“What was that?”
“Is that one of your questions?”
“No!”
“Then you don’t get an answer.” She wiggles until she’s sitting beside me, her feet hanging off the bed. “Now, three questions. Stop pretending you won’t ask them. I have things to do that don’t involve babysitting a foolish mainlander.”
I have so many, but I can work with three. Three should give me enough information to stop bumbling around like a newborn calf.
“Okay, first question. Do you know—wait!” I was going to ask ‘do you know what the Lost Boys are?’ but that could lead to a yes or no answer. That’s not going to work.
She cuts her eyes at me. “Change your mind?”
“Give me a minute.”
She leans back against me, absolutely no respect for personal space. Her wings are surprisingly warm. I remember when my mother told me the Neverland story, and oh how I wished I could be friends with Tinker Bell, the sweet fairy with the golden hair. That daydream is gone, but there’s still a tiny wisp of nostalgia for it twirling around inside me.
I take a deep breath and go for it. “What are the Lost Boys?”
“The souls of dead children.”
What the fuuuuuuuck?I choke on my own spit and have to sit up sputtering. “What? No! Coy was alive.”
“Coy died a long, long time ago when he was still a little boy. To sickness or injury or who knows what. Peter brought his soul to Neverland and kept him here.”
“Like purgatory?”
“Is that your second question?” She readjusts so she’s leaning on me again.
“No!”
If she’s telling the truth, then Hook was telling the truth. So was Widow. Guilt coats me like a sticky film when I remember how I’d treated Widow earlier. I was a real dick. Still, it’s hard for me to accept. Coy wasaliveto me. He was warm and friendly. But if Tinker Bell is to be believed, it was his soul. And she didn’t say he was trapped here, but putting everything together—maybe that’s exactly what he was. Trapped in Neverland.
Hang on. Am I dead too? I open my mouth to ask that, then snap it closed again. I won’t waste a question on my existential crisis.
I need to focus on this next question. There are so many ways to ask it that will lead to a shit answer from the clever fairy who’s currently using me like a piece of furniture.
“What does it mean that I am Peter’s boon?” I wince, afraid she’s going to wriggle out of it.
“It means he made a wish to the island, and the island gave you to him as an answer to the wish.”
“What did he wish for—wait! That’s not my third question.” I put my finger to her lips, and she smacks it away.
This is what I was worried about—her answer only gave me another question. Ugh.
One more question. I have to pick a good one. At least, I should. But there’s something that’s been bothering me bigtime. The worst thing is, I think I already know the answer, but I have to be sure.
“Why did Peter want me to tell stories?”
She rolls her eyes. “You really are a dumdum.”
“That’s your answer?”
“No, but it’s perfectly obvious why—he needed you to—”
Sally lands on my windowsill and makes a loud squawk.
Tinkerbell jumps straight up to the ceiling over the bed, her gaze on the bird as she hisses.
