“What happens now? I just followed all the other boys here.” His happy face turned sour. “John didn’t talk to me at dinner. I’m mad at him.”
Wendy smiled, pushing his hair back from his face. “I’m mad at John too. But I think that Peter is going to tell us a story, and then we can head to bed.”
Michael gave an exaggerated yawn. “Good, ‘cause I’m tired.”
Dominant footsteps echoed through the room as Kitoko, Abbott, and Oxley shooed the boys forward into a large circle. When they turned around to see Wendy, Ox winked in her direction, Kitoko kept his distance, and Abbott regarded her with a silent and menacing stare.
“Move forward,” Abbott grumbled, tipping his head toward where the rest of the boys sat. Wendy brushed herself off, shuffled Michael off, stepped forward a few steps, and sat back down. She had barely settled when ten boys swarmed around her, the strong scent of their sweat overwhelming her sensitive nose. Some just stared at her with curious eyes, while others shyly reached out and just barely brushed their fingertips along the edge of her dress or her shoes. Wendy felt a sharp pain on the side of her head.
“OW!” She turned around to look at a tiny Asian boy, who sheepishly held a single strand of her hair in his hand. When she looked at him, tears gathered in his eyes.
“I wanted to smell it.”
Wendy smiled in spite of herself. “It’s okay. Just ask next time. What is your name?”
“Little Sun.”
She reached out her hand, and he carefully took it. “Nice to meet you. I’m Wendy Darling.”
The boy stared at her for a long moment and then sat behind her, leaning his head against the small of her back. She looked around at her group of boys, all piled around her like puppies, and realized that they were all very young, the youngest of the Lost Boys, and they watched her with sad, wishful eyes. A palpable longing filled the space, and Wendy wondered what they could possibly want from her. A small boy with glistening black skin was staring up at her face, and then she understood with a jolt. They missed their mothers. Questions flooded her mind. Who were these boys?
Where did they come from? Did she have a mother? Where was her mother?
Peter jumped up, his toes barely brushing the seat of his moon throne. He gave a shrill trill of his lips before snapping, “Quiet now, settle down, boys!”
The excitement in the room boiled down to a rolling simmer, save the occasional shout that was quickly shushed by Abbott. Peter reached out his hand.
“My crown, Naji?”
A beautiful small boy, his skin the color of caramel, darted forward and handed Peter a crown of olive leaves that he proudly settled on his unruly red hair, tufts rising up and over the leaves. The moon rose over Pan Island, and the holes cut out of the thatched roof filled with moonlight. Peter snapped his fingers, and the lanterns that hung around the room dimmed until their light was barely a whisper. The wooden circle behind Peter was illuminated with moonlight, casting a dark shadow over Pan’s face. Still, even in the dim room, Wendy could see his white teeth, his feral and charming smile.
“Boys. Generals.” His eyes lingered on Wendy and Michael. “Honored guests. What tale should I spin this fine evening in celebration of our raid?”
The room erupted with suggestions, some boys leaping to their feet with excitement.
“The time you got lost in the Forsaken Garden!”
“When you sunk Neptune’s Plague!”
“When you buried Piers on the great mountain!”
Peter floated up in the air until his toes touched the top of his throne. Stroking his chin, he walked up and down the edge of the circle, looking contemplative at each of the boys’ suggestions.
“Why, yes, that is a good story! I had forgotten about that! Ha! The Neptune’s Plague did sink quickly, didn’t it, Waylan?”
Finally, he settled himself on the brim of the chair, folding his legs underneath him and leaning down over the crowd. He reminded Wendy of a stone gargoyle, perched on the buildings of . . . she frowned. Of . . . that place she lived once. That town, with its gray skies and stinking streets. Why couldn’t she remember its name?
“Those are all good tales, surely. But I think, since the Darlings are here tonight, I will tell the best story I know . . . the story of how Hook lost his hand.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THERE WAS A SHARP INTAKE OF BREATH in the room. Wendy surmised that this was not a story Peter shared often—its importance had filled the space with sudden awe. Michael leaned forward and put his hands on his cheeks with a sigh, the way he always did when being read a story. Peter’s green eyes glinted in the moonlight as he began his tale.