“Our camouflage.” He shrugged. “It’s not really necessary, but . . .” He popped the lock open with a tiny golden key, before pocketing it and turning his face to the sky. Then he crowed. Wendy only had to wait for a moment before she heard the loud sounds of the Generals, climbing up the branches, hand over foot, laughing as they went. As they emerged from the branches below, they looked around anxiously.
“Peter? Where are you?” Peter laughed as he mimed a woman’s high voice, looking under a tiny leaf for himself. Abbott paced in a circle, twirling the spear that seemed to be always at his side. John frowned at Wendy.
“Why are you here?”
Peter chose that moment to leap playfully into the air, taking John’s top hat right off his head. To Wendy’s surprise, John laughed joyfully.
“Peter! I say, that’s my father’s hat!”
“Not anymore!” The boys laughed as Peter strutted back and forth on the roof, imitating Wendy, John, and Michael’s father, smoking a branch pipe and rubbing his hands together. “Now see here, boys—and Wendy! You shall be in bed by 7 p.m., exactly! And no running or playing, or climbing trees, or flying, heavens no! In fact, do not behave like children at all! You shall be little adults, and we shall sit in banks and shops all day and discuss the most boring things we can possibly imagine!”
John laughed, a little too loudly. “That does sound like my father.”
Wendy cast John a confused look.
“No, it doesn’t.”
Right? Wendy thought that sounded right. What had her father looked like again? She tried to summon his face, and instead there was just a blur, like looking through water. John shrugged nonchalantly. Peter tossed the hat back to John.
“I’ve a better hat for you. Abbott, bring me my red hat!”
Abbott, who had been standing silently by, arms crossed, glowering at Wendy, shook his head.
“He doesn’t need it.”
Peter raised his eyebrows at Abbott but continued talking. The General was taller than Peter by about a head. He had very sharp features that cumulated in a long nose that pointed straight out from his unfriendly face. Sun-streaked, cropped blond hair hung messily over his eyes, and his perpetual frown reminded Wendy of a disapproving crow. Abbott watched her with judgmental eyes as Peter strutted around above, still imitating their father. Finally, he plopped down exhausted onto the thatched roof.
“Okay, men, into the Battle Room. Oxley isn’t here yet; he had some private business to take care,” Peter wiggled his eyebrows. “Too much fruit, I think.”
Abbott shook his head and pointed at Wendy. “She can’t come in. She’s a girl. There are rules.”
John rubbed his mouth awkwardly. “I . . . somewhat agree.”
“John!” Wendy’s mouth fell open. Peter’s eyes narrowed and Wendy noticed that his pupils seemed to be churning, tendrils of navy dripping into the bright emerald green, like spilled ink. Peter whirled on his tall General.
“It’s true, Abbott, that is a rule. But let me ask you—who makes the rules?”
The boy looked down at the floor. “You do.”
“Who controls this island?”
“You do.”
“And then, who is the only person whose opinion counts on the matter?”
“Yours.”
“Ah. And who do we protect?”
“Our own?”
“And who did I say the Darlings were?”
“Our own.”
Just when Abbott started looking crestfallen, Peter reached out and pulled him close to his shoulder, in a brotherly fashion. “Abbott, we’re going to let Wendy inside. But I can’t tell you how nice it is to have someone who remembers the rules around here. That’s why you are a General. I’m glad you’re here, brother.”
Abbott let a small, pleased smile creep across his face. “Fine. The girl can come inside.” Then with an eye roll, he wagged his finger at Wendy and added, “But don’t touch anything,” as if her mere femininity would throw off the entire room.
She folded her arms, gave him a smug look, and ducked inside the Battle Room. Her first thought was that she had stumbled into a room made of gold. Gold was everywhere, from the medallions that dangled from the ceiling to the trinkets that adorned the walls and corners. Gemstones of bright violet and canary yellow sparkled in the light that filtered in through three small holes in the ceiling, none big enough for a man to get through. Rickety shelves, built from the familiar wood of the great tree, overflowed with richly adorned goblets, long strings of pearls, and golden bars the length and width of Wendy’s fingers, strange hatch marks curling up their length. One large antique wooden chest in the corner—easily large enough for Michael to sleep in—overflowed with dozens of gold, silver, and copper coins. Wendy walked over to it and lifted the lid to get a better look. The lid of the chest was printed with raised lettering and a solitary symbol: a single tree, etched in black. With a rusty creak, the lid of the chest fell backward, and she looked down at an embarrassing amount of wealth. She turned back to the boys, who were all watching her with silent eyes.
“Where did you get this?”