I wait, giving him the time he needs, and eventually, he speaks again.
“Though it’s no excuse, Pan tricked me into taking that first life. He thought it would bind me to his cause. Instead, it had quite the opposite effect.” The firelight flickers across the sharp features of his face, shadowing his eyes, so I can’t quite make out the emotion there. “You see, the Dark Ones are quite curious beings, Gwendolyn. As you’ve well seen, they’ve the ability to harvest life, but what is a human life save the memories it carries? Without memory, there is no empathy, no humanity. Without memory, we are not ourselves.”
I think about my hazy memories of that other world and how unsettled I feel because I can’t recall them. I think about Olivia, how different she is without any recollection of who she once was. And I find I can’t disagree.
“When I took that first boy’s life, it gave me more time in this world. But it also gave me the child’s long-buried memories. They helped me to remember the world I came from, the person I’d been. Otherwise, I might never have left Pan’s keeping.”
“But you did leave,” I say, focusing on what seems most important.
“Aye, I did.” His eyes meet mine. “I began to see Pan’s games for what they were. He believed himself to be a bloody hero, and I came to believe he needed a suitable villain. Someone who could stand against him in this world.”
“I can’t imagine he let you go willingly, though,” I say, the question in my voice clear.
“No, that was Fiona’s doing. Because she knew I’d been close to Pan, Fiona believed me to be useful. It was she who helped me escape from the fortress. And she who arranged for my ship and my arm”—the clockwork hand clenches, as if to accentuate his point—“which she enchanted, so I could stand against him as a true equal.”
“But you never did help her free the Queen,” I charge. “You didn’t even tell Fiona where Pan was hiding her.
“I couldn’t.” He glances across the fire to where I’m sitting. “Do you think Pan just has the Queen tucked into a cage somewhere? Perhaps in a chest or behind a locked door in the Great Hall of his fortress?” He shakes his head. “He’s buried her in the heart of the island, and none of the Fey who remain are strong enough to unearth her—Pan made sure of that. It took the Queen’s power to put her there, and it would take the Queen’s own power to call her forth again.”
“Because of the runes on his chest,” I realize.
“Aye. Pan’s used his power well. Fiona and her kind aren’t of the Queen’s own blood, so there’s nothing they can do to release her.” Rowan leans forward to stoke the fire. “Not that I let Fiona know right away, mind. But that secret would have been no use to my lads if Neverland had continued to tear itself apart. So I told her of what Pan had done to keep her Queen hidden for so long. Because until he’s defeated and the Queen is released, none of my lads have a chance to return to their world.”
“That’s why Fiona was in London,” I say, understanding. “She was looking for me too.”
Rowan’s expression is clouded with regret. “And for that, I’m sorry. Had I known then what I know now—had I known you—I would have allowed this whole bloody world crumble to dust before I uttered a word.”
“That wouldn’t have stopped Pan,” I told him. “It wasn’t Fiona who finally got to me. One way or the other, I think I was always going to end up here. But I’m not sure if I can do what Fiona thinks I can,” I tell him honestly. “That thing that happened in the dungeon—it was the first time I’ve ever managed to do anything remotely Fey-like.”
“You’ll do what you can, and we’ll take our chances, because we’ve no other choice. I don’t have a ship. I don’t have a crew. . . .” he says, his voice faltering, his eyes closing against the pain of his loss.
“You loved them,” I say, seeing it so clearly in the pain written across his features.
“Aye, but I’ve killed them too. Just as he does.” He meets my eyes. With his jaw shadowed by more than a day’s growth of beard and his hair mussed and hanging idly over his forehead and his chest bare in the flickering firelight, he looks very much the pirate he claims to be.
But he also looks tired and worn from trials I can’t begin to imagine.
“If I were braver, I’d have chosen death long ago,” he tells me, a confession and explanation all at once. “In that way, Will was far stronger than I’ve ever been.” His eyes bore into me, daring me to condemn him. Or maybe asking me to forgive.
I’m not sure that I can do either.
“Weak as I may have been, I’ve tried to use my life as best I can. As long as my life can serve to protect even one lad, I can’t regret the path I’ve chosen,” he says, his words tumbling before me, like he’s trying to get everything out before he loses his nerve.