Never (Never, #1) (130)

* * *



* I would later learn that Rye’s father’s name is Ash.





CHAPTER

TWENTY-TWO


Jamison spent the walk back reassuring me that he would be fine in his duel against Peter, that he’s been trained by the fiercest pirates in history, that he knew the way Peter would fight, that he’s won harder duels for worse reasons, but as soon as we were back in his cabin, he gave me this look, chin low, eyes bright and pinched.

“Maybe I may die,” he said.

“Jem.” I rushed to him, his face in my hands.

He grimaced. “We should probably make the most o’ tonight.” And then he grinned.

I said probably really, we should head to bed early to make sure he was well rested for it.

He said that sounded like a different kind of death.

So I obliged him because he loves me.

And I love him.

I kept watch all throughout last night to find a time to tell him that I loved him, but none of them felt worthy of the moment.

I suspect he knows anyway, but I plan to tell him before he leaves this morning for the duel.

But when I wake, he’s not in the bed.

My stomach goes to funny knots for a few seconds as I worry that he’s left without me. I’m not meant to be going to the duel with him. I’m meant to be staying here and packing.

Packing because we’re going to leave Neverland for a little while.

So we can be together without being afraid of being together.

But I woke up early so I could pack and watch on, just in case. In case Peter is a little bit as bad as they keep telling me he is. Which I don’t think he is.

Though it’s not beyond the realm of possibility that he goes too far or does something thoughtlessly dangerous. A child holding a pistol isn’t necessarily a murderer by intent, though he might accidentally murder someone in the process.

Besides, Jamison is fighting for me. It would be awful of me not to be there.

When I get out of bed, I find a note on his table.

My love.

Practicing with Ors.

Home before I head.

Yours.

Mine. I smile down at it, and my heart swells like a big wave as I press the note to my chest, and the ocean jostles the ship around—funny timing. I smile out at the sea.

I get to packing.

I’ve never packed for a boy before?

He doesn’t have that many clothes, so I pack them all.

I can only find one bag though, so I get dressed and then head out to find another. I know my way a little better through the town now, so I walk in the general direction towards Bets as a starting point.

I don’t remember off the top of my head whether or not she makes bags, but she feels like a good place to start.

I pass a few people I’m a bit acquainted with by now; I pass Morrigan, who sneers at me. She hasn’t enjoyed my arrival in town.

I overheard Orson telling Jamison that Morrigan’s “dirt filthy” about me being here, that he heard her wish me dead. Jem scoffed and shook his head, muttered something under his breath I couldn’t hear, but I could tell he was upset about it.

I wish I could go after her and tell her that Jamison and I are running away together, but it seems unnecessarily unkind, because I’ve got him and she doesn’t.

Which then leads me down a rabbit hole of thoughts about what our lives might look like now that we’re running away.

Where would we go?

How long would we be gone for?

Also, if you don’t fly like Peter does, how do you even leave here?

Those are the things I’m wondering when I walk past a corner and hear my favourite laugh in the world.

“And I heard you’ve got a new bedfellow,” says a voice I don’t know. British. Rather proper.

I don’t know why I don’t make my presence known, but I don’t. I probably should have. It’s sort of dishonest that I don’t, but something makes me not.

Instead, I hide behind it and listen.

Now, much can be said about eavesdropping—that one should never do it, that one must understand that if they do, they’re only getting part of the conversation, that one should trust the man they love enough not to feel the need to eavesdrop—but I’m only human. And perhaps a mildly mistrustful one at that.

“Aye,” Jamison says. “Who’d ye hear that from then?”

“That redhead you knock about with,” says the other voice, “said she’s your new obsession.”

I peek around the corner and watch them from afar.

“Well.” Jem shrugs. “A part o’ her was. I got it now.”

My blood turns cold.

The other man—white, shoulder-length hair, pointed nose, brown eyes so dark they’re nearing on black. He has strange glasses on. The glass in them is coloured.

“And what did you get from her?”

I swallow, waiting for him to say something that clears up this mess, makes it all go away.

But then Jamison just gives the man this look. His head pulls to the side, and a little smirk finds its way to his mouth, and I think my heart tumbles down a set of stairs.

The man laughs. He’s kind of old but sort of ageless all at once. Mid-sixties? One hundred and twenty? I can’t tell. His skin doesn’t look old, but something in him looks worn away.