“I’m comfortable here.” I look past him.
He takes my hand. “Moira, please, you need to rest. The caves aren’t an easy journey, and I have no idea what waits for us at the heart of the island.”
“I’ll rest when he gets here.” I squeeze his hand then pull away. “Until then, I’ll keep watch.”
He and Shiner exchange another look, and then he tilts his head toward the fire.
She rises and follows him, the two of them talking quietly as Widow takes Shiner’s spot beside me.
“You going to sleep at all?” she asks.
“I will when he’s here.”
She scoots closer and wraps her arm around my shoulder. “All right.”
I lean on her, grateful for her understanding. We sit like that until the fire is low, most of the pirates asleep with faint snores.
Standing, I stretch.
Widow gets up, too.
“I’m just going down the beach to look for him.”
“I’ll come along.” She rubs her ass. “That log is hell.”
I don’t disagree.
We strike out along the shore, scattering crabs as we go. Seashells by the handfuls wash up here, some of them glinting in the low light. I look past them, toward the lightning that brightens the horizon in almost constant flashes.
“Where do we get the fairy dust from?” I ask.
“What?” Widow kicks at a rotten coconut, sending the husk flying.
“We’re fae, right?” I wiggle my wings, which takes a great effort on my part. “Tinker Bell always had fairy dust. Where did it come from?”
“The Silver Mountains, I think?”
We bypass a large pile of seaweed, and I’m glad when we get upwind of it.
“Do they make it?”
“That’s one of those fae secrets I’ve never been privy to. Maybe if they were still around, I could ask. But I don’t intend to venture into the Silver Mountains anytime soon.”
I wish I still had some. I’d use it to fly out over the ocean and pluck Hook from the waves. But I don’t say that wish out loud. I’m already in enough danger as it is.
We walk for a long way until the crystalline structures bar our path and soar high overhead. I lean against the nearest cubic shoot of rock, then yank my hands back when I feel something like a hum.
“What?” Widow peers at the stone.
“I felt something when I touched it. It was almost like a …” I close my eyes. “Like a song.”
She presses her palm to the crystal. “I hear it, too. It’s the island singing.”
“Is it safe?”
She nods and takes my hand, pressing it to the stone beside hers.
The hum fills me again, like a thousand voices all singing in harmony. The tune is slow, almost mournful. It sends goosebumps shooting across my skin, and it seems to pull my own sorrow around me like a cape.
