Second Door to the Right

by Nikki Hyson

  One chimed the half hour. Peter stirred. “I didn’t think. Does that bother you?”

  James, looking to the mantle above the fire, smiled. “Actually, I have one just like it in my flat.” Irony or fate? “I find it oddly soothing.”

  “Like a bit of home. Sometimes, when I can’t sleep, I’ll come down here. Listen to it for a while.”

  River settled with a whuffle across the chair’s arm, nose resting on the table between the men.

  Peter watched the pup. “Do you sleep well?”

  James ran a finger along the pup’s nose. Annoyed, she lifted a paw. “Only a couple hours now and again. They told me that’s normal for us.”

  “So they said. You’ve only been out for a few years, haven’t you?”

  “Aye,” James nodded. “Three.”

  “The first ten years were hard on me. If it hadn’t been for Sarah, I think I’d have gone mad.” Peter shuddered. “We’re written for a certain path. A certain life. It creates a surety, even if it’s only unconscious, that our destiny is fulfilled.” Twitching against the confines of his chair, he confessed, “I used to be certain of every decision before I made it. I always knew it was the right one. I knew. Second star to the right.” He shook his head. “Here…” A huff of frustration separated his thoughts. “…I’m sure of nothing.”

  “You can be sure of Lily. No matter what else occurs, know you did something right with her.”

  Tenderness washed the worry and doubt from Peter’s face. Smoothing lines, it left the appearance of a younger man. “She’s precious to me.”

  “She just discovered her father is Peter Pan and kissed your cheek with all the sweetness of a child never betrayed. She discovered I’m one of the most ruthless pirates that ever lived and still touched my arm to ask for the potatoes.” James, shifting unconsciously, realized he wasn’t entirely comfortable with that. If she trusted him so easily, there were those who could twist that against her.

  “She has faith.” Peter’s eyes glimmered in the half-light. “She has the capacity to see the very best of what we can be. And she believes we’ll choose to be that better version of ourselves.” Peter, gesturing at James’ artificial hand, added, “Which reminds me. Sorry.”

  “Yes,” James chuckled softly. “I caught her look between my hand and you while she passed the cake around.” He turned the hand over. “I dare say it’s a small penance.” Opening and shutting the grip with a few thoughtful muscle contractions, he asked the question that kept him awake at night. “How did you do it, Peter? How did you get away from them?”

  “No one noticed. As I told Lily. I slipped out one day.”

  “You know she didn’t believe that.”

  “I know.” Peter stared at the fire. “The Oracle did it. He let me go.”

  “He?”

  “Yes. When they pulled me through, the Oracle was a man. A detective once, if the rumors were to be believed. He’d been under their thumb for too long. Already touched with madness. He saw something in me though, and took pity. Did something with his mirrors. I only had to step through and I was out of the Guild walls.”

  “Did you ever find out?” James mused. “Who he was?”

  “No, but he wasn’t like the others. They didn’t burn him and start over with a new Oracle. They’d slit his throat and call up the same man again. He kept him memories, his deaths and his knowledge; something he refused to share.” Peter sipped from his cup, hand steady on its way back to the saucer. “No wonder he wanted to hurt the Guild. He told me which books to look for. Everything. Then he let me go.”

  The hairs on the back of James’ neck rose. “Books?”

  “The ones they can use. I’ve been collecting them for years. Stealing their weapons, you might say. He managed to pull a few from the archive. Cast them back into the world.” Smile betraying more than a passing pleasure at his small victory. “I’ve found two.”

  James jerked, River squirming with him. “Whose?”

  “Not ours. Someone else.”

  “Someone still there? Someone in the Guild?”

  “Haven’t been back for a while.” Peter lifted his shoulders carelessly. “Possible.”

  Outside the wind moaned, a banshee uncertain of her path. James curled his fingers in River’s fur, savoring the warmth. “How are you yet living, Peter?”

  The Pan’s thoughts slowly began to splinter; James read it in his face. Peter’s eyes went wide in boyish wonder. Confusion glimmering at the edges, he asked, “Why wouldn’t I be?” He looked to the sides of his chair, calling out to his wife, “Sarah?”

