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Wendy had thought herself made of stronger stuff. She had, after all, some years ago survived the clutches of a bloodthirsty pirate, among other life-imperiling situations, and so it stood to reason that there was nothing life could bring that she could not handle. True, the swords and bows and arrows of youth were long gone -- Wendy's weapon of choice was the pen. Without it, Wendy knew the last sparks of life in her soul would be completely smothered.
A plaintive fussing came from the cradle next to Wendy and she idly reached out with her foot to rock the cradle and try to calm baby William before he burst into full-fledged cries. She did not want to risk catching the eye of her husband, also named William. She had raised his ire too many times that week, most recently that morning when he confronted her before leaving for work with sheaves of paper he had found while searching through her chest.
"I will not bear the disgrace of my wife writing such immorally fantastic nonsense!" he had raged, while Wendy quietly seethed. "What would the neighbors say if they read such things? Or the partners at the bank?"
Wendy had not answered, for she had learned there was no use arguing. Her stomach still roiled, as though to burst the tight confines of her corset, at the memory of his belittling.
"There will be no more of this! I will not have it!" With those words, he had gone to her chest, her writing table, and every other place he knew for her to keep her works, and brought them down to the kitchen stove.
"No!" Wendy had shrieked, lunging to save years of precious work. She grabbed his arm to try to stay it, but was struck violently across the cheek by his other hand, sending her reeling across the room. Stunned, all Wendy could do was sit on the floor and sob silently as the most precious thing in her life was reduced to ash before her eyes, to the tune of her husband's voice derisively calling out the titles to her stories as he burned them.
"Do not forget who I am," he had told her as he left for work. "If it weren't for me, your family would be in the almshouse, your father unemployed. Your brother John would not have the apprenticeship he holds now. You owe me your life, Wendy. And I expect proper gratitude from you."
Her cheek still throbbed, and her stomach still ached with the memory of that conversation. As soon as her husband was out of sight, she had retreated to her son's nursery, and dug out the thin notebook she kept hidden beneath the blankets of his cradle, and opened it. It was the story of a night so long ago that it now seemed surreal, far removed from the indentured servitude she found herself in now.
"I had the chance," Wendy whispered to her infant son, who stared up at her with wide eyes. "I once had the chance to escape from this place, this fate. I threw it away, thinking that I could never possibly come to so wretched a state." She traced her finger over the name on the page. Peter. "I wanted to name you Peter," Wendy said to her son as she tucked the notebook away and scooped him into her arms, holding him close. "Your father would not have it." She and nuzzled his chubby cheek. "Will you raise your hand to your wife when you grow up? Will you delight in her tears and misery?" With a sigh, Wendy swallowed a sob. "What I would give that you would not ever grow up," she whispered.
The baby was soon fed and satisfied, but Wendy felt no desire to move from her rocking chair. She felt as though the world was closing in, growing smaller by the moment, blackness falling over her. Never had she felt such despair, and it frightened her. Instead, Wendy wrapped her arms around herself, closed her eyes, and rocked, wishing idly for death.
A gentle caress to her bruised cheek startled Wendy awake and she instinctively drew back. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the light from the setting sun pouring through the now-open window, and when they did, she thought she might faint. "I'm dreaming!" she exclaimed.
"No," a familiar voice replied. "You're Wendy. I'm sure of that now. I wasn't before."
"Peter?" Wendy stood up unsteadily and gazed down at the boy, then quickly fell to her knees before him, so as not to tower over him. "Peter!"
Peter smiled proudly and nodded, crossing his arms across his chest and looking around the nursery. He peered in boxes and drawers, as though searching for something. Wendy watched him, still kneeling in the center of the room, noting that he had changed little, if at all, which made the changes in herself all the more depressing. She thought to ask Peter what exactly he was looking for, when he came to the cradle and stopped suddenly.
Wendy rose and walked over to the cradle as well, standing next to him.
"It's real, isn't it?" Peter said, reaching in and giving the baby a prod. Baby William startled awake with a squeal of protest, which Wendy calmed by picking him up.
"Yes, he's quite real," Wendy said, feeling slightly protective of her baby. "You must be gentle, Peter." She tilted her arms to allow him to look again, which he did in silence.
It felt surreal, sitting there, holding the blatant evidence of her own adulthood, while the most cherished memory of her childhood regarded him. Wendy struggled for words, but she had none. Emotion welled from deep within her as she watched Peter chew his lip as he examined her son -- emotions that had no description, save awkward. She had loved Peter dearly in her youth, and had clung to those emotions even as she had aged. He still came to her, in her dreams, but as she had matured, in many ways so had he, until he became less like Peter and more like an enigmatic manifestation of her deepest desires and wishes. Now, faced with the reality of him again, Wendy felt torn, and quite unsettled.
