Page 25 of Caging Darling

In the end, I’d convinced him to let me come. I hadn’t needed to feign the fear of letting go of him too long, the dread of what lurked in my future if his shadow self got ahold of him.

Just the implication that I might bring up what happened in the Carlisles’ manor had been enough for Peter to comply. We haven’t discussed it since I left Astor bleeding in the cave in Endor. As we’d flown back to Neverland, Peter had cried as he begged me to believe that it hadn’t been him.

I’d said I understood. And I did. But that was back when I thought I’d be leaving Peter.

Now, a meager two sentences doesn’t seem enough of an exchange for what happened that night. Not that I wish to talk about it either. I just don’t want to relive it.

“I don’t meet many women with a love for medicine and anatomy,” says Renslow, turning toward a basin at the back of the stage and rinsing the girl’s blood off of his hands, but only after placing her kidney in a metal box he has balanced on top of a rickety stool.

“It’s my brother with the affinity for the sciences,” I say. Peter’s ears tick, but I don’t turn to him. I don’t know why I spoke of John in the present tense. Possibly because I don’t feel like enduring rote sympathies tonight.

“But you with the good memory,” says the doctor, now wiping his hands on a towel.

I frown. I don’t feel as if I remember anything. Not other than the brushes of sea-weathered hands, the almost-kisses I wish to forget. My pain takes up all the space in my mind until there’s no room left for the simple ordinary things that everyone else remembers. Like bathing or brushing my hair.

“Not so much,” I say. I find I don’t like looking at the doctor. He has a kind, if not weary, face, one that engenders trust.

I shouldn’t be surprised that my gut instinct is to trust a serial murderer.

The doctor glances between me and Peter, who has his shadowed wings absorbed into himself. Or perhaps they’ve dissipated, hiding in the cobwebbed corners of the room. I’m not sure. Either way, he almost looks human, especially with how he’s grown his hair out to cover the tips of his ears. The doctor’s gaze lands on Peter’s hand on my shoulder.

I must be imagining the way he almost tsks.

“What is it you would like to know, then?” asks the doctor.

“Tell us about Amelia Waterford.”

The doctor, packing his bags now, stills. His assistant steps into the room, but he nods his head quickly, gesturing for her to scurry off.

“Sad case,” Renslow sighs. “Kicked in the head by a horse when she was young. Hasn’t been the same since. Do you know her?”

I frown. “You do?”

He turns to me, then blinks. “Of course I do. I was the one who treated her when it first happened. Not that there was much I could do for the poor girl.” He straightens. “What is this about? Has something happened to Millie?”

I turn to Peter, checking to see if he’s as confused as I am. Renslow is set to become a serial murderer tomorrow. Millie will be his first victim of twelve. Those are the facts Peter supplied me with when we first arrived in Chora. Yet Renslow’s reaction to Amelia’s name is genuine concern.

Either he has no plans to kill her, or I truly am a poorer judge of character than I thought.

“She’s fine for now,” says Peter. “Tomorrow she won’t be.”

Renslow tenses, then buries his hand further in his bag. Probably for a scalpel or some other medical device that can be adapted as a weapon. Not that anything in that bag would be a match for Peter’s fae strength.

“Don’t you dare hurt that girl,” Renslow seethes.

My heart stutters. “Peter, are we sure this is the right…”

Peter’s not listening. He takes a step forward, out of my grasp. He promised not to shift into his shadow form for this, but I’m sure his ability to enact a cruel death isn’t limited to his magic.

“Trust me, he’s the one,” says Peter.

“But…”

“Wendy Darling, why don’t you step outside?” Peter’s voice would be pleasant if it weren’t so apathetic. For a moment, I’m reminded of the Peter who couldn’t feel pain. It makes me wonder if that’s still a version of himself he can step into from time to time if he has to in order to serve the Sister.

“I don’t need to step outside,” I say, standing my ground. Peter’s gaze roams over me, but he doesn’t argue. He just shrugs and continues advancing toward the man.

“Who are you?” Renslow asks, though to his credit, he doesn’t back away. “And why are you going to hurt little Millie? What kind of monster are you?”

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