Page 45 of Losing Wendy

“Peter got it for me on one of his missions to the outside realms,” says Freckles, undoing the leather strap and opening the journal for me. When he notices me staring at the rough edges on the inner spine where it’s obvious several pages have been ripped out, he blushes. “I thought maybe if I had a pen in my hand, wrote stream-of-consciousness-like, the memories might come back to me. They never did. But hey—you still have your memories,” he says, flicking me in the temple. He must instantly regret it, because he offers me a wince and tucks his hands back into his lap. “This way, even if you forget, you’ll have a record of your life before that you can always go back to.”

When I let out another choked sob, horror fills Freckles’s face. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

I launch myself over to him and wrap him up in a hug, my face settling into his coarse red hair.

“Oh,” he says, chuckling nervously as he pats me flat-palmed on the back.

Freckles findsme a quill and ink before he returns to bed, leaving me curled up with the journal. I fill the first ten pages with every detail I think I might need if I wake up tomorrow with my memory wiped. It’s mostly simple things: my name, that John and Michael are my brothers, that my parents died at the hands of a man named Captain Astor, but my scribbling soon turns to Peter, and once I’ve started, I can’t seem to stop.

Every detail I include has a single purpose, which I underline and circle once my eyes start to droop with weariness.

Peter is dangerous.

As I finally crawl into bed, I clutch the journal to my chest, too afraid to set it out of sight, lest I forget that it exists tomorrow.

When I wakethe next morning, my memories remain.

It’s Michael who’s gone.

CHAPTER 17

Michael is missing. It takes a moment to register as I jolt from bed, stuffing my journal underneath my pillow.

Panic seizes me as I consider all the worst-case scenarios as to where my brother might have wandered off to. John is still asleep, looking peaceful and drooling a bit on his cot, his spectacles tucked neatly by his pillow.

I pace back and forth, wondering if I should wake him. Together, we could cover ground more quickly. But it could very well be that Michael is just outside in the hallway. If that’s the case and I’m simply overreacting, there’s no reason to worry him.

In a split decision, I grab the fur coat Simon lent me and tuck it around my shoulders, determining that if I don’t find Michael within the next several minutes, I’ll come back to wake John.

Scouring the tunnels does me no good. It’s early—Michael’s internal clock has always woken him at least an hour before the sun thinks it a decent time to rise—so none of the boys are out and about either.

Except for Joel, whom I happen upon in the dining room as he squats by the hearth carved into the walls.

“Pardon me, but have you seen Michael anywhere?” I ask.

Joel flinches, which I find odd until I tell myself it’s probably just because he’s not used to anyone else being up this early. When he turns from the hearth, I can’t help but notice the way he keeps his shoulders huddled toward the fire and away from me.

“Haven’t seen him, but Peter walked by that way a little bit ago. Might could ask him,” he says.

Glad for a lead, I make off toward the tunnel Joel indicated. Quickly, my mother’s lessons overtake me, and I spin on my heel to thank the boy. From this angle, I can see what he’s messing with in front of the fire.

It’s a rodent, one he’s managed to trap in a twig-knit cage. I don’t much like rodents and am not sorry to see one terminated, but it’s what Joel is doing with the cage that has unease piling in my gut.

Propped open with a stick is the cage door, positioned in front of the fire. The little rodent is curled up on the opposite side of the cage, trying to escape the heat. It squeaks in protest as Joel prods its bloated belly with his whittled stick, forcing it to flee directly into the fire or be skewered.

“Perhaps you could try breaking its neck instead,” I offer, trying and failing to keep my voice casual.

Joel turns to me, color blotching his tanned cheeks. I can’t remember if his flush was already there from the warmth of the fire.

“Good idea,” he says, though he doesn’t remove the cage from the proximity of the hungry flames.

I feel as if I’m going to be sick, but I can’t be worrying over the fate of a rodent that’s stealing our food supplies and probably carries diseases. Not when Michael is missing. So I swallow my trepidation and make off to find Peter.

Halfway down the hall, I hear the gentle and familiar sound of Michael singing. Relief washes over me, and I slow my pace. If he were frightened, his pitch would be much higher and more urgent. As it is, Michael sounds content.

I follow his voice until I reach the corner and peek around.

I got in the habit of peering in on Michael when he was young,mostly because he does some of the most clever and wonderful things when no one is watching. One time I found him cross-legged in a circlet of Mother’s crystal chalices. He’d filled them to varying levels and was tapping them with a nail he’d found. To this day, I don’t know where he learned you could make music that way. I like to think he just discovered it himself.

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