Page 131 of Caging Darling

And if that’s to be the case, if either would sell my friend to the Nomad to save me, I’d rather hate Peter.

The three of us are filing out of the room when the Nomad calls Astor’s name. “Stay behind a moment,” he says. “Since you won’t be involved in the plan to infiltrate the Whittakers’, I have another task in mind for you.”

I find myself pausing at the door, lingering, but the Nomad glances up at me from behind his desk. “Did I misspeak and say Darling instead of Astor?”

I bite my lip, but Peter’s already dragging me out of the room.

On the way out, I glance at Astor, a question in my expression I hope he’ll be able to read, but he’s not looking at me.

So when Peter shuts the door between us, my question goes unanswered.

That night,the Nomad, Peter, and I assemble on the deck, having just docked in Shrinedale that afternoon.

Upon meeting, the Nomad presses a small leather pouch into my hands. “Rushweed,” he says. “In case Peter here becomes indisposed, and you need a little extra help with wrangling our friend.”

Peter scowls.

“Where’s Astor?” I ask, desperately searching the deck for any sign of my Mate.

Peter stiffens next to me, but the Nomad appears unfazed. “Did you not hear me earlier when you were eavesdropping? Though your once-Mate is of no use to me on this particular mission, that doesn’t mean his skill-set would be wasted elsewhere.”

“Where did you send him?” I ask.

The Nomad, clearly still irritated with me after our unsuccessful dinner conversation last night, says, “Would you also like to stay apprised of how many times I relieve myself in a day? I’m unsure when you got the impression that what is my business is yours.”

Anxiety for my Mate swells in my chest. It’s not as much that I’m concerned for his safety. Astor can take care of himself.

It’s that I’m not confident I’ll make it out of tonight’s mission alive.

In fact, if I’m to be a good friend to Tink, I’ll need to find a way to make sure I don’t.

“You’d be so cruel not to let me say goodbye?” I hiss.

“Wendy,” Peter scolds, but I pay him no attention.

The Nomad tugs absent-mindedly at his coat sleeves, buttoning them before granting me the honor of even a dismissive glance. “Consider it further incentive to succeed tonight.”

CHAPTER 46

Whittaker mansion is about how one would expect.

It’s crafted from sleek black onyx, each stone set upon the other without mortar, as if each stone was cut to perfectly fit those around it.

It’s precise, and thought out, and intentional.

My heart flutters in my chest as I gaze up at the turrets piercing the cloudy night sky, not a star in sight. Not a handhold in sight either, not for either tower.

This manor is impenetrable. And there’s no climbing down from it either.

I think of Michael, trapped up in one of those towers, if he’s allowed to live here at all. My mind races with all the dreadful possibilities of what might have befallen my brother, each of them seeming more and more likely as they parade through my mind.

If Lord Whittaker is as cruel as his reputation, if he’s as obsessed with perfection as his qualifications for infants and the architecture of his manor indicates, I see no way he’s allowing my brother to take up a bed here, even in the servants’ quarters.

“Peter, what if Michael’s not here? What if the Whittakers cast him out…” I picture my brother cast out on the street, Tinktrapped inside these walls, unable to help him. Would Victor and the other Lost Boys have taken him in if that was the case? Were they even able to reunite with Tink and Michael once they escaped Neverland?

Peter places a hand on my shoulder, and when I gaze up at him, he’s wincing, true pain in his expression. It’s something I’ve struggled to grapple with. How Peter can be the way he is, so selfish, so manipulative, so cruel, yet still love my brother so ardently. It doesn’t seem right, seem fair, that amidst all the selfishness, he harbors that little piece of goodness in him. That he excels in a kindness that so many people, much kinder than himself, struggle with.

It hurts, sometimes, knowing Peter loves my brother. I can’t quite pinpoint why.

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