Stars (Wendy Darling #1)(65)
A hand closed hard around her own.
Peter’s.
She turned to face him, afraid that he would be angry with her. But the eyes that met hers weren’t navy. They were the bright green that she adored so much, the color of trees and emeralds and life on Pan Island. He smiled gently at her.
“What are you doing in here?”
“I just wanted to see the room. I love music.” She cleared her throat. “I’m sorry.”
“Oh, you gentle girl,” Peter murmured, his hand caressing her cheek. Wendy felt her heart quicken. “There is nothing to be sorry about.”
Wendy turned and looked again at the instruments.
“Hook must be quite the musician. Strange, isn’t it? A pirate musician.”
Peter’s brow furrowed, but only for a second. “I suppose. But I hear it’s quite hard to be a musician with one hand.” Then he laughed deeply before swiftly pulling Wendy out into the main hallway. Wendy watched as the Lost Boys went from one room to the next. Then it struck her.
“Peter!”
“Yes?”
“We’re wasting our time! I know where the wine will be.”
His eyes widened. “How?”
She laughed to herself. “I thought like John for a moment.”
Peter still looked confused.
“The wine wouldn’t be near the end of the hallway—it’s too cold. It also wouldn’t be near the mouth . . .”
Peter’s eyes widened. “Because it’s too warm!”
“So my guess would be . . .”
“Room seven?” Peter grabbed her hand with a smile, and Wendy flushed, feeling like a conspirator, the thrill of excitement overcoming any lingering doubts she had. So this was adventure. They flew quickly down the long hallway, landing with a splash in front of the seventh door. Peter took a deep breath and pushed against the door. Nothing happened. He shoved again.
“Locked,” he mumbled. “The bastard. Of course he locks up his liquor. Darby!”
A kind Lost Boy who had spoken to Wendy a few times scampered over, carrying a small bag. The sandy-haired lad unfolded several strange metal tools and eyed them closely before picking up one.
“Stand back, boys!” He paused. “And ladies. Lady. You know.”
They complied, and Darby began unfurling several tiny spirals from inside a glass tube. Finally, he selected a razor-thin pipe with a blossoming end that twirled in the dim light of the hideout. With a grin, he inserted the tube into the lock and began turning it.
“He was once a thief,” Peter whispered to Wendy, giving her hand a squeeze.
“I can see that.”
Darby listened to the door and turned the tube once, twice, and then a hard counterclockwise turn. Something clicked on the other side.
“Now . . .” he whispered.
Peter handed him a single match from the bag. Darby blew on the end of it, struck it on the rock wall, and as soon as the flame sparked, he shoved it inside the glass tube and covered the end with the palm of his hand. At first there was nothing, but then Wendy heard the slightest moan, as if the door itself were crying out. She felt Peter’s arms circle around her waist and was about to object out of mortification when they were both blown silently off their feet, backward into the air. But as soon as the momentum pulled at her, Wendy felt herself stop. She wasn’t falling. She wasn’t slamming into the wall behind her. She was simply floating in the air, Peter behind her. She shook her head and floated back down to the ground, where the water swirled in angry waves, disturbed by the change in pressure. Silently and miraculously, the door had been pulled inside the room. Peter took her hand and led her inside, followed by his small army of boys.
“Beautifully done, Darbs!”
Darby grinned from ear to ear as Lost Boys patted him on the back and shoulder, congratulating him on his talents. Peter ruffled his hair affectionately as he walked past, and the boy practically burst with pride. Once Wendy passed the splintered wood that was once the door, she let a smile play across her face. The seventh room had been a good guess. Like the room with the giant birdcage, this room was also circular in shape, but it was narrow where the other one had been wide, a thin funnel that echoed outward. Naturally carved shelves of rock jutted out from the walls, and Wendy saw that the green condensation that graced the entrance also dripped down the walls here. Light came in from a small hole in the ceiling, barely big enough to fit a bottle through it, and bathed the room in a green, hazy light. And what bottles filled the room! Wendy gasped when her eyes traced up to the ceiling. Bottles of every shape and color surrounded her: blue bottles with naked mermaids carved into the sides, sea-glass bottles with clear liquids that sloshed around inside of them, as if moved by an invisible hand. Several clear bottles with bloodred wine and wooden corks sat on the topmost shelf. There were green bottles marked with tiny pocks that looked like stars. Black bottles with wide yellow stripes and elaborate jeweled tops sat next to tiny bottles that Wendy could fit into her pocket. There were hundreds upon hundreds of bottles, each one beautiful in the blazing vert light. How odd, she thought—this room of vice was somehow a place of tranquility in all the chaos. She cleared her throat.
“Are there so many versions of liquor?” she asked innocently.
Peter laughed. “This is but a small selection, my darling. But there . . .” He pointed to a bottle on the highest shelf, enclosed in a wavy glass case with a small lock on the side. “That is Hook’s vice.”