Page 122 of Losing Wendy

My mind weaves a story that doesn’t leave much room for me to be the hero.

CHAPTER 44

That night, when Peter is out making his rounds around the island, searching for the killer, I sneak into his room.

It’s just like I remember it from both the night Tink attacked me and the night he pressed the faerie dust to my lips and lifted me to the heavens in a swirl of color. My mouth salivates with the memory.

I swallow my spit and remind myself that the dose Peter’s given me is enough. My parched throat disagrees.

I’m not sure what exactly I’m looking for. Evidence of the boys’ histories, maybe. It’s not that I don’t trust Peter, I just can’t tell him what’s spurred my curiosity without betraying that I’ve been hiding the captain from him. All I want are records of some sort. Surely he’s kept something from the orphanage—it was his home too, wasn’t it?

I’m not sure what I’m hoping to find in the records. Perhaps evidence that the orphanage warden took an unwholesome interest in the boys. Evidence that he was the man I killed on the beach. It doesn’t make complete sense, given Peter would have recognized him. Then again, I wouldn’t put it past Peter to keep a matterhidden with the intention of protecting the happiness of those he loves.

There’s nothing of note in the drawer to the bedside table. Nothing underneath the bed, either. I could go through the piles of trinkets—pocket watches and such—but something tells me that would be a waste of time.

It’s then I consider exactly where Peter would hide something he didn’t want the Lost Boys finding.

The book on etiquette sitting on Peter’s bedside table. Of course.

When I crack it open, my heart flutters as my fingers brush along the ridges of paper, into which has been cut a rectangle. Inside of it is a leather book. It looks to be a journal of some sort, but it could very well be a book of transactions for all I know.

Slowly, holding my breath, I unbind the shoestring strip holding the journal together.

The pages fall open, shooting dust into the air, but I swallow my cough lest I make enough noise to alert any of the boys who might be wandering the halls for a snack in the middle of the night.

Ridges of ink press against my fingertips as I run them over the pages. I realize this is the first time I’ve ever seen Peter’s handwriting. It’s slanted and seems to bounce right off the page.

The first entry is a continuation of a thought about how to construct a decent kitchen in the Den, and I get the impression this journal isn’t the first Peter has filled. I suppose I just have to hope that the information I need is here.

I sit cross-legged on the bed, take a breath, and begin to read.

When the Sisterfirst wished to bargain with me to save the boys, I remember thinking it was a treacherous sort of deal. The type humans tell their offspring not to strike with the fae.

I should have listened to those instincts. Shouldn’t have let my youthful optimism blind me to what exactly the Sister was placing on my shoulders should anything go wrong.

But I’d told myself nothing would go wrong. All would go to plan, andwe’d remain safe in a world, if not of my own design, then at least born of my own imagination.

I thought I could keep them from growing up.

I keep thinking about the blessing she bestowed on me. The gift she presented me so that I would be up to my task if the day ever came. It felt like a blessing then. One I would never have to use for terror, but could drink the benefits of ever after.

But something is changing in the boys.

Thomas keeps asking me about what happened before Neverland. If he and Victor have any living family back home.

At first, I dismissed his questions as natural curiosity.

But then he asked me if there was a warden where he came from.

I avoided the question best I could, but there was no mistaking Thomas’s agitation when I refused to answer. The Sister won’t like it if she knows he’s asking questions.

We thought that wiping their memories would solve the problem, but it seems the effects of the spell are wearing off.

I tell myself I can fix it before it goes too far.

Telling myself that is working less and less.

If Thomas remembers, it’s only a matter of time before the other boys discover the truth.

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