Page 66 of Freeing Hook

It feels foolish, but I shove my hand into my pocket and pull out the folded piece of parchment.

Immediately, I sense his attention swivel to my hand.

“What is that?”

“At dinner, I noticed Lord Carlisle glancing at it. I couldn’t help but remember that he’d misspoken your—well, Cortland Rivers’ name. He called you Corbin. It made me think that surely he had to have a system to keep up with his many guests. And then I saw a servant hand him something before dinner—”

Just then, the wind picks up, snatching the parchment from my hands. I gasp, but Astor snatches it out of the air, muttering in annoyance as he tucks it back into my palm.

“Read it. My hands are busy,” he says, tugging on the reins. “But try not to drop it this time.”

I roll my eyes. “No, ‘Thank you, you’re a genius, Wendy’? ‘You saved the mission, Wendy’?”

“I might be more amenable to offering you praise had you not also ruined the mission.”

That’s fair. When I open the parchment, it’s exactly what I hoped—a guest list, full of descriptions as well as addresses. I scan the document until I find the description I’m looking for.

“Tertius Vale. Wiry gray hair. Dabbles in sailing. Tarot Lane. Red house. Likes blondes.”

Astor grunts, which is altogether unsatisfying, but I can’t help the smile that curves on my lips when he says, “Well done, Darling.”

We spend the next few minutes in silence, and I try to focus on how pleased I am with myself. Retrieving Lord Carlisle’s cheat sheet is the first thing I’ve done right in a long, long while.

Perhaps that’s why we both feel the need to ruin the moment. Return to the familiar embrace of our unpalatable equilibrium.

Astor speaks first. “Are you…alright?”

My throat stings as I think of the panicked moment back in the library annex. Of Peter tearing my dress apart as I tried to push him off of me, to no avail.

“I’m fine,” I lie.

Astor grunts.

“Thank you, by the way,” I whisper as the locusts sing in the trees on the mountain pass. “That wasn’t how I wanted it to happen for us.”

Astor’s fingers clench around the reins, his fingernails scraping at the bare skin of my waist where there’s a hole in the blanket I’ve wrapped around myself.

“It wasn’t how you wanted it to happen,” he repeats back, flatly. Like he’s reexamining the entirety of our language for any alternative interpretation. “Please tell me you’re referring to something other than what I walked in on between you and the winged boy. Please tell me you’re not entertaining the idea of ever letting him near you again.”

My heart pounds against my chest. “He’s not himself when he’s in his shadow form,” I say, though I can’t describe why I so desperately feel the need to explain. “It’s not Peter who’s in control; it’s someone else.”

“Please stop talking before I go and hurt your tender little feelings.”

A sob lodges in my throat. “I’m trying to thank you.”

“No, you’re trying to find an excuse for him. An explanation that would justify what he did. Does Peter know what he’s like in his shadow form? Does he know what his shadow form would like to do to you?”

I inhale a sharp burst of salt air. It burns in my throat. “He knows his shadow self is ill-mannered. If Peter, the real Peter, wanted to hurt me, he could have.”He could make me do anything he wanted, I don’t say. The mark on the inside of my elbow burns, reminding me of the bargain I made with Peter the night in the clock tower—a blank check for Peter to cash at his will.

Astor actually snorts. “And tell me this: can Peter control shifting in and out of his shadow form?”

I open my mouth, ready to tell him of course not, but that’s not entirely true. “He can control it within Neverland, but the Sister requires him to be in shadow form when he visits the other realms. He’s not responsible for what he does when it takes over.”

Hoping to end the conversation there, I retreat into myself. Astor’s not done, though. “Would you excuse a man for beating his wife if he only did it when he was drunk?”

I wince, glad at least Astor is behind me and can’t witness my reaction. I know the correct answer, that I wouldn’t. I’d say if the man truly loved his wife, he wouldn’t touch the bottle that led to his loss of control, that led to her pain.

I can’t admit to that. Astor knows why. But it hurts too much to acknowledge, so I pull out the only weapon I have.

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