“The serum will wear off . . . ,” Holly begins.
“Yes. But that’s not what I mean. Tonight . . . the danger, the excitement, even the night sky . . . what if Peter wasn’t the one I was waiting for all these years?”
“I don’t understand,” Holly says. “You think there’s someone else?”
“Yes,” Jane says simply. “Me.”
No, Holly wants to cry. It’s too much. To lose both of them on the same day . . . But as she looks at her mother, Jane’s words from earlier in the evening ring in her head. I’ve never regretted it. She finds the strength to nod.
“I’ll keep her safe,” Jane says. “I give you my word. And if we can, we’ll return.”
“You could come,” Eden blurts. She takes Holly’s hand, tugs her to the window. Holly breathes in the early-morning air and wonders what it would be like. New adventures, new places no one—or almost no one—has ever seen.
“We really are made of star dust, did you know?” Eden says. And when she says it, Holly can see those stars, winking out behind the morning sky. No longer visible, but still there. Places she could almost touch.
But then she thinks of Jane, always chasing the next wonderful thing, when so many wonderful things were right in front of her. Of Jack, who is looking at Eden with such grief on his face, grief she knows he’s struggling not to show. He is still far too pale. And, like this, he might not survive whatever Peter left behind in that far-off Neverland.
She remembers Ed, who is already star dust, and Nan, who may never see the stars again unless someone is there to help her navigate her way through the dark. And a very small part of her thinks of Christopher, of blue-black eyes in a scarred face. Of a single kiss and a gaze that’s infuriating, challenging, yet tender. Her heart pulls in two, but she shakes her head.
“If I come with you, who will watch the stars?” she says. “Besides, it’s not an adventure if there isn’t someone waiting to welcome you home. Isn’t that what mothers are supposed to do?” She says the last with a look at Jane.
Jack has struggled to his feet and joined them. He cocks his head. “Listen,” he says. And over the noise of the traffic, over the sirens, they can just make out tiny bells. Joyous bells. They lift Holly’s spirit despite her grief.
“It’s time to go,” Jane says. She takes Eden’s hand and steps to the window. “The house and everything else is in your name. Use it as you see fit.”
But Holly knows she’ll stay here. She could never sell—how would Eden and her mother find her? Every evening she’ll be right here in London with Jack, gazing up at the stars.
The bells are louder, closer, and then there’s a light at the window, a tiny sparkling thing. It perches on Eden’s shoulder, nuzzles at her hair. “Bell said to tell you, do you know that place between sleep and awake? The place where you can still remember dreaming?” Eden says. She’s clutching the photo of herself tightly in her hand. “That’s where I’ll be every night.”
“Then that’s where I’ll look,” Holly says. The tears behind her lashes make everything look softer, as if she’s already in a dream.
“We have to go,” Jane repeats. She blows a kiss to Holly, to Jack. For the first time since Eden cut herself, Holly looks—really looks—at him. There’s something different, more solid somehow, about him. Could what Peter gave him, whatever bit of magic he used, combined with Eden’s blood, have changed him? Healed him more thoroughly than anything she’s tried before now? He catches her gaze and, to her surprise, reaches out a hand to her, just as the wind picks up.
When the birds come, they’re no longer black, no longer starlings. They’re doves. They swirl through the room on their white wings, and it looks for an instant like a blizzard of snow, so blinding Holly has to close her eyes.
When she opens them, they’re gone. Only the photo of Eden remains, discarded on the floor.
Chapter Forty-Four
Holly sits on a bench in Hyde Park under a very tall, very ancient chestnut tree. She’s been waiting for what feels like a long time, but she knows that’s her nerves. She left the house early so she could walk here, so she could think, and she still has no idea what she wants to say.
The tree’s leaves are turning, brilliant reds and golds that fall gently from the sky, that strew the path below and crunch underfoot. The air is chilly, reminiscent of fall in New York, and she’s grateful for the blue cashmere wrap she unearthed from Jane’s closet this morning. Light and elegant, it still manages a comforting warmth, as if embodying Jane herself. The blue is the color of the sky, of her mother’s eyes, of her daughter’s, and Holly wraps it about her as if they are holding her in their arms.