Page 28 of Losing Wendy

Now that I know my brothers are safe, at least for now, I turn my attention to our surroundings. The beach itself backs up to a cluster of pine trees, their scent giving away their type even in the dark.

“There’s something strange about this place,” says John. “Something that’s not quite right.”

If John plans on explaining, he’s cut off by heavy footsteps as Peter approaches, his wings now tucked behind him.

He says nothing, and with a glance between John and me, we grab Michael by the hands and follow the Shadow Keeper into the darkness.

Trudgingthrough the forest proves to be an ordeal barefooted in the dark. Michael seems unbothered by the ever-changing terrain beneath our feet, though John, who actually managed to hold onto his shoes, gives in and launches Michael onto his back after the former steps on a thorn branch.

All the while, the shadow of a winged figure leads us deeper and deeper into the forest.

“What’s to say that fae don’t feast on the flesh of humans? Or sacrifice us to their gods?” John asks.

“You’re quite the skeptic, you know,” I tease my brother, to which he lets out a wry but knowing laugh.

“And you’re not skeptical enough.”

My memory flashes back to the captain. John had known by looking at the man he was trouble, yet I’d been drawn to him like a mouse to a trap, the gold of his Mating Mark like the shiny end of a hook, begging the gaping trout to swim just a tad closer.

The memory of the captain’s hands on my waist dances over me, and I have to shove it away, focus instead on putting one foot in front of the other. If I think of the captain’s hands on me, I’m afraid of what will come up, that the feelings I let him muster within my inner being will prove me a traitor to my parents, unwittingly aiding their killer.

Now that we’re in the quiet of the forest, Michael’s humming coupled with our footsteps the only noises, I can’t seem to block out the sounds of tonight’s—has it only been a few hours?—horrors. Every snapping twig is the slice of the blade against their exposednecks, every glance I take at the crescent moon, my mother’s grin, or the curve of blood against her exposed throat.

When I slip my hand into my gown pocket, I find it empty. My hope sinks as I realize my pocket watch must have fallen out during the escape. It might not have been my favorite memory of my father, but it was the last bit of him I had left. Or, thought I had.

It’s no use distracting myself, so I glance over at John and try to decipher whether the same images and sounds berate his mind. He’s blinking furiously underneath his glasses, his lashes damp, though he doesn’t let the moisture spill past that point.

My heart aches for my brothers, and I wonder what will become of both of them. What sort of life of servitude have I sold them into? Does John resent me for it already? Will Michael one day hate me for it, or will his mind ever develop to the point of understanding what has happened to us? Why Mama and Papa no longer roll him snugly in his pile of sheets at night.

My thoughts are interrupted by the snapping of a twig and a gentle glow in the distance. As we follow the Shadow Keeper, he leads us into a clearing, in the midst of which towers a great oak tree the size of the clock tower. The glowing comes from the holes within its great trunk, where something must be producing light from the inside. Clusters of lichen let off a gentle pinkish hue as they cling to its bark. The canopy spreads high above us, blocking the swirling light of the heavens from reaching us.

Peter spins on his heel to face us, propping himself lazily against the thick trunk of the massive tree as he examines our trio, assessing whether we can be trusted.

“I don’t let you leave after this point.”

“You’ve already claimed me for yourself, haven’t you?” I say, somewhat shocked at how resigned the words sound as they come out of my mouth.

Peter’s eyes flash with amusement. “It was never in your fate for me to let you go, Wendy Darling. But your brothers have a decision to make.”

John glances back and forth between me and Peter. Then shrugs. “It’s not as if there’s another logical option for us, now is there?”

“That’s the spirit,” says Peter. “And the little one?”

John and I exchange a look.

“Michael…” I hesitate, not wishing to give Peter the wrong impression—that Michael doesn’t think for himself or deserve choices in life. “It’s going to be difficult for us to explain to him what’s happening.”

Indeed, Michael is whistling to himself, his curious brown eyes enraptured by the lights coming off of the tree. I remember Mama weeping when Michael was younger over the fact that he never seemed to look at her like he looked at his lights. Part of me understands why it grieved my mother so. The other part of me has always figured that Michael just has his own way of making us feel seen. He might rarely look me in the eye, but I can tell when he clings to my arm or places a toy in my hand that he’s seeing me. Even if it is just out of the corner of his eye.

“I see,” Peter says, looking Michael up and down for the first time. “Well, then. In that case, Michael can have longer to decide.”

I blink, not sure I heard the fae Shadow Keeper correctly, but before I can ask him to clarify, he turns toward the tree and beckons us to follow.

When we reach the tree, Peter holds a hand out to Michael. I’m a little shocked. Usually Michael swats away hands of people he doesn’t know, but Peter somehow knew not to grab it. Just to extend his as an invitation. Michael sways a bit, then puts his little hand into Peter’s, who leads it to a knot on the log.

It’s strange to watch, when usually it’s Michael leading us by the hand to whatever he needs.

As soon as Michael’s palm touches the knot on the tree, it starts to glow, tendrils of light spreading through the cracks in the bark.

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