Page 5 of Caging Darling

Lady Estrias’s whimpers grate against my ears, which reflects poorly on my part. I should feel more sympathy than I do. “I haven’t heard news of missing girls,” she says. “Not other than the ghost stories.”

There’s a crash in the parlor.

“That’s because the girls are still alive.”

The lady gasps. Again, I watch as she scans the ceiling, as if she might see through it into the attic. “Here? Does he keep them here?”

“No, darling. They’re alive. Walking the docks. Horrible things have happened to them, but so far, your husband isn’t one of them.”

Relief pools in her lids. “So Edward…he hasn’t killed anyone. He can still be helped?”

“He can be stopped.”

The relief washes away with the tears streaming down her cheeks. “You’re not here to scare him out of it, are you?”

“I’m afraid not,” I say, though this is a lie. I have no pity for the man whimpering in the parlor across from us. Not when I know what was woven into his tapestry, try as the Middle Sister might to reweave it.

“But he hasn’t done anything.”

“And should we wait until he does?” I ask. “Should we wait for these women to suffer?”

The lady turns her head to the side, the most she can manage with the rushweed still flowing through her veins. She doesn’t have to speak to betray her thoughts. Her hesitation is plenty enough.

She speaks anyway. Why do they all speak anyway? “They’re just whores.”

I think of Charlie, fourteen years old, begging to be enrolled at a brothel, driven by her raging stomach. I don’t think of who saved her from that fate.

Who didn’t save me from mine.

I could tell Lady Estrias what would happen to her if we let her husband live. I could tell her of the image that shows up, over and over, in the tapestry. The only changeable detail being the number of pieces he hacks her body into. Sometimesit’s seven, because he’s feeling generous. Sometimes it’s eight, because he can’t stand to see her wedding band on her finger.

I could tell her, but I don’t.

I’m not sure I want to give her the relief years down the line.

When Peter’s done, I rise to meet him in the parlor. There’s something I have to do.

“If he hates me so much, why didn’t he just kill me?” Lady Estrias asks as I reach the door.

I turn to face her, hardly aware that my heart is beating at all.

“Because if he killed you, he couldn’t keep you.”

TIMELINE

Day 279 of Choosing Peter

CHAPTER 2

“Wendy Darling’s sleeping. Wendy Darling, it’s time to wake up.”

John is dead. My brother is dead.

And I’m awake. Again. Soft hands tug at my loose collar. It’s Peter’s shirt. Big enough that it doesn’t touch me in most places. Why am I awake again?

“Just a minute, Michael,” I say, rolling over in Peter’s bed and burying my face in a pillow that smells of the must of either pine or prison, depending on the day.

The morning, as it always does, greets me with a hammer to my temple.

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