Her parents had volunteered to help HOOK?
But . . . HOOK was a PAN’s mortal enemy.
Someone was lying.
And when she got back to Neverland, she was going to find out who it was.
If Deacon had been in Kensington, she would have asked him about her parents. But he was MIA, and this wasn’t the type of conversation to have over the phone—especially if they were tapped. Plus, he would have wanted to know how she found out, and telling him she had broken the rules and called Lyle wasn’t an option.
A few hours later, she found herself standing in the RECORDS room, watching Martina comb frantically through her desk drawer. “I’m sorry. What did you say your name was?”
“Vivienne. We met last month for my genealogy meeting. Don’t you remember?”
The woman adjusted her glasses and picked up her calendar. “I don’t have anyone by that name on my schedule today.”
“I don’t have an appointment.”
“Then what are you doing here?” The cuckoo clock played its merry tune in the background.
“Like I said before, I have questions about my parents.”
“I’m not authorized…um…just a moment.” Martina plucked her cell phone from the desk. “What did you say your name was again?”
“Vivienne.”
“Vivienne, Vivienne, Vivienne…” Martina whispered, disappearing into the hallway. After a few minutes, she returned, more composed. “Come with me.”
Vivienne followed her into the room where she had first learned of her lineage. The sterile white room felt more daunting than before.
“Have a seat. I’ll be right back.”
Fifteen minutes later, Vivienne was doubtful Martina planned on returning at all. She moved from her chair toward the door, only to run straight into Martina as she rounded the corner carrying a large box.
Vivienne rushed an apology and asked if she could help.
“Take this,” Martina said, handing over the box, “and I’ll get the rest.”
Vivienne brought the box to the lone desk. Martina disappeared once more but returned quickly carrying a long, white garment bag and an alarming red folder.
“What’s in the bag?” Vivienne asked, not ready to read what she imagined was in the folder.
“This was Anne’s wedding dress.” Martina folded the bag and placed it on the back of Vivienne’s chair.
“How did it survive the fire?”
“Anne didn’t bring it with her. Most PAN leave this kind of stuff here for safe keeping.” Martina put her hand on top of the box. “This is a box of your parents’ personal belongings salvaged from the fire.”
Was she going crazy or did it still smell like smoke?
Inside was a stack of random objects Vivienne didn’t recognize, and two she did: Her father’s copy of Peter Pan and her mother’s perfume. She brought the bulbous, pearlescent bottle to her nose and closed her eyes. With the scent of fresh-cut lilacs tickling her senses, it almost felt like Anne was still there.
“Vivienne?”
“Sorry.” She put the bottle back inside and set the box on the ground.
Martina handed over the red file folder. “Here’s the file on William and Anne’s deaths. Unfortunately, most of the information has been redacted. You would need permission from Peter to access the whole file, but he’s not available until after the holiday.”
“No, no. This is perfect.” Vivienne smoothed her hand over the cover. “Thanks.”
“I was getting ready to leave the office when you came. I have a flight to Minnesota at eleven, so I need to go in the next twenty minutes.”
Vivienne promised to hurry, and Martina left.
After inhaling a deep breath, Vivienne lifted the cover on the folder. Inside was a stack of papers with black marks over nearly all the details. Her parents’ names were at the top.
Paul Mitter’s signature was at the bottom of the first page. More black lines obscured the details of her parents’ passing as she leafed through the rest of the report.
But the final paragraph on the final page was the most damning.
There, typed in black and white, were the names William and Anne Dunn and HOOK. Next to those words was a smudge of white-out. Vivienne used her nail to scrape away the white and reveal one final word: Traitors.
After Deacon and his extended family had their fill of turkey, ham, and spiced beef, they retired to his grandfather’s cavernous drawing room to enjoy fragrant mulled wine and sugar-dusted mince pies. The room made Deacon think of centuries past and reminded him of his family’s timelessness.
Dark mahogany cabinetry housed countless books, and the same dark wood served as ornate paneling along the walls. The coffered ceiling held shadows this late in the evening that the many candles and side lamps could not dispel.
The family had broken into small groups, each in deep discussion over some aspect of the PAN, leaving Deacon on his own, lounging on a velvet settee. He stared into the flames of the wide fireplace, crackling with smoldering logs, forcing its heat into the space.
Despite the spacious rooms in his grandad’s home, he felt claustrophobic. He attributed the feeling to his diminished physical activity. Christmas in England meant running and flying were replaced by serious conversation, cultured entertainment, and food.
When he left the party, he promised himself he would make the time for a flight.
“How much longer do you have in the field?” his grandad asked, sitting on the settee next to him.
“Ten months.” A pang of regret filled Deacon’s soul when he thought of leaving the position he loved so much. Recruiting offered him freedom without having to cut the tether that bound him to Neverland.
His grandad nodded, looking across the dimly-lit room to study his daughter Mary. “I thought your mother had some sort of arrangement with you about cutting your time short.”
“If she had her way, I wouldn’t have worked past my fifth year.” It had been one of the few arguments he’d actually won.
“What will you do next?”
“I’m not sure.”
His grandad may have looked the same age as Deacon, but the way he reflected on every word before speaking indicated his advanced years. “Would you consider coming to London when you’re finished?”
The first thing to pop into Deacon’s mind was a brown-eyed girl back in the States. “I’m enjoying life at Kensington for the moment.”
“You’d be a breath of fresh air in Leadership, and there may be some more openings in the near future.”
“I heard about Tootles.” Deacon leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. He hadn’t seen his great-uncle in ages. “How’s he settling in?”
“He’s doing as well as can be expected. Unfortunately, he has fewer lucid moments every day.”
“And we still don’t have any answers?”
His grandad shook his head. “Our immortal bodies don’t fail us, but it seems our minds are another story.”
Deacon scanned the gathering for the other members of Leadership, wondering which one would be the next to retire. “How are you feeling?”
“As sharp as I did in 1875.” He nudged Deacon with his knee. “I hear you went to a meeting at Lee Somerfield’s.”