  “She’s upstairs, Peter.” Oh, Pan. Not this. Not for you. “She went to bed.”

  Peter quieted, gaze returning to the mantle where family pictures stood.

  James waited; clock marching forward five minutes. Silence reigned. Dawn would be upon them soon, rolling back the witching hours of secret plots. James needed more answers. He needed more ammunition. “Where’s your book, Peter?”

  Peter roused, hand jerking toward the mantle. “Still there—”

  James tried a different track. “You were never a pirate. Why’d they pull you out? You were the hero.”

  “Was I?” Peter stared into the fire, amber light dancing with shadows across his face. “Doesn’t seem that way now. My form wasn’t always good, was it?”

  “The past is what it is.”

  “That’s almost poetic.”

  James said nothing, hoping for better yet afraid to press.

  “Practice,” Peter admitted cryptically.

  “What?”

  “Luck? The Guild had a new writer to test. They’d never dream of pulling anyone truly dangerous through when they weren’t certain of the outcome. I was practice. Yanked through midflight and sent crashing to earth. They couldn’t send me back. I…” Peter’s recitation slipped, searching the darkness for a word capable of doing that moment justice. “I fractured. They didn’t know what to do with me. Couldn’t kill me.”

  Peter’s tale rested a second time, shifting as if to lessen an ache. “There are some bonds formed between a writer and the first character they pull from a mirror. They couldn’t risk the safety of their writer, new as he was.”

  His frown remained steadfast. He shook his head, settling back into the moment before him. “They’d left me alone to wander the halls of the second and third floors. Spellbound to travel no further and too addled to try. That’s when the Oracle found me, wandering past his door. We talked. He talked. For hours and days.” River snored softly. Peter smiled. “He mended some of the damage done to my mind. Not all. Getting harder to focus.”

  “And how is it you’re aging? How is that possible?”

  “Truth? Sarah’s love did something to me. Guess? Haven’t the foggiest. One night, before we were ever a couple, a storm rattled me.” Lily stirred slightly on the couch, Amos rolling to the floor with a shake. “I was living in the gardener’s shed on her father’s estate. Helping out for food and such.” The past glimmered across his eyes. “We’d talked some while I worked.”

  Slumped to the hardwood floor, Amos panted hotly. Unwilling to leave his girl’s side.

  Peter’s hand twitched against his knee, memories awakening old pain. “The gardener knew. Went for her when I, when I panicked. Her father forbade it. She told him she loved me. Went anyway. Sarah held me until the storm passed. That night I grew up. I started to age.”

  Half-conscious, Lily rubbed her face into the pillow Amos had abandoned then rolled over. Her back to them, a sigh escaped followed by the deep, even breaths of exhausted slumber.

  “Thank you for not telling Lily about the Guild’s purpose,” James said thickly. “Thank you for not telling her what I am.”

  Peter glanced at his once nemesis, pity in the look. “She didn’t believe my lie about that either. She knows it isn’t the government. She knows you aren’t spies. One day, she’ll have to be told the truth.”

  “I know.”

  “If
you ever do anything to hurt her, I will finish our fight. I promise you that.”

  James didn’t offer insult by disagreeing. “I know.”

  “Keep Moriarty away from her, James. Keep her safe.” Peter’s chin lowered, the day’s events claiming a measure of peace that must follow. Eyes half shut, he didn’t see the tremor of shock passing over the man beside him.

  “Moriarty?”

  Nearly gone, Peter stirred with a curt intake of release. “Yes. Who do you think the Professor is?” He didn’t wait for the answer. Exhaling slowly, his eyes closed.

  The clock continued its audible tick-tocking. Marking the passage of time.

  Lily felt a second and third tear slide free, cheek to nose before vanishing among the bunched quilt under her chin. Save him. She understood a little better now, but not nearly enough. Someone, somewhere deep inside that cursed house, cared for James and needed her help. I will. Just tell me how.

