It’s the closest I’ve come to crying this whole time I’ve been here, so suddenly and strangely stripped of confidence, I might as well be sitting here naked in front of them.
They don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to do. They just sit there in this horrible silence, sad for me, looking at their hands, their plates, their toes, the wall, anything but me, and it’s awful.
“Well, that was a lovely meal,” Percival says. “I’ll just be right—” And then he scurries away.
Kinley goes after him.
Brodie stands up, chin low, and his eyes flick up at me. They’re weighted and they’re saying something, but I don’t know what, and then he leaves.
It’s my turn to go then. As I get up, I hear the scurrying sound of little feet. I turn and I think I see the wisp of tattered clothing, and I’m about to say something when I see a little choux pastry bun by my feet. Just one. On a little pink plate.
I stare at it for a few seconds, then smile a tiny bit.
“Hobb?” I call, then wait for a second—nothing. “Thank you, whoever you are.”
I fold it up in a napkin and tuck it away.
I can’t fly on my own (I’ve tried before, but it appears gravity won’t allow it), and I haven’t walked to town by myself yet, but the latter seems more my speed anyway.
From where the tree house is to the town is just one big crescent shape, so it’s hard to get wrong.
I walk along the water’s edge. It’s not a terribly long walk. Maybe an hour? A bit less.
You know how sand on Earth is made of crushed-up sandstone and quartz and bits of shells and skeletons from marine life? The sand here kind of looks a bit like ours—grainier, bigger, the shells are more obvious—but the most jarring thing is that I think a great deal of the sand is made up of crushed-up gemstones.
I can’t be sure because I don’t have a microscope with me, but when the suns hit the sand, it could nearly take your eyes out with the shine. And when I pick it up and run it through my fingers, I see specks of what looks like rubies and topazes and tourmalines and tsavorites. They’re tiny, just specks of glitter, really. Except they’re not specks of glitter; they’re jewels, and the sight is dazzling.
I concentrate on the sand for a great deal of the walk and try my hardest for what Peter said to me not to knock around inside my brain like a bird trapped in a cage, flapping everywhere, hurting its own wings in the process.
Truthfully, I hadn’t thought about how I looked for weeks, but after what Peter said this morning, it’s become one of my more consuming thoughts. It’s horrible to be made to feel small, and while he is good at nearly most things, he is ever so good at that in particular.
There’s this running thought in my mind that’s like, I’ll buy some new dresses and I’ll show him! But what will I show him? That he can say unkind things to me and I’ll bend like a reed in the wind to gain his approval? Or the alternative: I ignore what he said and then just feel uneasy and quietly embarrassed until it passes?
Both sound rather horrible actually, but at least the former results in me getting some new clothes.
The one primary predicament left is I don’t have any money.
But I do have emerald earrings my mother gave me once.
Now, I do personally consider myself to be a sentimental, but she isn’t, so I’d like to think that in this particular instance, my mother would be more proud of me than less for being pragmatic enough to sell my earrings for clothes.*
When I walk into town, I’m half expecting everyone to stare at me because of my unsightly appearance, but I realise quickly and sort of all at once that (1) no one cares, (2) I look fine, and perhaps most importantly, (3) Peter Pan is a bollocking arsehole.
I have half a mind to turn around and away, but now that I’m actually here, I also have half a mind to see if I can hitch a ride back with someone to London.?
The terribleness of him! It feels more tangible away from him, almost as though a fog has lifted.
I blow some air out of my mouth and spin on my heel, maybe to leave,? but I find myself face-to-face with a pirate.
“Aye,” Jamison Hook sighs, but he’s smiling. “So ye cudnae keep away.”
I frown up at him. “I beg your pardon?”
“Ye came to see me.” He lifts his eyebrows playfully.
My hands fly to my hips. “I most certainly did not!”
He gives me half a smile. “Sure, I see the way ye look at me.”
I scoff, shaking my head, but I swallow nervously in case that’s true. “You’re awfully cocky.”
“Aye.” He nods coolly. “And you’re holed up in a tree with Peter Pan, so I ken that your fond o’ cocky.”
I flick him a look. “Well, ever less so by the second.”
And do you know what? He could have so easily pried there—it was practically an invitation to—but he doesn’t. He doesn’t ask for more information, and he doesn’t poke. Just a single eyebrow of his goes up, and he tilts his head as he processes what I just said wordlessly.
He crosses his arms over his chest and looks at me in this way I can’t quite unpack.
“I am surprised that ye even remember me.” He flicks an eyebrow up, and I give him a look as though I think he’s being annoying, but truthfully, I’m pleased he’s still here. Jamison mashes his lips together. “Are ye finding things a wee bit hazy yet?”
I stare over at him before I blink a few times. It’s been years since I felt like someone understood me here, except have I been here years? Or is it just days?
“Actually, yes.” I let out a bewildered laugh. “That’s funny, isn’t it?”
He presses his lips together, and I don’t know why, but something akin to nervousness creeps up my spine a little, so I let out a single laugh to show him that I’m fine even though I’m not sure that I am, except why wouldn’t I be?
I give him a bright smile. “Does that happen to you here too?”
“It’s no’ a here thing.” His mouth pulls a little as he shakes his head. “It’s a there thing.”
My face falters. “What do you mean a ‘there thing’? Where?”
He scratches his neck and gives me a long look before he breathes out his nose. “You never wonder why none of ye remember anything thonner?”
“It’s Neverland, that’s all.” I shrug dismissively. “Things…slip.”
Jamison shakes his head. “No’ for everyone.”
I stare up at him, my mouth ajar. “Really?”
“I remember everything.” He shrugs like it’s nothing.
I frown, confused. “Even from a week ago?” I ask him as though that’s some great feat.
“Aye.” He sort of breathes out a laugh. “A week ago to the day, I had a salmon skin roll fer lunch. I won a particularly hefty hand o’ cards thon same night. The day afore that for breakfast, I had…” He squints, thinking back. “Eggs. Boiled. Runny yolk. Toast.”
He nods at his memory,* and I do find myself thinking that he’s very, very lovely to look at— He keeps going.