There’s so much in this statement for Holly to unpack, she doesn’t know where to start. But something else is weighing on her. “There’s more,” she says.
Jane cocks an eyebrow. “It seems there always is these days. Well? Out with it.”
Holly takes a deep breath. “That man—Christopher Cooke. He has a prosthesis under his glove. A fake hand,” she adds when Jane stares at her.
“Yes, thank you, I’m well aware of what the term means,” Jane snaps.
“The day I met him, he was wearing . . .” Holly shifts uncomfortably in her seat. “He had a hook in place of the prosthesis.”
Jane opens her mouth and utters a word Holly until this point didn’t realize her mother knew. “You’re just telling me this now?”
“I thought it was coincidence,” Holly says defensively. “But now I think it has to be something more.” She fills her mother in on what Christopher told her about the drug. The lost boys. Pixie dust.
Jane doesn’t speak at first. She swirls the liquid in her drink. Then, “I’ve wondered . . . there have been times in my life, not many, when . . .”
It’s not like Jane to hesitate, to search for words. Holly holds her breath.
“I knew a dancer, a striking woman. Her name was Lily, but no one called her that.”
Holly already knows what Jane will say next.
“She fought hard for every role, but she also protected the younger dancers. Kept an eye on them. Helped them out.” Jane looks up at Holly. “We all called her the Tiger.”
Holly closes her eyes, but Jane’s not done.
“Then your father had a cousin, bit of an eccentric, from an old Cornwall family. Roger Smee.”
“How much do we really know about Neverland?” Holly asks quietly. “How much do we know about its rules—if it has any—and its connection to our world? About all the ways from here to there?”
“Not enough, it seems. Mother never liked to talk about it.”
Holly thinks back to what Jane has told her about meeting Barrie. How he’d called Peter a “nice chap.” She wonders if it’s how Wendy described him. It’s certainly not how she would.
“How accurate do you think Sir James was, when he recorded her stories?”
Jane shrugs again. “I have no idea. And at this point, there’s no way to find out. Mother, her siblings, and Barrie are the only ones who knew, and they’re all gone.”
There is one other person who knows, Holly thinks. But she’s not willing to say his name right now, and apparently neither is her mother. So they sit in silence in the slowly darkening room, nursing their drinks and staring at each other, each thinking the same thought.
Peter knows.
* * *
That night, Holly dreams she is on top of the roof, looking at the stars. She used to climb on the roof when she was younger—pull herself out the window, balance on the railing, then swing herself up. To find herself there again is pleasant. In the dream, she’s stretched out on her back looking at a thousand golden stars, and they are as familiar and welcoming as family. When she comes back inside, one of the stars follows her through the window. It’s upset or worried, Holly can tell. It’s trying to warn her about something, but Holly is too tired to open her eyes. Besides, everything it says sounds like tiny bells and she can’t understand it. The star stands beside her bed for a long time, and then it disappears.
Holly wakes with a start. In the dark, there’s the faintest scattering of golden glitter about the room. It leads from the window to her bed, from her bed to the door. She could almost be imagining it because even as she sees it, it starts to fade. At first she thinks she’s still dreaming. But then she realizes where the trail must lead.
Jack.
She’s on her feet before she’s fully awake, and then she’s running down the hall and to the steps, following the faint iridescent glow. The glow leads to his room, is brightest next to his bed. She panics, ripping at the covers, pulling them back.
“Jack?”
He’s asleep. His skin is flushed, but when she puts her lips against his forehead, there’s no fever. She checks his face, checks everywhere she can see. There’s a new scar on his left wrist. Even as she notices it, it’s healing, vanishing in front of her eyes.
“Jack?” She shakes his shoulder.
“I had the strangest dream,” he murmurs. He opens his eyes, closes them again, snuggles deeper into the sheets. “A beautiful girl was standing over me.” He frowns, opens his eyes again.