerade. They do it now and then—on a whim. Dancing. Food. Drink. Enchantments…” He raises a brow, the corner of his mouth lifting. “I take it you’re not interested? We can—”
The book slides from my lap and hits the floor with a dull thud as I leap to my feet.
“I’m interested.”
Heat floods my cheeks at the eagerness in my voice. But how could I hide it? A faerie masquerade? It sounds… well, magical.
Peter grins knowingly, like he never doubted my answer.
“I have a dress for you,” he says, holding it out, “and a mask. Made by the faeries themselves.”
I take them, fingers trailing over the soft fabric, heart pounding. I don’t think I’ve ever held something so fine.
Before I can stop myself, I’m beaming. “Thank you.”
The words escape before I can catch them—and instantly, I regret them.
Too easy. I’m letting him jerk me around. Letting him bend me without consequence. Fighting him feels impossible—like resisting the pull of the tide, the fall of night. He’s as unstoppable as the elements. A force of nature.
A thought occurs to me then. I reach up, fingers brushing the tender skin of my throat, sore from his mouth. His hands.
How am I supposed to cover the bruises?
Peter steps into my space. His hand lifts to my neck, and I flinch. But he doesn’t stop. His fingers skim my mottled skin with a tenderness I sometimes forget he possesses.
“I made sure to choose a gown that proudly displays my marks on you,” he murmurs. “Can’t have the faeries guessing at who you belong to.”
I glare at him, lips pressed into a thin line. Two emotions war inside me, and neither is willing to yield.
Disgust. Mostly at myself, for enjoying this side of him.
Desire. Because even now, I want him to touch me like that again.
My body responds despite my mind, a traitor to reason, and I feel the heat pooling low, betraying me.
I hate him. But that isn’t true, is it?
The one I actually hate is myself.
Peter owns my heart. My body.
And now… he’s even managed to conquer my mind.
* * *
As evening falls, I take my time dressing. I won’t let my confusing thoughts surrounding Peter Pan ruin this for me, because, in truth, I’m terribly excited.
I step into the gown, letting the layered gossamer settle over my shoulders. Its twilight hues shift with the fading light—deep purples melting into dusky blues, threads of silver woven through like starlight.
The fabric is feather-light, almost mistlike, yet it drapes and clings exactly where it should—hugging my hips, tracing the curve of my waist. The neckline dips low, elegant yet daring, drawing the eye without begging for it.
Each layer floats with the slightest movement.
When I spin, it flares around me, caught in the breeze.
I undo my braid, letting chestnut waves tumble down my back. The hair covers a bit of the marks Peter left, softening their presence, even if not erasing them.
I lift the mask—silken silver threaded with sapphire, feathers fanned at the edges—and hold it to my face. Even before I fasten it on, I feel transformed. I slide the mask over my eyes and adjust the feathers. Glancing at the full-length mirror, I pause.
The girl staring back is beautiful. Unfamiliar. And powerful in a way that has nothing to do with Peter, and everything to do with me. And yet, beneath that flicker of pride, something else stirs.
An undeniable excitement for the moment he sees me in this.
I step out of our room and carefully descend the stairs. The group waits outside the treehouse, gathered in the golden hush of dusk.
Peter stands slightly apart. Bare-chested beneath a deep green jacket left open, its gold embroidery curling like vines.
His fitted brown trousers cling to him, dark as pitch, and his copper hair is swept back, revealing the sharp slope of his pointed ears.
He looks so impossibly handsome, I struggle to tear my gaze away.
His mask—brown, veined with curling gold vines—hides his eyes but only sharpens the danger of him.
I feel his appreciative gaze rake over me. Undressing me. Claiming me.
I force my attention to Finn, fidgeting with the edge of his sleeve.
His unguarded excitement radiates off him.
He wears dark blue velvet trimmed in gold, the color warming his flushed cheeks.
Red curls fall into his eyes, and his mask, adorned with delicate filigree in soft gold, catches the last light of day.
Thorne stands nearby, quiet as ever, wrapped in bone-white fabric with dark embroidery mimicking bark across his chest and arms. His mask is sharp, angular—almost animalistic. His gaze is off in the trees, like he’s here and not, his mind lost somewhere we can’t follow.
Tinker Bell hovers just above, every movement quick and glittering. Her silver dress gleams like liquid metal, with ribbons curling around her limbs. Her tiny silver mask hides little, but somehow sharpens the ferocity in her expression.
I swallow hard, my pulse quickening. The sight of them all together, dressed for this moonlit masquerade, is magical, but layered with tension. Every detail—the masks, the stances, the subtle glances exchanged—reminds me that nothing here is simple.
Still, I allow myself to bask in the thrill of it. The sheer anticipation.
Tinker Bell leads us through the forest, her silver glow weaving through the shadows like a living thread. We follow in silence.
I’ve never set foot in the faerie village.
I only know it lies deep in the woods, hidden far from prying eyes.
When I was a child, Peter spoke of it in whispers, as if sharing a sacred secret.
Once, he brought me to the edge of their glade at dusk—but only far enough to see the glow of their lanterns flickering through the trees.
The further we walk, the more the air begins to shift. It sparkles faintly, like it’s been dusted with powdered stars. Energy pulses through the trees and along the forest floor. I feel it hum in my chest, rising with each step.
Then the forest opens before me, and I stop, breath caught in my throat.
The village unfolds before us, as if conjured from a dream.
Trees arch into natural spires, their limbs woven into vaulted ceilings.
Blossoms the size of lanterns bloom from the trunks, their petals pulsing with light—pink, violet, gold—like the slow beat of a heart.
Orbs drift lazily through the air like will-o’-the-wisps, casting errant shadows that twist across the mossy ground.
Homes are carved into the treetrunks, walkways strung with vines, staircases built of glowing mushrooms. A wide plaza opens at the center, lit by lanterns suspended in midair.
Tables groan beneath feasts too elaborate to be real.
Music drifts through the air, strange and haunting, played on instruments I cannot name, echoing in layers that make my skin tingle.
Masked faeries whirl and spin, their movements fluid and strange. Some wear masks shaped like owls, foxes, or stags. Others move like no human ever could, their bodies arching and twisting, defying gravity.
I feel both out of place and completely drawn in at once. The air is thick with enchantment, every heartbeat, every shimmer of wings whispering that I have stepped into a world utterly unlike my own.
I don’t belong here. And I never want to leave.
I feel Peter’s lips brush my ear before I hear his voice—low, dark, and wickedly smooth. “Magnificent, isn’t it?”
I nod, breathless. “Truly.”
Tinker Bell darts in, grabbing his hand with a glittering pout. “Come dance with me!” Her voice lilts like wind chimes, playful and teasing, but there’s an unmistakable quiver beneath the sweetness.