I see it every time I stand in front of the mirror in the baggage claim.
It’s not even a bag; it’s a yoke around my neck.
I stare at it, feel it weighing down on my shoulders, imagine how much nicer it would feel, how much easier my days would seem if I were to take this particular thought off—but like every time lately when I’ve stood here and seen it, I don’t.
I stare at my reflection. I’m in a gown Rune made for me.
“She’s really annoying, that fairy, but she’s good at making you those dresses” is what Peter said before Rune kicked him in the temple and he yelled “ow” and said sorry.
I straighten my dress out. As best as I can tell, it’s made entirely out of flowers and vines. They climb up one shoulder and cascade into a giant skirt at the back, and while it is rather covered, it’s still rather breezy.
I do look lovely, though it looks strange in my reflection when paired with the yoke. At least no one can see it but me.
I head back out to the cloud where Peter’s waiting, and I stare over at him.
Light linen trousers （clean ones） and a white linen shirt that was ironed when we left the house but is all scrunched up again, and I think he did it on purpose.
No shoes, because he insisted he would “rather die” and “what do we need shoes for anyway? We fly everywhere.” He has a point, I suppose.
“All dropped off?” John says with a smile as he casts off into another cloud.
“Yes.” I flash him a liar’s smile.
I didn’t. And I think he can tell.
Peter can’t. He doesn’t have the kind of eyes that could see the true weight another person is carrying. But John does.
He knows I didn’t.
I couldn’t.
It felt like a betrayal for some reason.
Jamison hasn’t done anything wrong. All he’s said is he wants to be my friend, and I’d wash away my feelings for him because of it?
How childish.
I’ll let it run its course, like a fever. And one day, the fever will break, and I will wake up cured.
I don’t need the island magic.
I am my own island magic.
“Come.” Peter flies over to me, taking my hand. “It’s a long flight to Alabaster Island.”
He’s not taken me here before. We’ve been near it but not on it. Alabaster Island is the main island. It’s big. More of a city than a small seaside village like we have on Neverland.
But it’s a funny kind of city. Like a melting pot. Not of different cultures but of different times. It could as easily be ancient Egypt as it could be the year 2000.
“Whose ball is it?” I ask Peter as we fly over the city, swerving through the streets.
Peter shrugs. “Just this man’s.”
“Just this man’s?” I repeat, staring back at him, but he doesn’t notice and keeps flying towards a castle that’s nestled up against the mountains.
Alabaster Island mostly looks like Cape Breton Island. Dramatic and beautiful and calm and fascinating but not in a way that makes you overly eager to discover it. There’s no great urgency to peer around every corner, but a nice walk to a place you don’t yet know about sounds like a lovely idea.
We land on a balcony, and it’s quite the entrance. Not because we crash or anything, but it appears Peter and I are the only two to have arrived by flight.
I’m immediately relieved to see Rye and fractionally disheartened that Calla’s right there beside him.
Peter spots her quickly and glides over to her. He puts his hands on her waist, smiles at her like I wish he wouldn’t.*
She looks beautiful—much how you’d expect. Her dress is made from some kind of animal skin, fur. It’s got no sleeves and ties off at her neck like a halter.
She looks sexy in a way that makes me in my flowers feel like a stupid schoolgirl.
Rye touches a bud on my dress. “This is incredible.”
I flash him a smile. “Rune.”
He nods and I take his wrist, feeling grateful for him.
“I didn’t know you’d be here. I’m so glad you are.” I look around, and it’s decorated like Christmas. “What is this?”
He stares up at the ceiling that’s glistening away like real stars. “The hibernal solstice.”
“How is that possible?” I give him a look. “There are four suns here.”
Rye laughs. “It was Day’s favourite holiday on Constanopia.”
“Day?” I frown, thinking on the name. It sounds familiar.
I think I know about a Day in a part of my brain I haven’t used in a while, and I flick through the pages of my memory, looking for the thought I know is in there about who this Day man might be, when a hand slips around my waist.