Page 78 of Caging Darling

“Where are we going?” I ask.

This time, he’s the one who doesn’t answer.

CHAPTER 28

Wherever we’re going, it takes hours to get there by flight. We pass through the warping and make way across the sea, until speckles of light line the horizon. We don’t stop there, but travel inland, until we reach the foothills of the mountains.

The place appears uninhabited. There are no faerie lanterns in sight, the only light sources the stars and the fireflies dancing through the trees. At least, not until Peter plunges us through the canopy. Leaves scrape my face, and we slam to the ground. Our long flight has done nothing to soothe Peter’s anger, though he’s yet to hurt me again.

Neither of us has spoken the entire journey.

At the bottom of the mountain is a cottage, surrounded by trees and covered in moss. There’s a signpost outside that looks as if it might have once held the name of a business, but the paint is worn to the point of illegibility.

Peter nods toward the door, but I stay planted where I am.

“Wendy Darling.” The effect of his plea is lessened by his exasperation. “Please don’t make me force you.”

I stare at him in defiance. Regret flashes in his eyes, but he grabs me by the back of the neck and steers me toward thecottage door all the same. As much as I’m able, I dig my heels into the soft earth with each step.

By the time he raps on the door, Peter’s gritting his teeth, his jaw ticking with annoyance.

“My, my,” says the weedy, silver-haired woman who opens the door, her skin papery and translucent. “Lost that charming smirk of yours, have you, boy?”

“I’m in need of your services,” says Peter.

The woman flashes him a toothless grin. There’s a faint smear of blood in her gums.

The woman is slender,like she hardly gets enough food to scrape by.

I would feel for her if I had the capability of pity anymore. Or maybe it’s the fact that she’s got me strapped to a table that inhibits that particular emotion.

I’m prone, my face smashed against the cold stone slab so that I have to turn my head to the side to breathe. The cold almost feels good against my cheek. Almost.

The room itself is dimly lit in faerie dust lanterns. I think of Tink every time I see them now. Wonder where she is, if she and Michael are safe. It’s pitiful, but even seeing the lanterns causes the craving for faerie dust to bloom on the back of my tongue.

But I won’t be getting any of that. I haven’t had faerie dust in months. Not since Peter ran out of his stash, unable to harvest more after Tink escaped.

The light from the lanterns dances off a thousand objects that clutter the small space. It seems that what this woman doesn’t spend on food, she spends on acquiring magical relics.

“You ask too much,” says the woman.

“I want it gone,” Peter says.

“Are you content with your woman being headless, then?”

The statement reminds me of a conversation between myself, Astor, and the Nomad, when the Nomad had mockingly offered to cut off Astor’s hand himself to rid him of the Mating Mark.

I’ve thought about this plenty. Even tried to rid myself of Peter’s bargain by carving it from my skin. But the wound always heals. The skin always grows back.

My arm wouldn’t grow back, but I’m well aware that I’m too weak to go through with that.

A sadness swells in me, thinking of how easy it would be to rid myself of Peter’s curse, the bargain in the crook of my elbow, if only I were strong enough.

I can let anyone else in the world hurt me. I can let the Nomad’s bargain kill me, let Peter throw me up against the wall.

But I can’t take a blade to my own arm. No matter how hard I’ve tried, I’m not strong enough to fight the impulses of my own body trying to protect itself. I simply don’t have the willpower, the discipline. Besides, the bargain doesn’t want to be cut off. It whispers fear into my mind, convincing me it can’t be done, that it won’t work, and I’ll still be bound to Peter, only without an arm to show for it.

“There has to be a way. Slice off the skin if you have to.”

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