Darling Girl: A Novel of Peter Pan(30)

In every picture, the man’s face is cut out.

Holly’s own secrets are in the attic too, caught in photographs that have been packed into boxes and sealed tightly shut. They add to the oppressive atmosphere of Darling House, although once they were a bright beam cutting through the dark. If she closes her eyes, she can still see them, her boys. Jack and Isaac running races on the long corridor of the second floor, baby legs churning. Robert’s booming laugh as he taught them to slide down the grand banister into his waiting arms. His sheepish, guilty grin when Jane had caught him. And almost unbelievably, her mother’s amused expression, followed by her ringing laughter. A sound that echoed through the house, warming it, bringing it alive again in a way Holly would never have thought possible in the days she’d skulked through its dark hallways as a forgotten teen.

Other memories are there as well. Some captured in pictures, others existing only in her mind. These are the ones she’d prefer to forget.

She opens her eyes. Even though the overhead chandelier in the hallway is on, it’s as if she’s lost in the dark. She turns and heads to the kitchen, where she selects the wickedest knife she can find, a long, serrated beauty so sharp she has no idea what Jane could possibly use it for. And then she climbs the steps again.

She climbs past the room rumored to be where mad Mr. Barrie stayed, feverishly observing the Darling family, especially beautiful, languorous Wendy. Beyond the room that once belonged to poor Michael, Wendy’s youngest brother. Michael suffered an accident the family prefers not to think about. All of these rooms are now empty. Holly could sleep in any of them.

But she keeps climbing, to the top of the house where the servants’ quarters and the nursery are. This last room is full of old toys, of shadows. A rocking horse with sightless glass eyes stands motionless in one corner. A dollhouse with broken furniture rests in another. The pink roses that paper the walls are from Wendy’s time or even before, but the crisp cotton quilts that cover the row of beds are new. Memories, her own and those of the Darlings who came before her, are everywhere, reminders of what was and what might have been.

Holly ignores them all. A long corridor separates the nursery from the servants’ quarters, with a small bathroom just outside the nursery door. She washes her face there, then finds her old white nightgown wrapped in lavender-scented tissue paper in the nursery dresser and changes into it. She ties her hair back with a blue ribbon. She does all of this in the dark, with only the moonlight filtering in through the window.

When she’s finished, she goes to the door, takes the old-fashioned key from over the frame, and locks it from the inside.

She’s not worried about someone coming in. She doesn’t want anything to get out.

She lights the stub of a candle that is on the dresser and carries it with her to the windows. These are open, thanks to Jane, who insists they be kept ajar at least a crack, no matter what the weather. Holly runs a finger along the sill, finds the faintest trace of soot. Nothing at all that glitters. Still, when Holly looks out over the London sky, she shivers. She calls his name softly and listens. Not a sound, not even the rustle of the wind, only dark sky and the hard diamonds of the stars. She leaves the candle burning on the dresser, a signal beacon, and crawls into bed. She slides the knife under her pillow.

It’s dangerous to be here, especially with Jack. Cornwall was bad enough, but London? It’s like dousing the water with blood in front of a shark. In the dark, alone, she worries she’s made a mistake, second-guesses her decision not to leave him in New York.

And yet she has to try, for the sake of both her children. It’s been years, but there’s a chance that he’ll return.

A chance that he never really left.

She closes her eyes. Stills her mind. Pictures a small boy flying through the air. A little girl reaching up to take his hand. Starlight against the dark blue sky. What every London child, every Darling daughter especially, has imagined. A dream come to life.

And then, in Holly’s memory, the boy turns to her and smiles. White glittering teeth. Soulless eyes. And it’s no longer a dream.

It’s a nightmare.





Chapter Eleven



In the morning, the candle is out. The windows are still open, and the room is cold. Holly rubs her eyes. She’s alone in the locked room.

After closing the window, she pulls on a jumper and a pair of jeans. She makes the bed but leaves the knife where it is.

Downstairs, Jack is sleeping, so she makes a pot of oatmeal, then starts a grocery list. Jane doesn’t eat much, and she has no idea how to feed a growing boy.

Holly looks up to see Jack shambling into the kitchen. He drops into the chair across from her, yawning.

“Morning!” she says brightly. He mumbles something incoherent in reply.

“I’ve made breakfast—hungry?” It’s a rhetorical question. Jack is always hungry. She crosses to the stove, scoops out the oatmeal, serves it to him with lashings of brown sugar and the last of the milk.

“There’s not much food here,” she says, eyeing him as he shovels the oatmeal in. “You know how your grandma Jane is. I’m putting together a list—anything special you want?”

He shakes his head.

“Did you sleep well?”

“Fine,” he mumbles.

“Sweet dreams?”

“Okay, I guess.”