Page 52 of Losing Wendy

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.

CHAPTER 19

Writing in Freckles’s journal proves to be difficult in the room I share with my brothers. First of all, Michael is drawn to the feel of the leather binding. When he’s not rubbing his palm over the back of it, he’s trying to snatch my quill from my hand. Already, two of the pages are no longer useable after Michael got a hold of the quill and scribbled all over them, collapsing into a fit of giggles that instantly melted my irritation with him.

Since Michael sleeps the best in complete darkness, I don’t want to disturb him by kindling a lantern. When he finally crawls onto his cot, dreary-eyed and yawning, I flick the lantern off, bid John goodnight, and pad down the hall toward the Den area.

Unfortunately, the Den is already inhabited when I arrive.

Peter sits on a bench propped up against the far wall, the glow from the dwindling fire in the hearth highlighting the copper tinge to his hair, the subtle freckles on his nose.

Before I can scramble away, he flicks his devastating blue eyes toward me, peering at me through long eyelashes.

“Stay,” he says, casually gesturing toward the couch across from the fire. “No need to let me scare you off.”

Personally, I’m of the opinion I have every reason to let him scare me off, but I don’t say as much. Instead, I say, “I don’t want to bother you.”

A sly smile curves his lips. “Then don’t leave.”

Something hitches in my throat, and I glance over my shoulder and down the hall. If I knew what was good for me, I’d stay out of Peter’s way.

Yet.

The pad of my thumb finds the leather of the journal, the crisp edges of the pages. I’d been planning on mapping out my ideas about what happened to the missing Lost Boy, compiling a list of questions and who best to ask them to.

But if anyone can tell me what happened to Thomas, what happened to the boys’ memories, it’s the fae sitting across the room from me.

I trace my feet across the dirt floor, finding my seat on the wicker chair furthest from the Shadow Keeper.

“So proper,” he says, his eyes tracing the straight line of my back, as if he can see through me to the ripples of my spine. “Surely that’s not the posture you intended on taking to settle down for the night.”

I let out a nervous chuckle, then pull my feet onto the chair, propping my back against the armrest as I tuck the journal into my lap.

“That’s better,” says Peter, lifting something from the bench next to him—a flute, I now realize, made of bamboo tubes progressing in size.

I divert my eyes to my journal, but my attention is soon swept away by the gentle hum of the flute as Peter plays. Its low vibrato fills the room, echoing easily off the bare walls. There’s an effortlessness about the beautiful tune, one that seeps into muscles I hadn’t even noticed were tensed, letting them out like a masseuse to a knot. My shoulders slump as the rest of my body sinks into the chair.

Blinking to revive my heavy eyes, I try to look like I’m focusingon my journal, but my mind is elsewhere—trying to devise the best way to extract the information I want out of Peter.

“Wendy Darling, you’re not writing,” says Peter, my attention snapping up to him as the music halts. “Do you find me distracting?”

Shaking my head out, I push myself upright in the chair. “No,” I say. “Sometimes I just like to gather my thoughts before I write. To make sure I say it the right way.”

He yawns. “Sounds boring.”

I flinch, but if he’s bothered by hurting my feelings, he doesn’t show it.

Irritated, I finally find the will to ask, “Will you take my brothers’ memories?”

He cocks his brow. “And what of your memories? You’re not concerned about those?”

I huff. “Of course I am.”

“That explains the journal then. But it’s unnecessary. Trust me, the Darling memories are safe.”

---