Page 50 of Losing Wendy

The roast is a hit.Part of me is delighted when all the boys go back for seconds. Part of me feels a bit guilty when there’s only enough left for half of them.

Michael must be hungry, because while he normally only picks at his food, he wipes his plate clean tonight. Granted, I did give himan extra portion of potatoes and kept the roast in a separate bowl so they wouldn’t touch.

Even Nettle clears his plate, though he piles his onions on Simon’s. I check Simon’s face for any sign of queasiness, considering he had to switch shifts with Nettle earlier, but if he’s still feeling ill, I can’t tell underneath that dazzling smile.

“We should make Wendy cook from now on,” says Victor, which might be the closest he’s ever come to paying me a compliment.

Freckles nods. “Yeah, you’re much better at it than the rest of us.”

“Can you make us breakfast too?” asks Benjamin.

Oh no. This is definitely not what I wanted. Sure, I don’t mind cooking. Even like it to some degree. But sharing in the task differs greatly from taking on the entire responsibility.

Besides, if I’m in the kitchen all the time, I won’t have time to go hunting with Simon. I’ve come to look forward to our little excursions—the feel of the black sand against the balls of my feet. The spike of pleasure in my brain when I test a trap and find I’ve set it just right.

I would have never thought it, growing up in the aristocracy, but there’s something about working for everything I’ve got, removing the wall of riches between myself and the very nature that sustains me, that provides me a sort of inner peace.

“I’m not confident that’s the best idea,” I say, warily setting my fork down.

“Oh, come on, Winds,” says Freckles. “You’ve been here long enough to know that none of us are any good at it. Nettle, did you even help at all?”

Nettle shrugs. “I mostly just followed instructions.”

Freckles gestures with both palms open toward the sky in a sweeping motion, then props himself back in his chair on only two of its legs and crosses his arms. I suppose he thinks his point well made.

I glance at John for help. He’s sitting next to me, playing with the gristle left on his plate with a wooden fork. When he finally shrugsat me apologetically, he pours salt on the wound by adding, “This is the best meal we’ve had yet.”

I groan, the sight of which has the boys cackling. I seem to have stoked the fire, because now I’m pretty sure they’re just picking on me.

“All right. That’s enough of that. As delicious as this was, we won’t be chaining Wendy’s ankles to the stove anytime soon,” says Peter as he waltzes into the room.

I go tense. Peter rarely eats with us. Tonight, Nettle dropped off a plate by Peter’s room, which is down the long hallway toward the east of the Den.

“As much as it would serve to boost our morale,” he adds, winking at me.

I fight not to blush under his attention, reminding myself that one pleasant conversation doesn’t make him any less of the monster I’ve always known him to be. Doesn’t make me any less of a prisoner. Besides, I still have the drawing of the unfamiliar boy scraping at the back of my mind, giving me a fresh set of chills when I think of him.

This time, it’s the Lost Boys’ turn to groan.

Freckles laments that he shall never taste a properly salted piece of meat again.

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” says Peter, before turning to me. “What do you say, Wendy? Would you consider teaching the rest of us your ways?”

I go rigid, but it’s no use. The Lost Boys concur that this is the best alternative if I’m not going to agree to become their cooking slave.

“I could do that,” I say, not for Peter, but because I actually did enjoy instructing Nettle tonight.

And besides, the boys aren’t the only ones who benefit if the quality of meals around here increases.

Cheers erupt from the table from everyone except for Joel, who, though smiling, is doing so half-heartedly. We make eye contact from across the table, one I wish he would break, but he’sexamining me like he wonders if I’ll tell anyone what I saw regarding the rodent by the fire.

I can’t help myself; my gaze darts to the hearth across the room.

Of course, there’s no trap there.

When I glance back at Joel, a coldness has overtaken his stony expression.

The image of the boy in the drawing flashes against my mind once again.

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