  No answers. Not tonight. Her father snored, the clock ticked, and James sat silent. Standing guard? Night wearing on, Lily finally drifted off.

  Professor Moriarty didn’t glance up when the study’s door opened. He knew the sound of her heel on the tiled floor, the swish of her skirt as she neared his desk. “What is it, Irene?” He moved a contract to the pile of accepted requests he’d hand Rochefort.

  “I have the information you asked for.”

  He asked for much. So far, that wasn’t enough to raise his gaze. “About?”

  “Lily Westfell. I believe her father used to be one of ours.”

  Interest aroused, Moriarty waved her to the chair opposite. He reached for the cigar smoldering in its brass tray. “Do tell.”

  “I think he’s the one that got away. I think he’s Peter Pan.”

  He took a lingering pull on his solitary vice, listening as she rattled off facts. A thin smile formed. At last there would be payment for the Pan’s arrogant flight. At last there would be a reckoning.

  His thoughts, ever shifting in a dozen directions, stopped on Irene’s last words. Moriarty held up a hand. “Just a moment. Lily’s mother? Who is she?”

  “Her maiden name is Sarah Bradley. Comes from a long line of bankers and lawyers. An offshoot of a lesser line of nobility a hundred and fifty years ago. Nothing of real interest. Strange that she latched onto Peter at all. There doesn’t seem to be a creative spark within the entire family tree.”

  “And the name Westfell?”

  “It’s a family name. The maiden name of a great aunt who married into the family.”

  Smoke curled over his head, forming questions only he saw. “There must be something you’re missing. Check the family branches to the sides. Cousins, aunts, uncles, great aunts. Everything. Somehow, there’s a connection. I need to know before a decision is made.”

  “Yes, Sir.” Irene rose instantly, leaving the folder on the desk before he asked. Her heels clacked a path back out, followed by a soft click when the door latched.

  Moriarty traced the name with his finger. Bradley. The name seemed familiar, but only in passing. He closed the file; mind occupied with too many other strategies to dwell overlong on a question Irene would answer tomorrow. One thought continued to press. It made the smile grow. He chuckled softly.

  “Peter, I will see you again.” The words brought a warm glow into the pit of his heart. It spread as he continued to smoke, the cloud over his head thickening to a fog. “I’ll have my answers. I’ll learn the truth of how you bested me, whelp. I’ll know who helped you.”

  But you’ll never be happy.

  Memory of the curse, offered as his maker’s final gift robbed The Professor of his joy. Steel gray gaze flicked to the portrait on the opposite wall. He kept it there as a reminder: Writers were human and they died. He could go on forever. “I was happy the day I saw you,” he growled. “Happy when you saw me and knew my name. I didn’t have to say a word. You knew.”

  The subject in the portrait stared back. You’ll never be happy.

  “But you disappointed me. You? The great mind who created me? Must be a mistake. Fat old man, sitting in a garden, thinking of the right word. But, it was you and I took your pen. Look what I’ve done with it.”

  You’ll never be happy because that’s the way I wrote you.

  Moriarty stood abruptly, chair legs screeching across the hardwood. “We’ll see.”

  24

  Lost in a dream, James stared across the flickering candlelight and found Anne’s gaze already upon him. The color of jade in the amber glow, her eyes warmed as their gazes met, a smile hidden in one corner of a mouth he knew to be sweeter than wine. She put a finger to the curl of pirate’s gold tumbling down from jeweled clips, twisting her hair around a knuckle. A familiar gesture when her nerves were on edge. He wished he could kiss her cares away.

  Anne’s sister sat beside James, chatting inanely about the latest fashions. Her father sat at the head of the table, expression inscrutable. Two brothers flanked Anne, the one on the left taking a turn at the glaring contest James hadn’t realized would be a part of supper. Her mother sat at the foot of the table, gaze lowered and completely silent.

  “I’m going to be blunt, James,” her father said, settling into a leather chair before a crackling fire. He waved James towards its less sumptuous, but still expensive, counterpart.

  “I wish you would.”

  “I’m ordering Anne to never see you again. Not for any reason. Do I make myself clear?”

