“Where do we go from here? Well, even I’m not sure. From here we mourn our loss, and when we are done mourning, our grief will turn to anger, and soon the tears will be those of Hook’s men, the men who did this. We will have our vengeance, and as we take it, we will whisper their names . . .” Peter’s voice dropped low as he whispered, “Kitoko. Darby.”
The boys joined in, whispering their names again and again. When their whispers grew loud enough, Peter drew his golden sword and pointed through the tree. “Grab your lanterns and head to the beach, to mourn our beloved General and our friend! And then we will feast!” Wendy watched silently as the train of boys began to snake its way down to the beach, a moving cloud of dust that quickly became one with the dark leaves around them. Suddenly, the island felt very empty, and as she looked down from the huts, she was struck by how sinister a place could seem without the laughter of boys. She stepped softly behind them all, lost in her thoughts, ignoring the headache that pressed against her temples. The boys were out of sight now, and she stumbled over her feet, unable to forget what had happened at the Vault. Barely thinking, she made her way to the side of one of the platforms, winding her way through the rope walkways until the sounds of the Lost Boys and Peter’s stirring speech faded into a dull buzz. She stumbled, her mind flitting between Kitoko’s face, Peter’s emerald eyes, and the fountain of impossibly red blood that had sprayed from Kitoko’s throat. Wendy was on her hands and knees now, dry heaving, clutching at wooden planks outside of one of the Lost Boys’ huts until she was finally able to rest, pushing her sweaty head against her hands. There was a soft flutter in the air above her, and then there was the silvery glittering dust falling all around her. She lifted her head up and saw dainty bare feet in front of her.
“Tink? I beg you, please leave me alone. I’m not feeling well.”
“Kitoko’s gone,” Tink whispered. “And you’re to blame.” Her bright blue eyes flared with pure hatred.
Then she kicked Wendy off the walkway.
Wendy felt herself falling, falling over the edge. She saw the great green plume of Centermost poke up far below her, the spindly crossed branches that would not stop her fall as she plummeted to her death. Her hands clutched at the air as her body tightened, her muscles tense and ready to spring to life, ready to fight. She blinked. The branches didn’t rush toward her, their grand arms staying perfectly still where they were. The ground didn’t rush to meet her. She was floating. Relief swept through her. Of course, she still had flight. She turned her head up to look at Tink, a litany of formidable words forming on her tongue, as Tink stared down at her from the bridge.
“Lucky guess.” The fairy shrugged, and with a flutter of gossamer wings, she was gone in a second, heading down toward the beach, where Peter’s loud voice rang through the tree. Wendy cautiously flew down to the nearest hut, relishing the feeling of her feet on the wooden planks. Righteous anger at Tink burned through her, though she wasn’t able to maintain it for very long. Tink looked so lost and sad, truly a miserable creature if Wendy had ever seen one. She was undoubtedly powerful, but there was a trembling beneath those bruised eyes, an undercurrent of vulnerability that reminded Wendy of a frightened child. Her blazing jealousy of Wendy, the way she clutched so desperately to Peter—Tink seemed more childish than the youngest Lost Boy, while at the same time seeming as ancient as the warm wind that pulsed around the island. Wendy walked to the edge of the walkway around the hut, pausing to push aside some branches and take in the turquoise sea crashing beneath her; the comforting sound of waves pulsing against the island calmed her thundering heart. Bright pink flowers above her head draped and winked in the sea breeze, tiny pieces of translucent dust spiraling down from their lips. With a deep breath, her mind trying to stay off of what had transpired at the Vault, Wendy turned toward the beach. Taking each step slower than normal, her stomach tightening with dread with each pad of her foot, she reluctantly made her way down, her eyes constantly looking up to make sure that Tink didn’t return. She didn’t.
When Wendy emerged at the beach, the Lost Boys were all standing linked together, their hands wrapped around each other’s wrists, their bright faces turning out toward the sea. The line of them stretched the entire south side of Pan Island, water lapping at their feet. Peter was out over the water, his pointed feet hovering just over the surface, a white lotus flower in his outstretched hands. When he saw Wendy, he nodded to her, and the Lost Boys fell silent.