Page 95 of Losing Wendy

One night as she tucked me in, she waited for John to fall asleep—Michael was yet to be born—and tipped a cold goblet to my lips. She told me it was juice. I knew how juice was made, by squeezing the liquid from a grape, but as soon as the foul liquid hit my tongue, I knew there had been a mistake. The grape must have soured before the juice had a chance to be made.

I remember gagging as the vile liquid stung on its way down my throat. After several seconds, the sensation of being lowered into a freshly heated bath washed over my body. Like having a fever, except without the sweats and chills and body aches that make fevers so unpleasant.

Not only that, but the shadows in the corner that had just seemed so looming, so terrifying, now appeared like regular shadows.

I didn’t fight my mother after that. Instead, I asked for another sip.

Peter doesn’t returnthat night. Or the next. Or the night after that. I ask Simon about it, and he says when there’s a blood moon, it’s not unusual for Peter to be away for weeks.

Peter took his pouch of faerie dust with him.

He left some behind with Simon. Enough to keep me protected from the shadows, Simon explains. But he’s on strict orders not to give me more than a pinch. The burst of color I get from my daily dose is the pinnacle of my day, but it’s never enough.

My blood feels as if it’s scraping through my veins. I try to distract myself, volunteering for half the boys’ chores. While it endears me to them, it does little to soothe the sandpaper feel of my veins.

John doesn’t come to visit me, and he certainly doesn’t bring Michael. I’ve been sleeping in Peter’s bed, seeking solace in the amber and pine scent of his sheets.

Episodes of feverish sweats wake me during the night, but so far the shadows have yet to return. By the third day, I’m positive that if I don’t get more faerie dust in my system, my blood will run dry and I’ll shrivel up.

Presents show up at the foot of Peter’s bed. A whittled set of figurines—a farmer, a merchant, and three women with hoods. Wildflowers from the edges of Joel’s garden—I’m pretty sure they’re weeds, but their blue hue and delicate petals make them beautiful. Nettle brings me my meals, always making sure to tell me when the food was prepared by him, thereby making it superior. Simon brings me a change of clothes to replace the ones I sweated through. The Twins afford me their quiet company, and I often wake to one of them reading silently in the corner, though I’m never sure whichone. Even Smalls comes to check on me, though he darts out of the room anytime he realizes I’m awake.

The small acts of kindness touch my heart, but I can’t help but wish they were coming from my own family.

Once I feel well enough to walk, I go back to my room to seek solace in my brothers, but as soon as I enter the room, Michael slinks away from me, hiding in John’s arms.

So I grab my coat and sneak out of the Den and into Neverland.

The plan isto scale the cliffs to Peter’s storehouse. Guilt writhes in my chest for plotting to steal from him. Though I remind myself that it’s not really stealing. Not when Peter would happily provide me with more if he were here.

Well, perhaps not happily. But he would give it to me. I’m certain of it.

As I walk along the beach, the sorrowful wind howls, though what it’s mourning, I can’t say. Beach air sprays in my nostrils, filling my lungs in a way that’s refreshing, clearing my head.

The more I walk and the more my blood flows, the more my one-track mind clears, and it hits me what exactly I’m doing. I’m sneaking out of the Den in the middle of the night to get a fix.

My hands tremble, though I’m not sure whether it’s from withdrawals or terror at the thought.

This happened to me when I was eight. My father discovered me in his wine cellar in the middle of the night, nursing a bottle of aged faerie wine.

I’d downed an entire bottle, and had yet to fall over.

My father was furious, I’m sure, though he wasn’t the type to fight with my mother in front of the children. He didn’t speak to her for months after that.

Apparently, that behavior was considered appropriate in front of the children. Like we wouldn’t notice that Papa suddenly couldn’t hear Mama’s questions at the breakfast table.

Truth be told, it’s amazing I did notice. The doctor had to becalled when, after several days without the wine, my body fell into shock, my limbs shaking as I broke into a cold sweat. I vaguely remember shouting obscenities at my parents, words that had never left my mouth before that day and haven’t since.

I remember not being Wendy.

I remember waking up as myself and being terrified.

The aching for the wine stayed with me and remained for a good while, though I found myself slipping into the old habit around courting season. Or in the winter, when the shadows lingered longer.

I recognize it now, the vicious tapping against my skull, my body demanding that which it doesn’t need. It threatens to drown out all rational thought, which is why I’m out on the beach in the middle of the night.

In the middle of a storm. I blink, finally noticing the raindrops needling my skin. The murky sky above, clouds obscuring the stars.

How desperate had I been for faerie dust that I hadn’t even noticed it was storming?

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