“I see I have frightened you. You have no reason to be afraid of me, I promise.”
Wendy pressed both boys’ heads down and with hesitancy raised her own, her wide hazel eyes taking in a sight that she could not believe. Floating over her bed was a boy who looked to be about sixteen years old. What struck Wendy first was not actually that he was floating—which was an unbelievable sight; it was that he was simply the most beautiful boy she had ever seen. His radiant winsomeness beamed out from his grin as he looked down at Nana with a pitying smirk. She snarled in his direction. The boy had blazing red hair, its color the same shade as a lick of flame, which flew out from all sides of his head, curly in some parts, straight in others. He had golden freckled skin, freshly sun-kissed, and peachy pink lips. He was muscular, with tan calves that appeared carved from stone, slender hips, strong forearms, and a strapping, confident chin.
He turned his face to her and smiled, and she felt her heart skip a beat. His lips curled backward to reveal small but blinding white teeth. The smile unnerved her—it was a cocky, cunning grin, the kind that John gave her when he had hid all her underthings or put a worm in her bed. Staring at him from under her raised hand, the boy’s eyes were what brought her back from the uneasy place that the smile had taken her. Wide set and brushed with impossibly long dark lashes, the boy’s bright green eyes, a shade that she had never seen before—like glittering emeralds!—fixed on hers. She lowered her hand and raised her chin into the light. She saw his eyes widen a bit at the sight of her, saw his lips part in confusion. He dropped out of the air, quickly, just for a moment, before flying (flying!) up toward the ceiling again.
“I . . . I’m sorry, I thought you were their mother.”
Wendy found it impossible not to stare at his face, his green eyes holding her captive as he fluttered around the room.
“No, I am not their mother. I am their sister. My name is Wendy.”
“Weendee.” The boy seemed to weigh this on his tongue for a moment before laughing. “Wendy. Yes. You are beautiful! How old are you, Wendy?”
“I’m sixteen.” Wendy tried to calm the heaving of her chest, searching for a clear breath, the fear from his arrival still pulsing through her body. “And your name?” she gasped.
“Peter. I’m Peter Pan.”
“And how old are you?”
“Guess.”
“Are you sixteen as well?”
“You could say that.”
Wendy could feel John pulling away from her, but she wasn’t ready, not yet. She pulled him back against her chest. Michael remained trembling against her lap. Wendy didn’t know how to phrase the question without sounding terribly rude, but she dared anyway.
“How did you . . . how are you . . .?”
“Flying?”
“Yes!”
With a wicked grin, he turned in a circle, like the Christmas ornaments that her mother hung every year. Then he took off, dashing from one corner of the room to another, sailing up and back down. With a sharp tug, Wendy felt John pull away from her and stand beside her.
“Say! How are you doing that?”
“Well, hello, young man!” Peter lazily circled back down and landed beside John, shaking his hand, his luminous eyes sizing up her brother. “And what might your name be?”
John blushed and stammered. “John. John Darling, sir.”
“Well, John Darling, how would you like to go on an adventure?”
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 . . .”