  “May I ask why, Sir?”

  “You’re the result of an affair between your father and one of the Marquis of Hertford’s daughters. She was sent to the country and the child given into the care of a farmer.”

  James’ heart squeezed painfully at the bald-faced words. The truth he’d always guessed worming its way free. “She died in childbirth.” Still, he tried to denounce her father’s cold recitation if only to catch his breath. “My mother and father were wed.”

  “Is that what he’s told you all along? It isn’t true. Something of a scandal at the time. Especially after your father nearly died.”

  “Wha—”

  “He couldn’t father children after that. Why else would he want a bastard son?” Her father lingered over a long, sideways look, enjoying every cut, every slice of the truth. “You understand. I’ll not have my daughter tainted; her prospects ruined by an association with you.”

  James stared into the hearth, mind refusing to focus.

  Her father flicked his hand back towards the door. “You may go.”

  James awoke with a start. Someone was close. Invading the space no one dared enter while he slept. Opening his eyes, muscles already tense, his thoughts turned to where exactly he’d left his blade.

  Lily sat on the chair’s arm, one hand resting lightly upon his shoulder. Her hair, cut with both scarlet and gold highlights in the early morning light, hung loose over one shoulder. Reminding him of the Oracle. My Anne. Loss panged deep.

  “Sorry I had to wake you, but we need to go soon. I have the season’s last write-in today and there’s some prep work to do. Sophie’s letting me use the library on a Sunday.”

  “Of course. Did I sleep long?”

  She smiled. “I don’t know. What’s the last time you remember?”

  “Just after six.”

  “Not long. It’s not quite nine. Mum’s making popovers for the road. Would you like tea or coffee?”

  He stretched, joints aching that never had before. Grimacing, he dared to request, “Both.”

  “Fair enough. Tea first. Coffee for the road. I’ll make it and you get ready.” Lily rose. “Want to take a shower?”

  “Might be a good idea. Do you know where my things are?”

  She gestured to the stairs. “I left your pack just outside the bathroom door.”

  “Thank you,” he said, starting to rise. Her hand returned to his shoulder. James stopped, rocking forward to the edge of his seat. Her eyes seemed a trifle puffy, perhaps a bit red rimmed. “What is i
t, Lily?” Had she been crying? “What’s wrong?”

  “Whenever you’re ready to tell me. I’m here. I’ll listen. You know that, don’t you?”

  “How much did you hear last night?” Fear quickened his next breath, but she was already leaving. “Lily?”

  “What?” She looked back, but didn’t linger. “Doesn’t take a genius to read expressions. A lot passed between you and Dah. There was more to be said. Something you didn’t want told. I’m guessing your secrets instead of his.” She paused, offering a final nod towards the staircase. “Shower. Go.”

  James stared after the empty space where she’d been before rising stiffly to his feet. “I feel old,” he complained to no one. Not quite willing to face the effort of a shower, he looked around the room.

  Quiet, but homey. He would’ve loved to grow up in a place like it. Gaze straying to the mantel over the fireplace, a row of pewter frames beckoned. A chance to see a younger Lily, or a Peter who reminded him of Pan, drew James’ steps forward.

  A gap toothed little girl with Lily’s eyes filled the first picture on the left. The next showed a happy couple under blooming apple trees. James smiled. Clean canvas trousers and a dress shirt suited the Pan. Sarah achieved elegance in a simple jade colored dress; a bouquet of daisies cradled in the arm not linked with Peter. Their wedding? James continued down the line.

  The next two were of Lily. The first one probably from her college days, an Oxford sweatshirt and a glimpse of campus in the background. The second frame found its way into his hand without conscious thought. She wasn’t alone. Lily stood behind a man, her arms draped loosely around his shoulders in easy intimacy. They were both smiling, laughing at whoever snapped the picture. James knew the man.

  “Oh, there you are. Lily said you might need some extra towels.” Seeing the frame in his hand, Sarah Westfell stopped. Arms full of fluffy green towels, she hugged them to her like a shield. “What is it?”