Peter had grown bored with waiting for the baby to do something besides lay there, and had begun to pace circles around Wendy's rocker. She put the baby back in his cradle, and then sat back, watching Peter uneasily. "I must not be anything like what you were expecting," she finally said, hesitantly.
"I got used to you," Peter stopped in front of her.
"Used to me?"
"Tinkerbell found you a month ago. We've been watching you ever since," Peter replied. "I had to make sure it was really you."
"Tinkerbell?" Wendy glanced around the nursery warily. "Where--"
"I sent her back," Peter said. "She didn't think I should come and talk to you, and I told her I didn't care what she thought, now that I knew for certain."
"What made you certain?" Wendy asked.
Peter's countenance grew dark, and his jaw tightened.
"What, Peter?" Wendy whispered insistently.
"I knew the titles of your stories," Peter said quietly.
"But when did you hear--" Wendy's stomach sank when she realized what Peter meant. "Oh." She turned away, cheeks hot with humiliation.
"He hit you." Peter caressed her sore cheek again as he had done to awaken her, his voice quiet with disbelief. "He hit you."
"He did," Wendy replied tightly.
"Why didn't you hit him back?" Peter's voice trembled, and Wendy saw anger and confusion in his features. "You were so brave when we fought Hook."
"I'm not as brave as I was, Peter. I'm not the girl I was." Wendy sighed and sank down to the floor, staring into her lap. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Peter crouch down as well. "A lot has happened. I've had to give up a lot," she paused, searching for the words. "I had to let some parts of myself go, for the sake of my own sanity. I know it's difficult to understand, but you must."
Peter frowned. "I don't. You don't have to stay here and be a prisoner! Run away! Take your baby and run away from here!" He looked toward the window.
"It's not so simple, Peter. Where could I go now? Besides, if I were to disgrace William, his hand would fall hard upon my family, and they're dependent upon his good graces. My father was injured in an accident and was unable to work for so long that they released him from the bank. We were destitute, Peter, and William offered both my father and brother employment in his family's business in Portsmouth. Father and Mother couldn't bear to put the Lost Boys to work so, we had nowhere else to turn. I had to do it." Wendy sighed and held out her hands in a hopeless gesture.
"What if you were kidnapped? We could make up a letter, and --"
"Again, where would I go? Do you honestly think there is still a place for me in Neverland? A place for my son?" Wendy reached over and gently caressed Peter's cheek, her hand trembling at the sensation of a kind touch.
"I don't know," Peter sighed, and closed his eyes at the touch. When they opened again, they sparkled with determination. "But I'll find out. I'll find a way, Wendy. I want you to be happy." He was silent for a moment, then he whispered desperately, "I need you to be happy."
"Peter?" A memory stirred, one that had been pushed far out of the way in Wendy's mind. The memory of a kiss, and a sensation unlike anything she had ever felt, almost as though the heat of the sun itself passed between herself and Peter in that moment, and even after she had returned home it had remained burning in her like a candle. Wendy now wondered if they had shared that light, and as hers had slowly faded with the cold misery of her existence, if it was diminishing Peter's as well. She gazed into his eyes, the question unspoken, for she had not the words to put to it.
Peter nodded slightly, unsure himself, but in the depths of his eyes a spark of fright showed itself, again sparking memories of the deck of Hook's ship, years ago.
"The things I need now, Peter," Wendy said quietly, "I'm not sure you can give to me."
"Try me," Peter replied defiantly. He scooted closer, until he was kneeling on her skirts, his gaze never flinching.
Wendy bit her lip, torn. She was a woman of nearly twenty, and the things she needed most were positively scandalous to ask from anyone, let alone from a boy of thirteen. She knew the price of such things as well, and knew that the price was not one Peter would pay. To need affection, to need to be truly loved in the fullest sense -- those things were beyond a child's comprehension.
"Wendy!" Peter grabbed Wendy's hands and gave them an insistent tug to regain her attention.
Frightened by the prospect of her love for him driving him away again, and also by the idea of loving one who could not possibly love her back, Wendy swallowed and nodded. "All right. But I don't think you'll understand." She pursed her lips and leaned forward, and Peter smiled with delight.
"A thimble!" he proclaimed, and promptly puckered his lips as well.
