Page 47 of Losing Wendy

“Yeah, now we can’t get you to shut up,” says Freckles, his red hair poking in all directions as he appears around the corner and chucks a wad of parchment at Benjamin. “Come on, you’re supposed to be helping me chop firewood today.”

Benjamin throws his hands out. “We already did that yesterday.”

“Yeah, and then half of it disappeared. Wonder where it went,” Freckles says, chuckling as he stares pointedly at the block of wood in Benjamin’s hand.

I glance back and forth between Michael and Benjamin, who is now holding the block of wood behind his back. Something deep inside me swells with warmth.

“Thanks for playing with him,” I tell Peter once Benjamin and Freckles leave, offering Peter what must be the most uncomfortable smile ever to grace my face after the horrible encounter Peter and I suffered last night.

Peter smiles, dimples forming in his cheeks. “No need to thank me. Michael is my favorite of the Darling siblings. Much better to play with him than the others, who both seem to have pretend swords stuck up their rear ends.”

His jab is meant in jest, but it pricks and lodges itself right between my ribcage.

“John and I had to grow up faster than most children.”

“That’s possibly the most depressing thing that could happen to a person, don’t you think?”

I remember last night, his thumb caressing my temple, like he somehow knows the darkness that creeps there, how it leaves my soul sodden and damp until I feel as if I’m breathing through a wet cloth.

“I’m sorry about last night,” I say, though as soon as the words are out, I feel a creeping of shame at the skin of my neck for apologizing. Peter is my captor, not my friend. No matter how clearly he sees me.

Lying awake, scrambling for a response that would satisfy his question, had gotten me nowhere. I’m no closer to figuring out what I would do with freedom if I had it.

“Well, I’m not sorry,” he says, his eyes dancing as he watches me intently. “It’s rare that I’m as entertained as I was watching you scale that cliffside. You had my heart pounding, wondering if you would fall.”

My throat goes dry. “I didn’t realize you were watching the entire time.”

“I like to keep my eye on you.”

“And if I’d slipped?”

He jerks his chin to the side, gesturing toward his wings. “I have these, don’t I?”

“Would you have used them, though? Or let me fall?”

There it is, that cruel smile that overcomes his face that I find so grounding. Perhaps because it reminds me not to trust him. “Isn’t wondering half the fun?”

I swallow. “Perhaps for you. I’m not certain I would have enjoyed becoming spatter against the rocks.”

“No, I imagine you wouldn’t have,” he says, standing and stretching his limbs and wings. The action itself is so boyish, so reminiscent of something Michael would do, I fight with a smile tugging at my cheeks.

He turns to leave, but I find myself speaking up without the permission of my good sense. “You would have caught me.”

Peter turns slowly, curiosity brimming on his face. “What makes you think that?”

“Because you could have let that nightstalker rip me to shreds, and you didn’t.”

“But Wendy Darling,” he says in a voice that has a shudder snaking through me, “that’s not nearly as satisfying as watching you fall.”

Michael refusesto leave the room until all the toys are sorted from smallest to largest in the nearest closet.

Closet is probably too generous a term. It’s more that there’s a woven pine needle curtain covering a hole in the earth.

“A clean room makes Mama happy,” Michael says. I can’t count how many times our mother said that to him while teaching him to clean his messes.

Unfortunately, while Michael no longer leaves toys strewn across the floor, he now knows the subtle joys of having a pristine organization system, and once he sees the havoc of the closet, there’s no turning back.

We spend the rest of the morning reorganizing.

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