Of course, I’m different. Of course, what has happened to me over the past two months has altered me. Even if we do get my son back, even if I hold him in my arms once more, I am forever changed by the fact that he was ripped from my arms. These two months of his little life I’ll never get back, never have memories of.
I remember being around the infants of my mother’s noblewomen friends, noting how within the span of a week, if it took that long between visits, the same baby would seem to me entirely foreign, as if I had never seen the child before.
I am not naïve enough to believe that when I finally gaze down upon my son, his will be a face I recognize.
“Yes, I am different,” is all I end up saying.
Silence between us, interrupted only by the rustle of the wind.
When I can’t stand the quiet any longer, I nod toward his wing. “How does it work?” I ask not out of concern for Peter, but it’s a question John would not have been able to resist asking. There’s a part of me now that feels the need to ask these questions that John cannot.
“No idea,” says Peter. “The ringmaster had an engineer in his employ—well, in his service,” he says, correcting himself. “A genius. I’m convinced he was a Seer. A Seer or a healer. He was something, that I know at the very least. He had some magic within him, but also a knowledge of the sciences—of engineering and technology.” He shrugs. “He somehow figured out how to blend the two together.”
“You don’t have a mechanism by which you control it?” I ask.
Peter shakes his head. “Only my mind.”
“Just like before,” I say. “When you had both of your wings.”
“You sound disappointed,” says Peter, actually daring to sound hurt. “Do you wish that sort of pain upon me, Wendy Darling? I do not wish it for you.”
I open my mouth but then decide not to dignify that comment with a response.
“It’s not exactly the same, if it makes you feel any better,” he says. “I can control it with my mind, just like my wing. But I can’t feel it. I can’t sense the air cut underneath it. Can’t tell it if it’s been damaged, other than the way I fall in the sky.”
I nod. “I think we all have pieces of ourselves like that.”
“Is that my fault too, then?” asks Peter. And for the first time, by the way he’s looking at me, I sense his question is genuine.
I don’t have time to respond, though. Not before clattering comes up behind me on deck.
Peter’s face lights up.
“Michael!” he says, hopping down from his perch and striding toward my brother. He goes to reach for him, to pull him into his arms.
I can’t bring myself to place myself between Michael and Peter, not when I know Peter won’t hurt him. Not when they share a connection I cannot understand.
As it turns out, I don’t have to.
Michael sidesteps him, avoiding his touch altogether. He doesn’t quite cling to my side or hide behind me. Instead, he stares directly at Peter’s wing—the metallic one.
“Don’t touch,” says Michael.
Peter frowns, hurt splashing across his face, but he quickly hides it.
“Growing up into a big boy,” he says. “I should have remembered you’re not little anymore.”
There’s a strain to his voice, and I watch the way Peter convinces himself that Michael’s reaction to his presence has nothing to do with Peter and his betrayal and everything to do with growing up.
Just then, more footsteps come up behind us on deck.
I turn around to find Nolan, Maddox, and Charlie, all geared up in leathers just like mine.
I glance at Charlie. “You’re not coming, are you?”
“Of course I’m coming,” she says. “I feel fine.”
She takes a step forward, and I can tell by her strained smile that she’s fighting to hide a limp. She’s doing it well. I wouldn’t catch it if I weren’t looking for it.