Wendy's throat tightened and she knew that she could no longer play such a childish game: Peter must know the difference. She squeezed his hands, still held in hers, and pressed her mouth fervently to his, with none of the chasteness of their first kiss together. Peter stiffened, confusion palpable in his body, but then he relaxed, and relaxed his lips as well. Wendy slowly pulled away, their lips clinging to each other for a mere moment as they parted, then bit her lower lip as she averted her gaze, afraid of what she might see in his eyes.
"Is that all you need?" Peter whispered. Wendy looked up to see his cheeks slightly flushed, but his expression was one of curiosity.
"A lot more comes with it, Peter. You don't see it at first, but it slowly steals into you," Wendy leaned forward, her voice quivering with emotion. "It's terrifying, and I can't even explain it to you now." She felt hot and flushed, and she realized the flame within her had been rekindled -- a prospect that frightened her all the more.
"I'm not afraid," Peter whispered. He leaned forward rather clumsily in an attempt to emulate the kiss they had just shared, catching Wendy by surprise. She gasped, and her arms involuntarily circled his slender shoulders as she returned the kiss, instinct winning over propriety that had been drilled into her for years. Peter's hands hesitantly stole to her back as well, barely resting on the fabric of her dress, although as the kiss drew on, both of them held tighter to one another until they were virtually clinging.
The slamming of a door downstairs caused Wendy to pull back quickly, with tears streaming down her cheeks. "My husband is home. Please, Peter, you must leave. Don't let him find you here."
"I'll cut his throat if he hits you again," Peter's voice was shaky, but did not lack conviction. "I'll cut it in his sleep." He jumped upon the window ledge, and with a lingering glance over his shoulder to Wendy, was gone.
"Peter," Wendy fought not to cry, but it was in vain. Her entire body ached with a longing that shamed her and would torment her with thoughts of what could have been. She quickly sought out a handkerchief to dry her eyes, and applied some powder to cover her flushed cheeks. She knew Peter had been right all along, and wished sorely for the days before she knew what it was to ache so. Once sufficiently composed, Wendy collected Baby William from his crib and went out to greet her husband.
Wendy went to bed early that night, for no other reason than to avoid having to be near her husband. However, sleep did not come to her, and she found herself staring out the window at the stars, wondering if what had happened in the nursery that day had simply been the hallucinations of a heartsick mind, and if so what could possibly cure her. If it had been real, she wondered if the import of her kiss had indeed been lost upon Peter. She resolved to not dwell further upon it, and take the moment -- real or imagined -- for what it was, and use it to keep the small flame inside her soul warm, if nothing else for the sake of her son and her family.
She feigned sleep when she heard her husband come into the room and settle in to bed, grateful for the extravagance of having such a large, four-poster affair so as to be able to lie comfortably on the feather mattress and not have to touch him. She kept her eyes closed, and tried to will herself to sleep, when suddenly the mattress seemed to sink a bit on the edge of the bed. Before she could even open her eyes, a soft pair of lips met hers in a now-familiar kiss, and a hand lightly cupped her now-loose curls.
"Peter," she whispered against his mouth, loath to draw away from him but terrified that her husband might awaken. "You can't be here! You'll wake him!"
"Shh," Peter whispered. "If he wakes up, I'll cut his throat." He wielded his knife in his other hand, and flashed a wicked smile, while he drew Wendy forward for another kiss.
Startled and torn between fright and need, Wendy lay achingly still as she and Peter kissed. Finally, she managed to pull away and whisper, "Go to the nursery. I'll meet you there."
Peter nodded, and with a longing look toward her sleeping husband's exposed throat, he quickly ran out the window. Wendy shakily rose and pulled on a dressing gown, then padded barefoot down the hallway. She peered hesitantly into the nursery, and found Peter crouched on the chest there, watching the doorway. The intensity of his gaze nearly drove her back, but she entered, and quietly closed the door. "You can put away your knife," she said softly. "There is no need to cut throats here."
With a groan, Peter sheathed his knife, then hopped off the chest and approached Wendy. Wendy held out her hands, which he grasped, and they knelt together on the rug. "Why did you come back?" she asked.
"I had to," Peter answered. "I needed to." He looked as though he did not understand the reasons wholly himself, so Wendy did not press further.
"This is dangerous," Wendy whispered. "You don't realize what is happening, Peter. You don't know--"
Peter placed his fingers to her lips. "Don't tell me." He regarded her for a moment, and it seemed to her that his eyes had grown wiser, that something was there that previously had not been. Peter drew her close again, this time parting his lips when they touched hers, and urging hers apart as well.
