Shadow (Wendy Darling #3)(26)

Peter Pan.





CHAPTER SEVEN


“I’M SLOWING NOW!” Peter shouted, and he pulled back so that the children trailed feet behind him, their arms all stretched beyond being comfortable. As light as a feather, Peter landed gently on the thatched roof, his feet barely making a sound as they brushed its scratchy surface, at which point he let go of their hands.

The Darling children were not so graceful. Michael went tumbling, almost pitching off the edge of the roof before Peter grabbed his arm roughly to catch him. John ended up on his knees first and then skidded face-first into the roof, leaving his burning face marked with tiny red slivers. Wendy landed hard on her side and rolled a few times before coming to an abrupt stop, her nightgown hiked up just over her thighs. Mortified at both her landing and her white legs, she yanked it down with a cry, Peter looking away quickly to pretend he hadn’t noticed. All three children staggered to their feet, and Wendy felt her stomach give a heave of nausea. She turned away just in time to miss Michael getting sick off the side of the roof, but she heard it. It took all her willpower to force the nausea down. Peter came to her side, concern etched across his impossibly beautiful face.

“Are you feeling all right, Wendy?”

She held out her hand. “We’re . . .” She laughed. “We’re just not used to flying. We might need a few minutes before our stomachs settle.”

To her great annoyance, besides the rough landing, John seemed perfectly fine. He walked swiftly to the edge of the roof and was looking out at Pan Island with a huge smile across his face. Wendy pushed herself up to her knees and laid her hands firmly against the strange roof, unlike anything she had ever seen. Even the smallest palms were woven, and not in a simple cross-pattern, but rather in an ever-widening circle of elaborate designs. Her fingers traced the design upward until she reached the center of the roof, where a gorgeously sewn night sky was pierced through by the branch holding Peter’s flag.

“Why, this is amazing work,” she stuttered. “Who made this?”

Peter shrugged nonchalantly. “Magic. Probably. But wait until you see the rest!” Wendy stood, shakily, and Peter reached out to steady her. His green eyes met hers, and he reached down and, without warning, he unlatched the two navy buttons holding her coat on. The coat fell to her feet, and Wendy felt like she was shedding a skin.

“I thought you might be warm. Here, I’ll help you down.” Peter gestured to her brother. “Aye, John, do you see that bell?”

Peter pointed to the farthest point of the roof, where a perfect silver bell was perched upon an outlying branch. “Ring it!”

As John scampered over, Wendy took note of how out of place the silver bell looked amongst the tree branches and the natural, woven roof.

“That bell is so lovely.”

Peter turned to her, his naughty grin at once so enticing that Wendy had to clench her hands to keep from caressing his face.

“I stole it. From Hook.”

Michael, wiping his mouth on his sleeve, looked up from where he was finished getting sick on the roof, and Wendy made a note to clean his face as soon as she had access to water.

“Captain Hook?” Michael asked, eagerly.

Peter wagged his long finger. “Later. That is a tale for later. I’m assuming that you could probably use a good meal and perhaps a nap?”

At the mention of a nap, Wendy felt all the energy drain from her body. Peter was right—she was exhausted. It had been night when they had left . . . where was it that they lived? London, yes. How silly that she forgot! When they had left London, it had been night. Now it was midday. Her senses were out of whack and the strange question that had leapt into her chest when they arrived whispered once more before settling into the folds of her subconscious: what is . . . what is . . .

“Yes. That sounds quite lovely, Peter.” With that, John began ringing the bell. Its harsh clang sounded out over the roof and echoed down into the tree below, out over the island.

“Thank you, John.”

John’s hand slipped, and the bell gave an extra clang. Peter laughed. There was a moment of deafening silence in the absence of that harsh, sharp sound, and then Wendy heard a rising wave of whooping. Whooping and cheering, banal and animalistic in its nature, as if the tree itself were calling back to Peter its happy reply. It was the joyful cries of boys, boys calling like wolves to the moon, scampering and yipping toward them. Peter flew to the side of the roof, where a clumsy ladder made of branches was attached.

“Come, Darlings! Let’s go meet my boys.” He gave Wendy a naughty grin before leaping off the side of the roof, while Wendy self-consciously tucked her blue nightgown underneath her, climbing down one rung at a time until her feet met a boarded platform. She turned her face upward and reached her arms out to catch Michael, who, to her dismay, simply jumped.

“I’m Peter!” he cried, before landing heavily in her arms, his foot pushing roughly into her hip.

“Oof, Michael, you are getting so heavy! You can’t jump like that.”

He giggled, and Wendy curled him up for a kiss. His fat hand pushed her face away.

“No, Wendy! Not in front of Peter!” With a shake of her head, she put her little brother down and turned around. A sudden, sharp silence filled the air. Finally, a brave boy’s voice rose up through the silence, cutting through it like a blade.