Darling Girl: A Novel of Peter Pan(101)

    When Jane comes downstairs, she looks exhausted, every bit of her seven decades, as if she’s aged twenty years in this one day.

“She’s sleeping,” she tells Holly, crossing to the decanter and pouring herself a drink. “I put her in the room next to mine and gave her two sleeping pills.”

“You can’t hand out those pills like candy,” Holly protests.

Jane sniffs. “The child has no family, nowhere to go. Sleep is the best thing for her, and she won’t get that on her own.” She takes a long look at Holly. “How are you?”

Holly shakes her head. “Numb.”

“It’s not your fault,” Jane says in a gentler tone. “Wendy, myself, you . . . we all did the best we could.”

“Right,” Holly says. She can’t talk about this. She leaves the library and climbs the stairs, stopping outside Nan’s room to listen for her breathing before continuing on.

In the nursery, she sits on the bed and looks at the sky, searching for the evening star through the clouds. She thinks of Ed, how he’ll never grow up, never get married, never dance at his sister’s wedding or give her away. She thinks of all those other boys, the ones Christopher told her about, pictures their gray faces in a twilight room somewhere, sleeping away their youth. Or scurrying down dark alleys, willing to trade everything for one more taste of Peter’s drug.

She thinks of Jack. Of that night in the nursery so long ago, when he was in the hospital. Her despair now is a perfect echo. What else, really, does she have to lose? Nothing. Except herself.

And then she thinks of Peter. Of the boy he once was. What was he searching for, that first night he came to the Darling window? What would a boy, tired and lost, facing dangers she can’t even imagine, be looking for? Safety. Security. A haven. Somewhere he could get help. Whatever he found in the nursery room that night, whatever happened between Wendy and her father, it wasn’t that.

Slowly, as if she’s in a trance, she takes off her clothes. Slips into the white, lavender-scented nightgown. Plaits her hair. Lights a candle. Pulls down the bedsheets and fluffs the pillows. Makes the room as warm and inviting as she can. The type of room a lost child would be drawn to.

And then she opens the window.

It doesn’t happen for a long time. Her skin senses the change in the air patterns before her mind does. The hair on the nape of her neck prickles as the candle flickers. She can’t bear to turn around, keeps her face turned toward the wall, but she knows he’s there. She bows her head and stares at the floor.

“You win,” she whispers. “I choose you.”

And then someone sits on the bed beside her. Someone leans their head against her shoulder. Someone who smells of springtime and cut grass, of fresh air, who carries the scent of an effervescent joy that is impossible to explain.

“Eden?” She can’t believe it. But it’s true.



* * *





“I don’t have much time,” Eden says softly. “Bell is keeping watch for me. But I can save him. I can save Jack.” She lifts her head up, and Holly can no longer pretend she’s a child.

“Tell me where he is,” Holly pleads.

“Jack was searching for me. Ed told him his father knew lots of people, that he worked with kids, that he had connections with runaways. He offered to help. So they went to Peter,” she says, her voice shaky. Holly pulls her closer, strokes her hair. “And Peter tricked them. He trapped them. He used them for their blood. He used them as bait for me.” Her blue eyes fill with tears. “It’s all my fault.”

“It’s not. I promise,” Holly says firmly. “But you have to tell me where Jack is now.”

“Inside Big Ben,” she says. “There’s an old apartment there, a room for the guards. Bell showed me. She’s been flying me there, through an opening behind the clock face. But Peter made Bell tell him, and he’s there now, with Jack.” She looks away. “I heard you calling that day.”

Holly’s sick. If she’d found a way into the tower—if she hadn’t lost Jack’s trust . . . But guilt and what-ifs won’t help Eden now. Or Jack.

She gives Eden one last squeeze, then stands up.

“I’m calling the police.”

“No! You can’t,” Eden says, tugging her back down. “He’ll hear them coming. He’ll kill Jack before they even get to the top of the stairs. I have a plan. I can get him out.”

“No,” Holly says. “Absolutely not. If anyone’s going, it’s me.” She thinks for a moment. “Would Tink take me? Could we trust her not to tell Peter?”

“Don’t call her that,” Eden says sharply. “That’s his name for her, and she doesn’t belong to him anymore. She’s Bell now, and she’s with me.”

“Then you need to take me there. You and Bell. Call for help, and then disappear.” She has Christopher’s number programmed on her phone, and she hands it to Eden now. “Do you understand?”

Eden shakes her head. “Peter doesn’t want you. He wants me. And if he catches you, he’ll use you as bait, the same as he did to Jack.”

“Maybe,” Holly agrees. “But I’m still going. Not you.”