Holly’s stomach twists. She sets down her teacup to mask how hard her hands are shaking. It’s not just Peter’s matter-of-fact cruelty, the way he casually hurts Tinker Bell. It’s the idea that he’s been this close to Holly, to her family, and she never knew. He’s been in her house. In her bedroom.
“Unfortunately, the slip of a thing is gone before we can catch it. But I start to think again of Cornwall, of that vanished scent. Then one night, not long after that first visit, I catch her staring at you while you sleep. She doesn’t come in, just peeks through the windows. She’s gone in a flash, but I get a better look and she reminds me of someone, someone I couldn’t place. My memory’s notoriously bad. But then I get it. Finally.” He’s still speaking, but she can’t hear him, not over the rushing in her ears. The room is spinning, she’s sliding on the chair, her legs too weak to hold her in place. She imagines herself on the floor, the boards cool and comforting beneath her cheek.
But he’s watching her. Like a cat playing with a mouse. Every time she thinks she’s escaped, there’s the razor-sharp flash of claw. She thinks of Jack, of Eden, and forces her mind back into her body, forces herself to take in air, to let it out, until she can speak.
“What? What do you get?”
“Who our little bit is, of course—and what she can do for me. Young Jack’s blood helped some. But this one, she’s the best of two worlds—Darling blood and me. Now, she’s shy of her proud papa. She won’t come. But for you . . .”
“Eden,” Holly whispers, the name slipping out before she can stop it. “You want Eden.”
“Exactly.” He smiles winningly at her. “I like the name, by the way. Good choice. Paradise lost and all that. And I find it has a certain . . . symmetry.” He looks away, as if remembering something, then back at her. “She’s a canny girl, our Eden. I’ve been close, once or twice. But she’s too quick for me.”
He looks over at Tink, who feigns sleep, closing her eyes and breathing heavily.
“I think this one knows where she is,” he confides, motioning to Tink. “She’s getting a bit uppity lately, not so willing to help out, even after everything I’ve done for her. Creatures like her, they can have loyalty to only one, but I think Tink’s loyalty to me is slipping. She’s merely a vessel, you know. She holds emotions, experiences—the overflow, as it were—and I don’t think she likes what she’s holding lately.”
Lightning fast, he reaches over and pinches Tinker Bell’s arm. She opens her eyes and squeals. Peter laughs, but Tink stares at Holly, and her look is full of warning. Tell him nothing.
Holly tries to parse what’s happening. Peter doesn’t know that Tink’s been in contact with Eden. That much is clear. For the first time, Holly thinks that Tink could truly be an ally. That she’s gotten so tired of carrying Peter’s malevolence, his greed, that she’s switched her allegiance.
But Peter is studying her intently. If he figures out that Tinker Bell knows something, who knows what he’ll do—how he’ll hurt her to ensure that she tells him.
“If you’ve been watching, you must know that Eden hasn’t chosen to stay with me,” she says as calmly as she can. “What makes you think she’ll come back? I don’t even know where she is.”
He flips a hand dismissively. “Mothers and daughters fight, don’t they? It’s what they do. ’Course she’s bound to come back. Isn’t that the way the story goes? Children always go back to their mothers. They choose them over Peter every single time. And mothers always choose their children.” He pauses, and his voice turns bitter. “？’Cept, of course, for mine.”
The way he’s talking . . . his speech is slowing, a tiny bit slurred, as if he’s struggling to find the words. And the cadence is off. Something’s wrong, but what? Holly studies him. That strand of gray in his blond locks—she’d swear it wasn’t there earlier. And the wrinkles on his face seem more pronounced. She can’t be certain, but it’s as if he’s aging in front of her eyes. She sneaks a glance at Tink for confirmation, but quick as a snake, Peter grabs her wrist.
“Even you. Quite sure I invited you. But you chose the boy.” He sneers. “You could have stayed young forever. You could have stayed with me.”
The urge to writhe, to pull her arm away, is overpowering. She forces herself to relax her muscles. “You said it yourself, Peter. Mothers always choose their children. Jack was hurt. He almost died. I couldn’t leave.”