She’s not worried about someone coming in. She doesn’t want anything to get out.
She lights the stub of a candle that is on the dresser and carries it with her to the windows. These are open, thanks to Jane, who insists they be kept ajar at least a crack, no matter what the weather. Holly runs a finger along the sill, finds the faintest trace of soot. Nothing at all that glitters. Still, when Holly looks out over the London sky, she shivers. She calls his name softly and listens. Not a sound, not even the rustle of the wind, only dark sky and the hard diamonds of the stars. She leaves the candle burning on the dresser, a signal beacon, and crawls into bed. She slides the knife under her pillow.
It’s dangerous to be here, especially with Jack. Cornwall was bad enough, but London? It’s like dousing the water with blood in front of a shark. In the dark, alone, she worries she’s made a mistake, second-guesses her decision not to leave him in New York.
And yet she has to try, for the sake of both her children. It’s been years, but there’s a chance that he’ll return.
A chance that he never really left.
She closes her eyes. Stills her mind. Pictures a small boy flying through the air. A little girl reaching up to take his hand. Starlight against the dark blue sky. What every London child, every Darling daughter especially, has imagined. A dream come to life.
And then, in Holly’s memory, the boy turns to her and smiles. White glittering teeth. Soulless eyes. And it’s no longer a dream.
It’s a nightmare.
Chapter Eleven
In the morning, the candle is out. The windows are still open, and the room is cold. Holly rubs her eyes. She’s alone in the locked room.
After closing the window, she pulls on a jumper and a pair of jeans. She makes the bed but leaves the knife where it is.
Downstairs, Jack is sleeping, so she makes a pot of oatmeal, then starts a grocery list. Jane doesn’t eat much, and she has no idea how to feed a growing boy.
Holly looks up to see Jack shambling into the kitchen. He drops into the chair across from her, yawning.
“Morning!” she says brightly. He mumbles something incoherent in reply.
“I’ve made breakfast—hungry?” It’s a rhetorical question. Jack is always hungry. She crosses to the stove, scoops out the oatmeal, serves it to him with lashings of brown sugar and the last of the milk.
“There’s not much food here,” she says, eyeing him as he shovels the oatmeal in. “You know how your grandma Jane is. I’m putting together a list—anything special you want?”
He shakes his head.
“Did you sleep well?”
“Fine,” he mumbles.
“Sweet dreams?”
“Okay, I guess.”
She doesn’t like the way he looks—pale skin, dark circles under his eyes. Now is not the time for Jack to get sick. She reaches out to feel his forehead. He brushes her hand away.
“I should find a place to practice. Coach is going to get mad if I come back out of shape.”
Jack playing a game that could get him injured is the absolute last thing she needs right now, but she smiles and pretends it’s fine. “I’ll keep my eyes open when I go out this morning,” she says. “In the meantime, why don’t you take a shower while I clean up.”
When he’s gone, she scrubs the oatmeal pot so hard the sponge disintegrates in her hands. She has to find Eden soon. Whatever Peter wants, however he discovered her, it’s unlikely he’s stepped up to play the role of father. He may be injured or ill and need her blood. Or perhaps he’s finally decided to go home, and take Eden with him.
She can’t let that happen. She won’t.
She thinks of her sweet sunshine girl, the way Eden bubbled over with joy. The way she always tried so hard to please. Her bright curiosity. If she’d never fallen asleep, would she be like that today? Would she still come down the stairs singing each morning and throw herself into Holly’s arms as if they’d been apart for years? Or would the hormones of adolescence take over, pushing them apart?
There’s no way to know. And no way to guess, either, how Eden might feel toward her now. All Holly can do is focus on finding her.
So she cleans until she’s mastered the panic, or can at least keep from showing it on her face. When she’s ready, she goes looking for Jack.
She finds him in the library. Dust motes drift around him, the filtered light turning them into flecks of gold. He’s found the Darling treasure, a signed first-edition illustrated volume of Peter Pan kept under a glass cloche. He’s lifted the cover and is paging through it. In the dimly lit room he looks like someone underwater, murky and distant. Someone otherworldly.