Shadow (Wendy Darling #3)(17)

John looked up at Peter with silent awe. The redheaded boy gave a curt laugh and swooped up toward the ceiling once again, this time flying backward, as though he were standing up. Wendy couldn’t stop staring with amazement, and to her dismay, she felt Michael uncurl from her side and stand atop the bed.

“Hey, mister! You are flying!” He pointed at Peter. Peter flew down quickly and hovered above Michael for a moment before lazily floating down and sitting in front of him cross-legged.

“What is your name, little boy?”

Michael puffed up his chest. “I’m Michael!” He dangled his teddy bear by the leg up in front of Peter’s face. “And this is Giles!”

Peter tilted his head and looked for a long moment at Michael’s face before bursting out with a strange crow. “Welcome, Giles!”

The boys laughed, but Wendy stayed silent, still wondering if she was dreaming.

“So, the Darling family is Wendy, John, and Michael.”

“And our parents,” Wendy said softly.

“Oh, yes, parents.” Peter gave a soft laugh, as if they were something so ridiculous that he couldn’t even comprehend the thought. With a sigh, he settled onto the foot of Wendy’s bed, just inches away from her. Wendy blushed and sat back against the headboard, wary of having a boy on her bed. Peter tossed his beautiful red hair out of his eyes.

“So, Wendy, please tell me about where you live.”

“Where I live?” she stammered. “Well, we live in London . . .”

“We live in London, and we live here with our mother and father and Nana and Liza! Our parents are at a ball tonight!” Michael exclaimed, climbing up beside Peter.

The flying boy rested his hands on his chin. “How intriguing! And what do you do here in this . . . this London?”

Michael considered for a moment. “We go to school and Mass and sometimes we have friends over to play with us.”

Peter rubbed his chin. “Hmm. How interesting. And then your friends leave and you play no more? Does that make you sad?”

Michael nodded, a lock of his blond hair falling into his eyes. “It does, flying sir.”

John strode up beside them, his face betraying his jealousy that Peter was talking to his siblings and not to him. He pushed his glasses up. “We live just outside Kensington Gardens, which is on the west end of London. Our father is an accountant and an amateur astronomer, and our mother is a lady of society.”

Peter laughed, unfolding his legs. “And what does a lady of society do?” His green eyes rested on Wendy with amusement, and she found it impossible to look away.

“She reads, and sews, and writes a column for the daily paper, and goes to balls and parties,” muttered John, disdainfully. Wendy raised her voice to weakly defend her mother: “She also does a lot of charity work for disadvantaged children and sometimes treats the illnesses of the poor.”

John frowned. “Really, she does nothing.”

“Does she now?” Peter shook his head. “What a sad life that must be!”

Michael was now running in gleeful circles around the bed. “Mr. Peter, can you fly again?”

“There are no misters where I come from, Michael.”

John scampered up closer to Peter. “And where is that? You must be from some strange continent not yet discovered.”

“Hardly.” Peter leapt up from the bed and rose up in the air, unfolding his long arms with a grin. “I come from a place called Neverland.”

“Neverland?” asked Wendy, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Is that near the Pacific Islands?”

The boy gave her a wide grin, curling his lips back to show his very white teeth. “Hardly.” His eyes widened, and the lights in the nursery dimmed just a flicker. “Neverland is an island of dreams.”

Wendy watched as he ran his hands through his hair absent-mindedly, floating idly around the room as Michael followed him from below. She had never seen anyone dressed like Peter before. He wore dark mahogany cropped pants that were so tight they could almost be called stockings—stockings on a boy!—with a hunter green wool-like tunic that belted around the middle. His sleeves were a lighter, almost tweed pattern, interwoven with what looked like the vines of tree roots, running up and down the sleeves. High leather boots were etched with green leaves that her eyes followed upwards, and then . . . Wendy turned and looked away. The pants didn’t leave much to the imagination. Boys in London didn’t dress like him. Her mind darted to Booth for a moment, but then she caught Peter staring at her.

“Do you like my clothing, Wendy?”

She felt a blush rise up her cheeks and turned away. “No. Yes. I mean, it’s perfectly suitable.”

“What are you wearing? What do the lovely women of London wear?”

“Wendy isn’t very fashionable,” John muttered, annoyed by Peter’s interest in her. “She just wears what our mother gives her.”

Peter’s inquisitive eyes never left Wendy’s face. “Well, let’s see it.”

Wendy climbed out of her bed, standing slowly as Peter floated closer and closer to her.

“Why are you wearing a coat over that pretty dress, Wendy Darling?”

“That’s not a dress,” John groaned. “It’s just a nightgown. And she’s wearing a coat because she was sneaking out to see—”