Chapter 49
TINK
I’m dressed in a shimmering gown that feels too classy for a night at the circus.
Probably because I’ve only ever experienced the circus from the other side.
The gown itself is something I normally shouldn’t be able to wear, no chance of hiding my wings, except Lars figured out a way to siphon the magic from Venus’s painting into a sort of salve that’s turned my wings invisible.
That was what he’d given me before he left to chase after Phoenix.
It was sticky and unpleasant going on, and my wings still feel oily, but that’s not what has me uncomfortable.
Because we’re in the middle of the stands, and up above, soaring above us, is Peter.
There’s something about the way his adamant wing glistens in the low glow of the stage lights that stirs up a pang inside of me.
I’d hacked that part of him away. Taken what I’d thought would maim him, be most important to him other than Wendy.
And yet, here he is, not fully mended, but practically.
I suppose I have my wings back too, but I touch my throat, knowing good and well what I’d trade them for.
In the end, I haven’t touched him.
The Nomad must see the thought process on my face, because he leans over and whispers, “Have you noticed?”
I give him a questioning look.
“He’s right where he found you.”
I shift uncomfortably, disconcerted by the warmth flaring up in my chest. As unsteady as Peter’s presence makes me, it’s even more upsetting how steadying the presence next to me is.
I won’t kill him. I can’t.
And so I refuse to accept comfort from him either.
Instead, I watch Peter, though I can feel the Nomad’s eyes on me. Watching me watch him.
Peter soars over the crowd while foolish women squeal pleas for him to fly them away. He must have his eyes on one in particular, because he keeps circling back to the same spot. Stupid girl. I’d warn her after the show if I thought it would do any good.
But then I get a better look at her face, and I realize I’ve warned this girl before.
Wendy.
My heart stops in my chest.
I can’t believe my eyes.
Why is she here?
At first, a terrible thought assaults me. That even after all that went down in the courtyard of Lady Whittaker’s, Wendy went back to him. That in the end, his abusive sway has his claws in her too deep.
But then I glimpse to her left, and relief floods my heart.
Captain Astor is seated in the place next to her. I expect him to be staring down Peter with a gaze so sharp it could kill. Instead, he’s watching Wendy, measuring her response and, my guess is, how to best support her.
My heart warms, but only for a moment before the fear spills back in. If they’re here, if they would come all this way and risk seeing Peter again, they must be in trouble.
In fact, there’s something different about Wendy. She’s still her, but I get the sense that something about her has permanently changed. I can’t decide if it’s added or subtracted, or perhaps both.
But it’s there, and it’s pronounced.
“What is it, Wanderer?” whispers the Nomad next to me.
I nod in Wendy’s direction. I’d point, but I don’t want to risk garnering Peter’s attention so soon.
“Oh, old friends,” says the Nomad, and to my surprise, he sounds genuine.
I’m not sure that Wendy and Captain Astor see you that way, I scribble on the pad next to me.
“What?” The Nomad feigns offense. “You doubt my ability to make friends other than yourself?”
The Nomad sighs. “Fine. So I’m not great at reciprocal friendship. But I happen to like other people all right. They just don’t happen to like me. And besides, I don’t need other friendships when I have you.”
You’re assuming I like you, I write.
The Nomad smirks. “I have evidence that would support my theory.”
My stomach twists as the vision of his blood on my hands fills my memory at the same time the memory of our kiss does as well.
If Wendy is here, she’s in trouble, I write.
“And?”
And she’s my friend.
“I’m not keen on the idea of derailing our mission because you happen to be in the same place at the same time as an old friend,” says the Nomad.
I thought you said you were her friend, I write, giving him a look.
“Yes, well, in the hierarchy, you win. I would help her if I knew it wouldn’t compromise our chances of getting your voice back.”
This would be more heartwarming if the Nomad didn’t also have something at stake.
“Actually,” says the Nomad, “I think I might have an idea.”
Before I can ask what it is, I feel another set of eyes on me.
I look up, and all I see is the icy cold freeze of Peter’s stare.
Peter’s gaze lingers on my throat, long after the show has ended and he’s disappeared along with the rest of the performers.
I stare at the adamant pocket watch in my hand. It’s cold to the touch, almost to the point of being slimy.
But maybe that’s just because I know what’s inside.
I’d been shocked when the Nomad handed it to me. When I’d asked him how it was supposed to help Wendy, he’d just flashed me a grin and asked if I trusted him.
I’m not examining the answer to that question, but my actions tell enough.
My plan is to slip Wendy the pocket watch on the way out of the circus tent, while the crowd is still congested and a bump on the back will be indistinguishable from the general push of the mob, everyone trying to make it out before the streets get too crowded.
Unfortunately, I lost sight of her soon after the show ended. I glance around.
“Stop looking so obvious,” whispers the Nomad. “We don’t want her spotting you. A tearful reunion will only slow us down.”
I roll my eyes, but he’s right. So without turning my head, I search the crowd with my eyes.
By the time we’ve made it outside, there’s no sight of her.
We search for long enough that the Nomad begins tapping on his wrist as if there’s a watch there.
“Hey,” says one of the carnies. “I remember you. You’re that faerie that escaped all those years ago.”
My blood runs cold. This isn’t the same group that had enslaved me, but carnies tend to hop around, working with multiple carnivals depending on the season.
It’s been so long, with Neverland slowing down my aging, but time had still passed on the outside.
I was sure no one would remember me, especially with the concoction Lars had made to hide my wings.
This would be a good time to have our heavy nearby. Unfortunately, the Nomad had thought he’d be better off staging both the ringmaster’s and Peter’s tents during the show.
“Now, wait half a second, and I’ll—” says the Nomad, but he is quickly cut off.
“Guards!” yells the old carnie. “Escaped performer!”
“I was going to say, ‘make it worth your while to stay quiet,’ but it seems I’ll be doing nothing of the sort,” says the Nomad, a threat woven throughout his tone.
This only causes the carnie to shriek louder, alerting a set of guards nearby. When they start heading our way, the Nomad leans over to me.
“You had better run, Wanderer.”
I don’t wait to be told twice. I whirl around, then take off sprinting through the crowd.
Behind me, the guards start yelling too, and I hear the Nomad say something that I can’t quite make out but that sounds sarcastic.
I push through patrons of the circus, but then an alarm sounds, and that’s when the crowd becomes a madhouse. All around me, people panic. People who are much too far from the guards to hear what’s going on start shouting things like “fire” and “stabbing” with utter certainty.
Still, I make it to the wall, which I’m fairly sure I can fly over, if not before anyone sees me, then at least before anyone can shoot me down.
But then I hear a voice. My heart stops.
Wendy is saying something. I can’t make out what, but I would recognize her voice anywhere.
I don’t think. I just spin around and rush toward her.
She’s being pushed through the crowd by Captain Astor, his hand to her back, clinging to her dress so as not to lose her.
To her other side is a golden-haired, brawny fae, who also looks as if his mission in life is not to lose her.
My mind races. I still need to pull off this heist, and being seen will only further my chances of getting caught.
So I slam into Wendy as hard as I can, slipping the pocket watch, along with a note I’d scribbled back while we were still in the tent, into her pocket as I do.
She yelps, and both Captain Astor and the other fae turn to her first, rather than look behind her. Before they can check, I hear Wendy’s voice, soft and familiar and with a bite of sarcasm.
“I’ve been run into before,” she says. “I’ll survive.”
And so I slip back into the crowd and make my way toward the performers’ tents, trying to bite back the tears of being this close to my friend, and yet as invisible as ever.