Page 77 of Losing Wendy
“I was frightened of you, you know. They wanted me to be frightened.” For the first time, I wonder how my childhood would have gone had my parents not taught me to be afraid of the dark. Would I have learned to dance with the shadows earlier? Would I have set aside the vain pursuit of finding a husband and lived out my youth like the other children, unconcerned with the future?
There’s something else, though. Something that threatens to steal away the enjoyment of how it feels when Peter touches me. And I’m so very tired of the pleasure being leached out of everything I do.
“I suppose I was frightening,” Peter responds, his voice light, though it’s softer than it normally is. His hand twitches ever so slightly. I wonder if he’s as uncomfortable as I am, if we’re thinking the same thing.
Probably not. The fae from the ancient stories had a tendency to steal their human brides away at an age rather younger than what aristocratic society would deem appropriate.
“Wendy,” Peter says, his voice knowing.
“Yes?” I ask.
“Is it possible that something is bothering you?”
I bite my lip. “What makes you think that?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Perhaps the way you’re staring off into the distance.”
“What can I say? It’s a beautiful view.”
“And you’re avoiding my question.”
I scoff. As if Peter isn’t the prince of avoiding questions.
“Let me guess. It has something to do with my shadows visiting you when you were a child?”
I gulp. “It’s not just that.”
Peter chuckles, his hand stroking my shoulder. “Then a combination of my shadows visiting you as a child and the way this,” he says, caressing my shoulder, “makes you feel.” True to his word, a shudder reverberates on the skin he so casually touches.
I clear my throat.
“It’s a fair question,” says Peter.
“Then why aren’t you answering it?”
“Because you haven’t asked.”
My chest tightens, my face paling. I want this so badly—for the way his touch makes me feel to be okay. Acceptable. Real. But the doubt in the back of my mind claws at me now that we’re not swimming in the thrill of the sky. Now that the taste of faerie dust has faded from my tongue.
“My master,” he says, his throat dry, “wished that I keep an eye on you as a child. Mark your whereabouts. Make sure your parents weren’t trying to sneak you away, hide you in some remote place of the world.”
My heart thuds against my chest. “By master, you mean the Fate. The Fate who healed me. Cursed me.”
It’s nothing more than a guess, though one I’ve had years to educate myself about. My mother never told me it was a Fate who came to her. Maybe it was the way my imagination ran away with me as a child, but I always thought—hoped—it was a Fate. As if that would somehow imbue my suffering with meaning.
Peter nods, and my breath hitches at this subtle confirmation of a question that’s been rattling me my entire life. I remember what he said about his master, how she has no friends, only lovers andslaves. How quickly it had become apparent that Peter never wanted me to be enslaved to him. It was her idea all along.
“I kept in my shadow form because…” He draws in a breath. “I’m not myself then. I suppose I’m parts of myself, but not entirely. In some ways, it’s a curse, but in other ways, it helps me stay detached. Even my memories of what happens when I’m in my shadow form are hazy. It’s like how dreams seem clear in the moment, but then you have trouble reconciling the details when you’re awake. You were never real to me, Wendy. Just fragments of a memory. It must feel strange to you, like I’ve known you since you were a child. But to me, I didn’t know you until the moment you took my hand in the tower.”
My mother’s voice warns me, claims I shouldn’t be swayed by what he’s saying, but I can’t help but wish for it to be true. I want so badly for our night in the stars to be a beautiful memory, one I can cling onto in safety. A night where I became brave, the type of girl who soars through the night, not one who teeters on the edge, too afraid to jump.
That’s the thing.
I’m tired of being afraid.
My fear is a weariness leaching my soul from my bloodstream, the blood from my already sallow cheeks.
I don’t want to fear Peter anymore.