The moment their tongues hesitantly touched, Wendy knew she was completely lost. She clung tightly to Peter, her entire body ablaze with need, something within her sensing that somehow what she needed was not out of reach after all. As they slowly explored each other's mouths, hands clutching at cloth and skin, the boy Wendy knew transcended into something that defied explanation or classification.
The chimes on the clock tower rang four when Peter finally pulled away. They had kissed for what had seemed hours, in every way Wendy's mind could possibly contemplate. Her lips tingled, and felt wet and hot, and Peter's seemed swollen as he licked them. His gaze smoldered, but his expression became serious as he stood. "I can't come back, Wendy," he said matter-of-factly.
Wendy felt as though she had been slapped, the tingling arousal of every fire in her body suddenly doused with cold water. In her heart of hearts she had known there would come a time when it would go too far, and what she had already been given far surpassed what she could ever have hoped for in her life. She could do nothing but nod numbly as she struggled to find her feet.
Peter pulled her up, holding her hand as he drew her to the window. "Don't look for me. I won't come to your window ever again." He climbed onto the windowsill, still holding onto her as he gazed into her eyes. "You'll understand some day, my Wendy-bird."
"Good bye, Peter," Wendy whispered, leaning forward for one last, chaste kiss. Bitter tears slipped down her cheeks, as she felt her heart begin to break. She didn't think she could ever understand how fate could be so cruel as to give her a glimpse of all she could possibly dream of and then tear it away from her just as abruptly. It had been so sudden, so jarring, as though a dream -- or perhaps a nightmare.
With a deep breath, Peter stepped from the ledge, and with a blur, soared up into the sky, until he disappeared among the stars. Struggling to stifle sobs, Wendy slowly backed away from the window, closed it, and locked it.
"There now, Will! Come to Mama! That's my boy!" Wendy held out her hands as her son toddled toward her. With a coo of delight, he flung himself into her arms, and Wendy lifted him up and showered his face with kisses.
The first Monday of the month was always a day of relative cheer for Wendy. Since her husband's promotion at the bank six months prior, his job had required him to travel out of town for several days at the beginning of each month. Away from his watchful eye and hard hand, Wendy found time to relax and begin to write again -- sometimes rewriting works destroyed by her husband a year prior and sometimes new works. Little else had changed in the months since. Day to day, Wendy struggled through in a haze, her mind adrift in daydreams as she tended to her daily business, until a slap from her husband brought her back to reality. He had grown increasingly liberal with his abuse, leaving vivid bruises around her arms from where he would grab and shake her, and blackening her eye on more than one occasion.
Wendy's family had become concerned during their last visit from Portsmouth -- Wendy's husband never allowed her to travel there -- to the point where her father and brother both proclaimed their jobs not worth such a price, and had sworn to find new employment. However, such a thing had been easier said than done, especially with a family of half a dozen plus boys to care for. There seemed no escape save into the realm of her mind, so Wendy spent as much time there as she possibly could.
Mondays were quiet. The servants did not work on Mondays, and since her husband was out of town, there were no callers. Wendy drew out the secret box she tucked beneath the floorboards of the kitchen that contained her latest manuscript, and set it on the table when she heard the bell. Perplexed at who could possibly be calling at this time and day, Wendy quickly closed the box and answered the door.
The man that stood on the step took off his bowler and gave a courteous nod. "How do you do, ma'am," he drawled with a distinct American accent.
"Fine, thank you," Wendy replied. The man was unsettling. He looked to be eighteen or at most a youthful twenty, and was perhaps a head taller than her. His hair was a riot of blonde curls, his eyes sparking blue. His face was so freckled as to almost be brown, and his build was stocky. He was dressed in a simple brown suit, with a checked vest and dusty, weather-beaten brown leather boots that were a distinct contrast to his clean and pressed attire. She had never seen this man in her life, and she knew nobody from America, yet she could not imagine who of her husband's business acquaintances would present himself so. "May I help you?"
"Yes, you may," the man replied with a grin a he replaced his hat. "You may go inside and start packing your things."
"I beg your pardon?" Wendy gasped and stepped back from the threshold. The man followed her inside, yet stayed just inside the doorway.
"I've come to take you to Neverland, Wendy," the man said as he produced with a flourish a familiar dagger from a hilt at his belt. "And from what I've seen, there will be no need for cutting throats."
"Peter?" Wendy gasped, hesitantly advancing toward him. "It can't be! You've changed! You've grown up!" Her emotions were torn between horror and ecstasy, and she settled upon sheer disbelief.
