Shadow (Wendy Darling #3)(82)

Peter had said that time was different in London than it was in Neverland, that her parents would never even know that they had gone. Was he lying? She prayed that he wasn’t and that somewhere, past the morning stars, her parents were still laughing at the party, her father swirling his brandy glass, her mother talking much too loud. Her lips clenched at the memory of them, of the love that rose up inside of her. The hollow of her heart that she had ignored since she arrived here was full, brimming over with happy memories, with love for her parents, with love for Booth.

Wendy pulled her arms back from the veil. No. That wasn’t right. She felt the wood under her fingers. She was still lying on the floor. There was no veil in her hands. It had all been in her mind. But Wendy remembered. Every moment of her life, she remembered. She was Wendy Darling of No. 14 Kensington Park Gardens, and she was whole again.

And they needed to go home.





CHAPTER NINETEEN


THE NEXT MORNING, Wendy stayed quietly in her room, rocking silently in the hammock, slowly drinking in all of her memories, precious jewels, each one of them treasured and tucked away. She would never lose them again. She turned over as the hammock swayed underneath her and watched the shadows play across the room.

Wendy couldn’t even remember when she had started forgetting. Had it been right when they had left London? Was it when she saw Neverland for the first time? Had Peter known that she couldn’t remember? He must have. Tink had known Wendy was forgetting, had known about the veil. Wendy considered, not for the first time that morning, that maybe her memory loss was connected to Peter’s presence. When he was near her, she was rendered into blind passion, disarmed by his charm. He made her forget who she was.

Wendy frowned as she sat up, resting her forehead on her knees. Her feelings for Peter were complicated, complicated even more now that she remembered Booth. Had she led Peter on? Perhaps. She experienced overwhelming guilt when she remembered how she had felt when they had kissed in the mist and then again in the lantern. It had felt so right at the moment, and yet, she knew that Booth’s kiss was right in a different way. Booth’s kiss was earned—somehow that made it more real.

Even now, though her heart was nestling happily into the memory of Booth, she still felt a pull toward Peter, toward his magnetic smile. Peter made her skin flush, made her heart hammer, but what was he expecting would happen? That she would live here on Pan Island with him forever? No, that couldn’t happen. Wendy shook her head and then remembered the rush of fear that she had felt with Peter last night in the lantern. He hadn’t seemed entirely in control when he had looked at her, in the way he had clutched at her so desperately—as if he were a drowning man and she were the shore—how quickly his hand had inched up her skirt. No, they couldn’t stay here. They had to go home. Leaving this magical island of delights and adventure would be hard, but the Darlings belonged in London, with their parents. With Booth.

Wendy climbed out of the hammock, anxiously tying her hair back in a ponytail before washing her face in the basin. She ravenously consumed the bread and cheese that had been left out for her, batting away a few flies from the food beforehand, something she would have never dreamed of doing a few weeks ago. How long had they been here in Neverland anyway? Weeks? Days? The time here seemed to slip away, falling down into some rabbit hole where hours, days, and years blended together.

After she had eaten her fill and then some, Wendy slipped on her tiny black slippers (given to her as a Christmas present from her mother, wrapped in a mink shawl that was still hanging in the nursery closet—each memory was now a perfect little gift to unwrap) and then made her way down the tree, easily slipping down the trunk like she had been born on Pan Island. The island was almost empty, with all the Lost Boys down at the beach, fishing and playing, walking off their headaches from the night before. As she wandered through the branches of Centermost, picking up stray bottles here and there and putting them into a cloth bag—Boys! So messy!—she felt a pang of sadness at the thought of leaving Pan Island. Perhaps they could return? Maybe every year to visit Peter and the boys, to have a little adventure?

Then she remembered Kitoko’s throat and the very real consequences of adventure. She shook her head. No, she could not let the boys return. And Peter . . . the effect he had on her was too potent, like a drug. No, there could be no returning to this magical place.

She paused to push some branches aside and to look out at the turquoise sea beneath her, the comforting sound of its waves pulsing against the island, lulling her senses. Far on the horizon, she could make out the main island, the white Teeth rising aggressively up out of the turquoise waters. Wendy closed her eyes. She would miss this island of enchantment, and the feeling that anything could happen here. But then she saw her mother’s eyes filled with tears, and suddenly the water wasn’t so blue. With a sad smile, she stepped back, letting the leaves fall in front of her eyes.

Each soft pad of her steps filled her heart with dread as she made her way down to the beach. Lost Boys shrieked when they saw her emerge from the tree. “Wendy, watch this!” “Wendy, look at this shell!” As she made her way closer to the beach, she stopped to observe a small circle of boys sharpening sticks in the sand.

“What are you doing?” Wendy asked a boy named Little Sun, who batted his long black eyelashes at her under a tangle of thick black hair.

“Preparing.”