“Heading to the school, right?” the driver asks.
Holly repeats the address she’d punched into the app, and he nods.
“That’s it. You got a kid there? I didn’t realize they were open over summer hols.”
“Um, yes,” Holly says. She doesn’t want to talk to the driver, doesn’t want to be remembered. She wishes she’d thought to grab a hat on her way out of the house. Instead she bends her head over her phone and googles the address, since she’s had no time up until now to research. Pictures of an ivy-covered campus with brick buildings and mature trees pop up. Christopher was right. Peter could find an endless supply of boys here. And then the car turns, slows, and comes to a stop.
“Here it is,” the driver says. “You want me to take you inside?”
“This is fine, thanks,” Holly murmurs. She slides across the seat and out the door.
A short brick path leads to wrought iron gates. A sign on top proclaims Saint Ormond’s School for Boys. As Holly walks up the path, trying to calm her racing heart, she wishes she’d paid the driver to wait.
But stalling won’t help Jack or Eden, so Holly peers through the gates and sees a small brick structure smothered in climbing roses. A caretaker’s cottage. Farther back, a huge estate looms over playing fields and grassy lawns. But there are no boys in sight. The driver must have been right.
The gates are chained shut, so Holly squeezes through a side door. On the other side of the gate, almost hidden in the shrubbery, is a brilliantly red Range Rover. Its vanity plates spell out WYNDRDR. A chill races up her spine. If she were choosing a car for Peter, this would be it.
She rings the buzzer at the cottage door. There’s a low hum of voices from inside, one deep, one high, but no one answers. When Holly knocks, the cottage door swings open, but no one is there.
She peers inside, hesitates, then steps over the threshold. In the dim light she sees wooden beams and plastered walls. Someone is laughing farther in. The sound is bright and golden. Like bells.
She follows the voice. As she turns the corner of the hall, she’s assaulted by the scent of rot. Sweet and cloying, as it was at Hay’s Galleria. Her eyes water and she covers her nose, gasping.
And there, in the next room, is the childlike woman from the atrium. She’s stretched out on a stained floral couch, her head hanging off the armrest, feet dangling off the back. She looks at Holly from her upside-down vantage point. Takes a crisp out of an opened package and licks it, then eats it so lasciviously watching her seems obscene.
Tinker Bell.
“Where is he?” Holly demands. She doesn’t need to spell it out. “And where’s Jack? Where’s Eden?”
At Eden’s name, the woman sits up in alarm. She puts her fingers to her lips, miming for silence.
Holly looks at her, considers. Tinker Bell’s skin is still stretched and bloated, her dainty features distorted. But her concern seems real.
“Fine,” Holly says, clenching her fists. “Just tell me where he is then.”
Tinker Bell, maddening creature that she is, lies back down, languorously pointing to a door on the far side of the room. Holly jerks it open and stalks through.
She finds herself in the kitchen, a disaster almost as bad as the council flat this morning, a million years ago. The air is clearer here, and she realizes it’s because there’s an open door. Outside there’s a garden and a man sitting in a chair, smoking. His hair is shoulder length, wavy and golden. For one single second Holly hesitates, and then she steps outside.
The man turns as if expecting her, his gelid eyes a brilliant blue.
“Hello, Holly. It’s been some time.”
She can barely speak, but she manages to get the words out.
“Hello, Peter.”
* * *
He gestures for her to sit, pointing with the cigarette toward the plastic chair next to him. He still has a catlike grace, but his face is ravaged, pitted with scars and lined with wrinkles. He looks decades older than she does. She represses a shiver and remains standing.
“Where’s my son?” she asks abruptly. “Is he here?”
Peter shakes his head, and his hair, which is still beautiful, covers his eyes. He languidly pushes it away from his face. “Manners,” he drawls. “The Darlings have always been known for their manners, of course. But where are mine? Surely you can stay for a cuppa with an old friend? After all, it’s been such a very long time since you sent me away.”
This time she can’t help it—she does shiver. Peter sees it and smiles, then rings a little bell that sits on the table between them. Nothing happens. He rings again, then cocks an apologetic eyebrow.