His head breaks the surface of the water, and he swims towards me, something in his hand. He offers it to me, and I hold my hand out.
He drops into my hand the biggest pearl I’ve ever seen—the size of an apple. I stare down at it, eyes wide.
“For you.” He smiles at me angelically before he backstrokes away.
I see Rye peer over at it out of the corner of his eye, and his mouth twitches in a way I don’t understand, and it doesn’t really matter anyway, because there’s a sunbeam that casts Peter in an terribly wonderful light, and all my other thoughts dissipate like the white on a wave.
“Gosh,” I sigh, putting my chin in my hands and staring after him. “You must have the most brilliant stories.”
“I do.” Peter nods coolly.
“I have a good one, Peter,” Calla says.
Peter lets out a little sigh, like he can’t quite be bothered to hear it. “It won’t be as good as mine, but all right. Go on then.”
“Well, I was on the riverbank between Preterra and Zomertierra with—”
“With who?” Peter cuts her off sharply with a frown.
This pleases Calla the same way it makes my mind feel like it’s tripping on a stone.
Disappointment’s such a nuisance. It creeps up on you, shines an annoying light on the things that you care about that you didn’t know you did.
“With Heron,” she tells him with a glint in her eye. She pushes her dark hair over her shoulder and looks over at me. “He’s the son of the chief. Next in line.”
She’s looking at me as she says it, but I feel quite sure the information isn’t being shared for my benefit. She’s saying it to me, but she’s dangling it over Peter’s head.
“Why were you on a riverbank with him?” He frowns.
“Because.” She shrugs as though she’s entirely indifferent about it. “You weren’t speaking to me. I was too big, remember?” She gives him a look.
Peter shakes his head. “I was stupid back then.”
She nods. “I agree.”
Rye breathes out his nose and scoots over closer to me.
“Anyway, we were walking along the riverbank, and this thing came and attacked us—”
“What thing?” Peter’s eyes brighten at the very mention of danger.
“I don’t know. It was strange—” She shakes her head. “I didn’t get a good look at it, but I saw it for a second through the reflection in the water, and I think it looked like a person?” She pauses, thinking back to it. “But then, kind of not really?”
Peter swims to her, eyes wide and spellbound.
My grandmothers always said he’s a sucker for a story.
“And then what?”
“Well, then”—Calla eyes him dramatically—“it grabbed Heron by the ankle and started to drown him—”
“It’s a curse,” Rye whispers to me. “All the firstborns of the chief die.”
“He died?” I look from Rye to Calla, horrified.
She shakes her head, looking smug. “I saved him.”
“How?” Peter demands. “Tell me, how did you beat it?”
“I hit it over the head with a branch.” She shrugs. “And then, by the time I pulled Heron back up onto the bank, it was gone.”
“Whoa.” I sit back, feeling a tiny bit nervous. “Are there really monsters here?”
“Not really,”* “Sometimes,”? and “Yes”? are the collective answers.
Rye clears his throat. “I saved a baby from town from that rogue panther the other week.”
“Did you?” I stare over at him.
“He did.” Calla nods, proud of him, and that’s the first thing she’s done that makes her seem a bit likable to me.
“How!” I ask.
“Yeah.” Peter frowns. “How?”
Rye shrugs. “I saw the panther climb through the window from the street, and then I heard the baby crying—”
“What were you doing in town?” Peter asks.
Calla shrugs. “Rye goes to town a lot.”
Peter looks at him suspiciously. “What for?”
Neither Rye nor Calla says anything.
“I like the town,” I offer, and Peter glares at me.
Rye gives me a little grateful smile.
“The panther had the baby, and it jumped out the window, scaling the walls. I shot it with an arrow.”
“Oh my god.” I blink. “Was the baby okay?”
Rye nods at the same time as Peter groans, “Who cares?”
I stare over at him, shocked if I’m honest.
Rye shifts, looking away.
“Well, for one”—I give Peter a pointed look—“the baby’s mother, I’m quite sure,”
Rye flicks me another grateful look.
Peter floats up out of the water. “My best story is the one where I kill Hook,” he announces, and I swear to god, I gasp a little, and I will very quietly admit to you (and no other) that my heart goes rather tense for a full four seconds before I realise he’s talking about the elder Hook and not the one with the perfect face and the ocean eyes.
I push my hair behind my ears and breathe out a measured breath.
If I were to be entirely honest, that gave me such a horrible fright that I don’t completely understand, nor do I care to think any more than that.
“Tell us, Peter,” Calla says. “It’s one of my favourite stories.”
Rye leans back on the rocks, eyes closed but squinting still with the sun.
“It was my cleverest death yet,” he tells me, eyes wide and excited. “I lured the crocodile from his cave.”
“How?” I ask, because he’s not big on the details, but I am.
“With blood,” Peter says.
Rye opens an eye, looking up.
“What blood?” I frown.
Peter shrugs. “Just blood.”
“From where?” I press.
“I don’t know.” Peter flies higher into the air before he dives into the sea like a cormorant and back up again, holding a fish he’s caught with his bare hands. “Just from somewhere.” He flies back up, holding the fish still. “So then I get the crocodile to this island that’s really far away. It’s far. It would take you nearly a full day in the Jolly Roger to get there…and then I kept the crocodile there by feeding it things it likes.”
“What does it like?”
“I don’t know.” Peter shrugs again. “Hands and stuff.”
My head pulls back. “Did you say ‘hands’?”
“Ham,” Calla says, over-enunciating. “Right, Peter?”
“Right.” Peter nods.
I swallow, watching that fish in his hand squirm, and all he does is hold it tighter.
“Then I started a rumour in the village about that island being the place where the fountain of youth is.” Peter looks over at me. “He was always obsessed with finding the fountain of youth, so he went. By himself! Like I knew he would, because he’s greedy and selfish, and he wouldn’t want anyone but him knowing where to find it.”
I stare at him, wondering if he knows what he’s saying, whether he’s aware of the hypocrisy, but I don’t think he cares either way.
“Then I tricked the fairies into making me a fountain that looked like it was from the olden days, like the real one but not exactly like the real one, and then I put it in the middle of some quicksand.”
I frown. “Why didn’t the fountain sink?”
He growls, impatient. “Why do you ask so many questions?”
Rye props himself up on his elbows, listening, waiting for an answer.
Calla looks up at Pan like he’s her hero—he is, I suppose. Her eyes are practically glazed over with awe, but mine aren’t. I lift an eyebrow, waiting.