"Yes and no," Peter replied, twirling the dagger and re-sheathing it. "I've grown up, yes." He walked over to her and took her hands, his palms now rough and callused, and drew her to him and said softly, "But no, I have not changed. Not one bit." He leaned down and captured her lips in a kiss that was every bit as intense, sincere, and full of wonder as theirs had been in the nursery months before, and Wendy knew that it was indeed him. No longer were the hands that touched her back small and hesitant -- now one pressed possessively into the small of her back, and the other around her shoulders, crushing her to Peter's body. Wendy clung tightly to his broad shoulders as she returned the kiss, until Peter in his fervor actually lifted her off the ground and spun her around.
"Oh! Peter!" She gasped, clinging to him to steady herself as he sat her back down.
"I want you to come with me, Wendy," Peter said. He lightly touched a fading bruise on her cheek. "Come with me to America."
"America?" Wendy choked.
"It's like Neverland, Wendy, but with a different kind of magic. There are Indians, and evildoers, and treasure beyond compare. And a man can be whatever he wants to be there -- a woman too. Even a writer. The people are wild for anything they can get their hands on to read!" He gave her a meaningful look.
"But my family, Peter. I can't--"
"There's gold there too, Wendy. You can ask your father that." Peter smiled.
"Why? What--"
"I brought back two whole steamer trunks full, enough to pay all of his debts and then some. He'll never have to work again, and you'll no longer be a slave to any man." He laughed. "Of course, your brothers scarce believed it was me, and it took me longer than I would have liked to convince them. I would have come sooner."
Wendy felt faint. Was this again some dream, a conjuring of her mind? She struggled not to break down into sobs of relief.
"We must hurry, before your husband comes back, or anyone notices something amiss. Come on, I'll help you!" Peter pulled her up the stairs, scooping up little Will along the way.
It was all Wendy could do to keep from kissing Peter every time her eyes fell upon him as they packed. She took only a few things; a change of clothes and necessities for Will, and of course her writing box and manuscripts. She had no desire to cling to any more of her old life than absolutely necessary. Everything was packed and loaded onto the carriage waiting outside the home. After writing a brief letter to her husband, Wendy left the prison that had been her home for so many years with her son on her hip. Peter offered his hand to assist her into the carriage, and after he was seated, rapped the top of the carriage and called to the driver, "To Portsmouth!"
John and Michael were delighted upon seeing Peter again, now fully convinced that it was indeed him, and Wendy's parents were beside themselves with joy that their free-spirited daughter would finally have the chance to soar. Peter promised to take good care of Wendy, and Wendy promised that she would write often, and tell them all about the New World. Together they mused that perhaps some day the Darling family might join the new family in America. There was little time to dwell on such things, however, for their ship was scheduled to leave within the hour and they had to hurry.
"If you'd believed me when I'd come by before and not made me tell you all about Neverland again, we'd have had more time," Peter had chided the boys with a wink, which earned him a thorough pouncing from everyone including Nana, who although she was getting on in age, was still quite spry.
They finally said their farewells, and Wendy kissed her family goodbye with more than a few tears. The carriage then took them to the wharf, where the ship awaited. They got underway just after sunset, and after making certain Will was safely asleep in their cabin, Peter and Wendy went to the deck and stood together on the railing, gazing up at the stars. "I never thought I'd see you again," Wendy whispered, tucked beneath Peter's arm, with her head on his shoulder. "When you left, I thought I'd frightened you away."
"I didn't know where I was going when I left," Peter murmured against her hair. "I didn't go back to Neverland, though. I knew what I needed wasn't there, and that I'd know when I found it. I ended up in America and wandered for months, experiencing things, meeting people, and exploring. Suddenly one day when I woke up in a mining camp in California, I looked at my reflection in a creek and realized that I was ready to come back and find you." He pointed to the day's growth of whiskers on his cheek and winked meaningfully.
Wendy chuckled and nuzzled the roughness on his cheek and chin. "Is it a long way to America?" She gazed toward the horizon, nothing but blackness as far as she could see. It reminded her of the flight to Neverland -- disorienting and overwhelming.
"Not so long when you've got company," Peter smiled. He pointed up to a bright star in the sky. "I learned this in California. You can find the direction we're headed by finding the North Star, in the Big Dipper, and then following the second star to the right, and straight--" he trailed off as a shooting star streaked through the sky, disappearing beneath the horizon.
Wendy smiled, and gave Peter a tender kiss. "And straight on 'til morning."