“Eighteen,” I say, and I sort of hate myself for it, but I swallow as though I’m nervous about it.
He pulls a face I don’t know if I’m supposed to see or not. “Kind of old.”
I cross my arms. “Still younger than you.”
He shrugs. “Barely.”
“You’re at least three hundred years ol—” I start to say just to spite him, but he clamps his hand tight over my mouth to stop me from talking, and if I were in the business of being completely honest with myself,* I’d quietly have to admit that, actually, it hurt.
“Don’t you say that around here,” he says in a low, serious voice, eyes pinched.
I nod as quick as I can—remind myself never to say that again, make sure he can see on my face that I won’t—and I tell myself I’m not nervous. I’m not. Why would I be?
He moves his arm from around me, bites down on his thumbnail. “Did the boys take their medicine?” he asks.
I nod.
“Did you?”
I nod. “Mm-hmm.”
“Good.” He picks up a blueberry, eyeing it closely before squishing it between his fingers for no reason I can tell.
I clear my throat. “Do you have any plans today?” I ask, trying not to sound too hopeful.
He looks over at me, nods as he sucks something from his teeth with his tongue.
“Oh?” I inquire, eyebrows up.
“Marin told me about a shipwreck by the Mistica Cornucopia.” He shrugs. “She’s going to show it to me. Probably find some treasure or something amazing like that.”
“Oh.” I nod once. “Is that all?”
“I don’t know.” He shrugs again. “Maybe kill a pirate or something—if there are any leftover ones that survived the wreck.”
I frown, and he doesn’t notice.? He moves towards the door and then pauses, looking back at me.
“Oh.” He shakes his head. “You said it was your birthday.”
My balled-up paper bag face uncrunches a bit. “Yes.”
He nods. “Do you want me to bring you some water from the fountain of youth so you don’t get any older than now?”
My face falters. I shake my head a tiny bit. “No,” is all I say quietly.
Peter shrugs. “Your funeral.”
And then he leaves.
I give him about a half hour to see if he comes back, changes his mind. He doesn’t. He never would.
I go upstairs to find my boots because I know what I’m going to do today anyway. I’m going to do what I always do. When I finally find the fortitude to grow up and can figure out how to leave this beautiful, awful place,* I do still want to be a geologist. The volcano will feel like an old friend to me at this point.
Upstairs by the little shelf I built for myself with branches where I keep the few belongings I have here, I find a pair of sandals with straps made of crawling vines and a parcel wrapped in a bow made of flowers. I tug it open, and the flowers and fairy dust fall to the side as I pick up the most beautiful, magical dress. White, tied at the waist with rope, flowers growing up it and making almost a cloak at the back.
I look around the room for Rune to thank her, but she’s gone. I wonder if she heard what Peter said to me—？ For a moment, I feel embarrassed, but then I suspect she already knows about his ways.
I head down to the water’s edge in my new dress. I don’t want to take the long way; I have places to be. I just don’t quite know how to get there. A quick stop into town for a map, and I should be on my way.
There’s a rowboat tied to the dock by the tree house. Peter doesn’t use it, but sometimes I see the other boys take it out fishing.
I slip into the boat, row it over the harbor to the town. I’m about to heave the boat onto the shore, but luckily the tide washes it up for me, which was helpful. Everything around here’s awfully helpful if you’re a friend of Peter. I shouldn’t like to find out how they treat you if you aren’t his friend.
I wander into the town centre, and I don’t really know where I’m going. I don’t know where I go to find a map of the island. That woman who made me clothes seems like as good a place to start as any.
I loosely know the way to her shop, so I make my way there, being sure to keep my head down as much as possible. I don’t make eye contact with anyone. He doesn’t want me here, that’s what Jamison said, and in case he is actually the mayor of pirates,? I shouldn’t like to walk a plank for defying him.
I didn’t come here to see him, by the way, even if a small part of me hopes that I might. What part of myself would I have to let go of for that to stop living inside me? I wonder. I think back to when I last saw him—I don’t know how much time has passed. Weeks maybe, could be days? Fifteen of them if I remembered the notches, but I don’t in this very moment. Instead, I dwell intensely on his hands on those other girls and how he told me to stay away from him. I will. I plan to.