Never (Never, #1) (69)

“I turn eighteen soon,” I tell Peter, and he looks over at me, eyes wide in horror.

“I’m so sorry.”

“Oh.” I shake my head, a bit flustered by his response. “No. I—I’m happy to—”

“Eighteen is old,” Peter tells me tonelessly.

“You’re about eighteen or nineteen,” I tell him.

He looks down at himself, bothered by it. “Any older and I’d be gross.” He moves over towards me and lowers his voice. “I don’t do this for the others. Don’t tell them, okay?”

“Okay?” I frown.

“I can bring you the fountain water. You can drink it, and you’ll stay seventeen.”

I stare over at him. Stay seventeen?

Oh my god.

Something about that sounds nearly like a dream come true—to be young forever?

I stare over at him, frowning a little.

“Don’t you want to be young forever?” he asks, grinning down at me. He touches my face.

“Maybe?” I eye him nervously.

He beams at the thought, lifts me up, and spins me around in the air, and we free-fall onto the nets behind us.

We land so he catches me, breaking my fall, then he rolls on top of me, pushing some hair from my face.

“Think of the adventures, girl!” He crows to the ceiling. “Stay seventeen with me,” he tells me, eager.

“You mightn’t even be seventeen,” I remind him gently, rather positive he’s definitely not. Seventeen-year-olds don’t have shoulders like he does, no matter how much regatta or rugby they play.

Peter ignores me. “Nothing good happens once you’re eighteen.”

I give him a look. “How do you know?”

He shrugs. “What good things happen when you grow up? You’re just old. You have to work, and it’s stupid.” He shakes his head. “There are responsibilities. You have to look after things and people and—”

“Those aren’t bad things, Peter,” I tell him a bit sternly.

“I just want to look after you,” he tells me and kisses the tip of my nose.

“And I’d be seventeen forever?”

He laughs and shrugs. “Age is just a number. Take the water, and if you keep taking it, you’ll be young forever. You’ll just always look like you.”

I look down at myself.

“I take it every week,” he tells me with a shrug. “Sometimes twice.”

“Oh.” I nod.

Then he sits up. “If I bring you some, will you drink it?”

I frown a little. “Let me think about it.”

He makes a sort of pfft sound.

“Stupid.” He stands up and shrugs. I can’t tell if his dismissiveness is from a lack of care or because he’s offended. “Be back later.”

“Where are you going?” I stare after him.

“I got stuff to do,” he says without looking at me.

And then he flies away.

The truth? I wouldn’t mind staying young forever, staying how I look right now forever. That might be quite lovely, wouldn’t it? To be forever young?

But there’s one thing hanging over it in my mind that’s reason enough for me not to. He’s got eyes like a fire and a hang-up about the number seventeen, and I don’t know that something’s going to happen when I turn eighteen—maybe nothing at all will—but I don’t want to know for certain that nothing could.

I need to speak to him.

I put on my favourite one of the dresses he bought for me—a little red-and-blue tartan dress that sits just above my knees and has a big white Claudine collar.

I don’t wear shoes because I only have the boots, and actually, since being here, I’ve decided I don’t much care for footwear anyway.

I think I don’t? Is that a me thing or a Peter thing?

He bleeds into your thinking a bit.

After about ten minutes of giving Peter what I think is enough time to have cleared the area, I take off for town. Quick as I can.

It’s barely past lunch, the sun is out and bright, and the day feels promising. There’s a blueness to the sky that I shouldn’t have trusted, and I don’t feel a lick of wind.

I make my way towards Jamison’s boat, finding a couple of men on it, scrubbing and cleaning.

Orson Calhoun’s standing on the bridge, bossing them around and commentating on how well they are (or are not) doing.

I stand there till he sees me, and then I wave uncomfortably.

“Hello,” I call to him.

He nods his chin at me, walking down towards me. “You again.”

I nod my chin towards Jamison’s cabin. “Is he in there?”

Calhoun shakes his head, squinting.

“Oh.” I frown. “Do you know where he is?”

Orson nods suspiciously.

“Hey!” says a familiar voice, and I spin around.

“Rye!” I look over at him, surprised.

“Daph!” He smiles, eyebrows up. “There you are!”

“Were you looking for me?” I go over and give him a hug.

“Yeah, of course.” He nods. “Just wanted to see how you are.”

I pull a curious face. “How did you know I was here?”