Shadow (Wendy Darling #3)(21)
CHAPTER FIVE
AS WENDY LEFT THE CONFINES OF HER NURSERY, she felt the humid London air whipping around her face and felt the incredible power coming down through Peter’s hand, clutched so tightly around her own that it gave the semblance of safety, though they were hundreds of feet in the air. She was afraid to look down at her own dangling feet, so instead she kept her eyes on the brilliant city that unfolded itself underneath her like a lover. To the east she could see the slums, their dark, wet corridors sending a shiver of terror down her spine. From here, the mangled streets looked like twisted roots, each one playing into each other, winding and leaping around dilapidated buildings, which she had heard were filled with hungry orphans and serpentine men of the night. The Isle of Dogs was sparsely lit, but even in the darkness, Wendy could make out its famous lawns and ancient trees. Peter squeezed her hand even harder.
“Incredible, isn’t it?”
Michael was screaming with delight below, while John had been shocked into an awed silence. Wendy’s heart felt like it might burst with the joy of it all. Peter led them east, crossing over the great expanse of Buckingham Palace, past dark gardens that appeared now as a black spot from above. In the distance, Wendy could make out the upward spires of Westminster Abbey; below her feet was Victoria Station, bustling even now. Peter took them lower toward the House of Parliament? nodding down at her briefly before she gave a gasp of delight at the appearance of the massive River Thames, so thick it appeared like an enormous snake curling its way through London, wanting to devour everything in its path. The National Gallery came into view, and Peter gave a burst of speed, pulling them along behind him.
“Wanna do something fun?” he whispered. Then they were diving, Wendy trying her best to hold John’s and Peter’s hands as the air pushed hard around them, whipping them behind Peter like a ribbon in the wind. Peter pulled them down, farther and farther, until Wendy was sure they were going to hit the ground at an incredible speed.
“Say, Peter, I dare say that we should pull up!” John yelled cautiously. His tone betrayed that while he had spoken politely, he was absolutely terrified.
“Nonsense!” Peter shouted back. “Trust me!”
They sank lower, until they were level with some ancient three-story buildings, their peaked windows and gargoyles growing closer every second. Peter turned his body, rotating his arm slowly so that Wendy might turn as well and so on down the line. He banked a hard right, the children following him into a wide alley. The flying boy gave a yell and increased his speed, and the lights around them became a blur. Wendy felt a smile erupt upon her face as they soared between the buildings, up and down with the rolling cobblestone pavement, one time even sinking so low that John almost tangled himself in some hanging laundry. Their pace slowed, and Wendy turned her head to peer into the lighted windows around her, seeing glimpses of life that she never dreamed of: a small Indian child staring out the window, his eyes lighting up when he saw Peter, as his parents danced and laughed in the background; a couple screaming at each other while playing cards; a group of dock workers standing around drinking; a man who simply sat in a chair and stared at a wall while mumbling to himself, puppets on both his hands; a woman with impossibly dark eyes reading on a dangerous ledge, a thin blanket wrapped around her shoulders. As she flew past them, Wendy was struck by how small and insignificant her own life was; everyone was trying to get by, and even if she had never met them, they existed to her now.
Peter was pulling them lower now, so that they could smell the life in the streets below them: the day-old fish sitting out, the warm bread from the bakery, the stench of waste and liquor. Someone yelled out from an alley, and Wendy saw two forms converge, saw a knife flash in the light. Then they were climbing upward again, up and out of the city, and flying over the Thames, taking a moment to circle over the golden glowing House of Parliament, passing the stern face of Big Ben, so close that Wendy could see the tiny russet sparrows nesting in its golden etchings. Diving low, they flew upward on the river, Peter heading toward Tower Bridge, a beacon of light in the dark night. The children dipped down low, so close to the water that Wendy could see her own shadow in the inky liquid. She heard giggling behind her, and when she looked back at Michael, he was trailing his foot in the river, laughing as water splashed up his thigh.
Wendy let out a laugh of pure happiness, followed by a hysterical one. She had never felt so free or light. This was what being alive felt like! For too long she had been trapped in drawing rooms and stuffy classrooms. Here, in the air, with this strange boy, she was free, even if only for a moment. She grinned and looked straight up the river to Tower Bridge, which grew impossibly large, a behemoth of beams and light climbing its way out of the water, pointing its ridges straight to the sky. Wendy had only seen the bridge from a distance while riding in a carriage, tuning out as her father had rambled on about the bascules, the hydraulics, and the glory of architects. Now, soaring below it, she marveled at its steel beams and crisp lines of wires, at its sheer impassive glimpse into the future.
Peter looked down at Wendy, and again she was taken aback by the allure of his charm: the hard line of his jaw, the way his bright red hair blew in the wind, his boyish cheeks on a man’s face. The joy that radiated from his eyes as he flew was contagious. He saw her looking his way and gave a happy grin.
“I bet your parents have never shown you anything like this!”