Page 146 of Losing Wendy

John slept the day away, his body still working through the somnium oil. I stayed by his side for hours. Occasionally, he flitted into consciousness, but only long enough to tell me he was sorry, though I can’t imagine what for. Probably for not protecting me like he thinks is his responsibility.

Peter stayed busy today, warding off the Lost Boys’ questions. He plans to tell them the truth once the shock of Nettle’s death wears off. I’d feared this would only cause paranoia, but when Peter explained that the boys’ heightened emotions might cause them to ostracize Simon, I’d had to agree that waiting was the best solution.

The events of last night wrestle with my weary muscles as I make my way to the cave. It’s like my feet are sutured to the sand and my muscles themselves have withered away into nothing. Not only that, but something occurs to me when I reach the shoreline, when the foam of the tide sloshes against my feet.

Tink submerged me underneath these waves. But why halfway drown me, then let me go? I’d figured she’d just been bored. That watching the shadows chase me across the island had been a sort of sport.

But as the saltwater air stings my nostrils, a different narrative forms.

Tink had chosen to keep the shadows close. She’d denied Peter’s help, refused to use his faerie dust to keep the shadows at bay.

The shadows had been quiet until Tink shoved me under the waves. Until the panic of drowning had brought them back. Maybe it was adrenaline flushing the faerie dust from my system; maybe the shadows simply grow louder when one comes close to death, but they’d swarmed me and then chased me straight to the grave of Victor’s father, where I’d found Thomas’s original sketch.

Had Tink wanted me to examine his body? Something about that idea fills me with unease, but I tell myself she probably just wanted me, Peter’s fiancée, to know I murdered an innocent man.

By the time I reach the mouth of the cave, my heart is already pounding.

My mind soon flits to my anxious anticipation of seeing the captain. I’ve had to ward myself against his accusations in advance.Told you the winged boy would get his hooks back into you, he’ll say.

I’ve mostly decided on short, careless retorts.

There’s no use arguing with the captain. I don’t have to explain myself to him, of all people. I’d made a mistake in refusing to trust Peter. That’s all. And I certainly don’t have the energy to tell him of Nettle’s murderous heart, of Simon’s pain.

I’m exhausted and weary and want nothing but to curl up in bed and let my body melt effortlessly into the sheets.

But the captain needs his dose, so here I am.

When I enter the mouth of the cave, I can’t help but notice the way the water laps up, blocking my path slightly. Strange, the tide never comes in this far. As I wade up to my knees in the sloshing water, my heart stops.

Lantern light trembles against the back walls of the cave as I lift my arm, trying to get a good view of the inside.

The cave is covered in water.

Enough to douse my boots, my knees.

No.

Panic surges through me and I lunge, hardly keeping my wits about me. It’s a stupid, foolish move, because the lantern goes sputtering out as soon as the flame touches the water, submerging me in darkness.

Still, I claw at the bottom of the cave, searching the water in panic.

No, no, no.

Salt sprays into my eyes as my fingers find no purchase other than the pebbles and grime that coat the bottom of the cave. I’m not sure what I’m hoping to find. For my fingers to brush against a familiar white tunic, the stubble of a beard that desperately needs to be shaved.

I tell myself I don’t want him dead because he’s the last chance I have of discovering the truth behind the deaths of my parents.

I tell myself Captain Astor deserved to drown.

So why do I dread my fingertips grazing bloated flesh? Why does a sob linger at the ready in my throat for the man responsible for the brutal murder of my parents?

No, no, no.

The wind howls outside, the storm reminding me who’s to blame for taking the captain away from me. I’m about to give up when my flailing hand clasps against something behind me, underneath the water.

My stomach lurches at the feel of a hand, the brush of a ripple of skin I know so intimately because of how often I’ve touched the Mating Mark on my face.

No.

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