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!”
Wendy felt light-headed as she shook her head. No, no, of course not, how could they? Peter looked back at the boys, who were giggling together as they rounded out the bottom of the bridge and began climbing upward, their bodies dangerously close to one of the massive pillars. John was pointing out the various features of the bridge to Michael as they flew.
“Look there, Michael, do you see how the suspension wires anchor to the pillars? Father told me that this is the first bascule bridge of its kind!” Of course, their father had told John about the bridge as well. Wendy gave a smile. Well, she knew that the Prince and Princess of Wales had been at the naming of the bridge and that was very exciting. Peter pulled them through the middle of the bridge, and then up the side of one of the piers, circling around the gray stonework.
“This is Cornish granite and concrete!” John yelled to Michael, who was just helplessly laughing, so delighted he was beyond himself.
“John, be quiet,” he shrieked. John shook his head, obviously disappointed.
Peter looked back at John. “I find it very interesting, John; Cornish granite, do you say?” John flushed with happiness as they made their final lap around the gothic buttresses that topped the east tower. Wendy could see inside the walkways of the Tower, could see the faint outlines of women of the night—as her mother called them—sad creatures who trolled for lustful men, theirs a marriage of desperation.
“Children, are you ready?” The children looked up toward Peter as he trailed them up and away from the bridge. “Shall we pay Neverland a little visit? Shall we see what fantastic adventures await us?”
The boys erupted in loud cheers, and Wendy gave a girlish tilt of her head to show her approval. Michael smiled up at Wendy with a toothy grin and then looked down at his bear.
“Shall we go, Giles? Shall we go to Neverland?”
Then Michael reached down with his other hand to pat his teddy bear’s head.