“What is he doing?” Wendy whispered, not wanting to disturb the boy who looked like a marble carving of a solider.
“He’s watching. We can never be too careful at night. Hook is a crafty man, not to mention all the vagrants, rapists, and thieves who live in Port Duette who would love to get their hands on our treasure—and on you. If anyone tried to attack Pan Island, we would see them from here before they ever made it to shore. Not that a ship could ever dock here. The roots are too high.” He gestured to the boy. “This is the cost of being a Lost Boy. You take your watch every few weeks. If you fall asleep, well then . . .”
“What?”
Peter shrugged. “Then we find someone else to take the watch.”
“What happens to them? The ones who fall asleep?”
“It’s only happened twice.”
His tone told Wendy that there would be no more questions. They circled around the flagged roof a few more times, the boy never taking his eyes from the sea, and then swirled down through the Neverland night to land with a bump on the floor of Wendy’s hut. She looked around the dark room.
“I guess Michael is still with John.”
“What a shame,” Peter remarked with a smile. Wendy turned to him.
“Peter, I’m worried about my brother on the raid tomorrow. You must promise me that John won’t be in any real danger.”
Peter looked deep into her eyes.
“Wendy, what is life without adventure? It is meaningless, like being a piece of seaweed forever drifting.”
Wendy could think of a dozen better metaphors than that one, but she refrained from correcting this wild boy with a beautiful mouth. Instead, she cautiously allowed an edge to come into her voice.
“Peter. His safety.”
“I promise. John will be safe. After all, it’s just a game, really! It’s just a game! Honestly, I’m not sure why you like John anyway. He’s not very nice to you.”
“No, he isn’t, but he’s my brother. He just wants to find where he fits in, always has. Anyway, thank you for reassuring me.” She gave him a friendly kiss on the cheek, and he involuntarily rose a few inches off the floor before he shook his head and returned to the ground. Wendy took a step toward her hammock, suddenly feeling very alone in a room full of shadows and dark corners. The fear she had felt on the bridge returned, the white heat of Tink’s rage, the stone grip of the mermaid closing around her waist, the rush of blood spooling out into the water. She turned back to Peter, his green eyes glinting in the darkness.
“Would it be too much to ask . . . ?”
“Absolutely not,” he said softly. “I’ll stay here until you fall asleep.”
“Thank you. Goodnight, Peter Pan.”
“Goodnight, Wendy Darling.”
Peter leapt out of the open door, the thin linen curtain blowing in his wake. She heard a thump on the roof and the sounds of Peter walking above. She heard him settle right above where her bed was. With a smile, she climbed into her hammock, pulling the thin blanket over her bare legs.
“Wendy?” Peter’s voice came through the thatched roof.
“Yes?”
“I look forward to seeing you tomorrow.”
She paused, her eyes growing heavy. “You as well.”
Just when she was almost falling into unconsciousness, she heard beautiful music, climbing up and down an unknown scale. On the roof above her, Peter was playing a pipe of some sort, the sound bright and confident, a lilting melody drifting down and putting to ease all her fears. The music carried down from her hut, echoing throughout Centermost, and she imagined it flowing like liquid out through its branches, drifting down to the ears of the Lost Boys, who smiled at its reassuring sound as it fell around them like rain. Wendy felt her heart swell to match its lonely melody, felt her skin tingle. Wendy had played Dvo?ák and Strauss, but she had never heard a melody that was quite so beautiful and dangerous at once. The notes rose up before her like a swelling sea, pushing her further out than she had ever been, pushing her further and further toward Peter, until the music suddenly relented, crashing her like a wave at his feet. In its wake, it reminded her of someone, someone who had deeply loved her once. Someone who had wanted her to be brave. Without warning, she fell into the welcoming arms of sleep, her subconscious once again reaching desperately for the boy whose face was fading forever. Just before she fell asleep, she was sure she felt the touch of his fingers on her palm.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
WENDY AWOKE TO A POUNDING HEADACHE that thrummed against the inside of her head with relentless procession. Wham! Wham! Wham!
“Ughh . . .”
She moaned and pressed both hands up against her temples and rolled over in bed. Only she wasn’t in a bed, she was in a hammock. The swinging bed flipped underneath her, and Wendy’s knees hit the floor with a hard thump, followed by the rest of her body. She laid her face against the floor.