Chapter 1
Harper's POV
"Harper! Get down here this instant, young lady!" a shrill scream came through the door. I flung the flimsy piece of wood open and yelled down the stairs.
"What now!?" I yelled.
"I said to come down here!" the voice responded. I had been living with my Great Aunt Lucinda for less than half an hour and she had already managed to find something wrong with me. Figures. That's what my stepmother had sent me there to London for, anyway. I reluctantly made my way down the carpeted staircase and came into the parlor only to be greeted by a very pissed Aunt Lucinda.
"What is the meaning of this?" she demanded of me.
"The meaning of what? Ma'am," I quickly tacked the last part on. She seemed to be slightly appeased by it, but she still stood straight and fuming in front of me.
"The 'this' I am referring to," she said, irritated, "is this feather lying on the carpet! I told you there were to be no animals in this house!"
Oh shit.
I quelled the absolute terror in my chest and sighed instead of screaming.
"She's injured," I whined. "Can't I just take care of her until she's well enough to fly on her own?"
"She is a filthy animal! Who knows what diseases she may carry, and handling diseased vermin is not at all becoming of a young lady such as yourself."
"Perhaps I should avoid you then, Aunt Lucinda." I regretted it the moment it left my lips. The woman turned absolutely beet red and advanced upon me.
"Excuse me?" she huffed angrily. I could practically see the steam escaping her ears. "Do my ears deceive me or did you just call me vermin?"
"Your ears deceive you, ma'am. I called you diseased vermin." Crap! Foot in my mouth!
She turned even redder, if possible, and slapped me across the face.
"Your mother told me I had my work cut out for me, but she mentioned nothing about such a smart mouth!"
"That woman is not my mother," I snarled. "Nobody can replace my mother."
"According to the American legal system, my daughter can!"
"According to genetics, nobody can!"
"Well, your genetics is mistaken, Harper. Even your name is uncivilized. What kind of filthy woman must your genetic mother have been to name you such a name?"
Enraged, I felt my face heat up to the point of exploding. Nobody insulted my mother.
"I would have thought a civilized woman such as yourself would have found it unladylike to speak badly of the dead," I said steadily. That earned me another slap across the face.
"Go to your room," she commanded lowly. It was obvious that I had shaken her. "And get rid of that bird."
"Good choice of words," I said before turning on my heel and stomping up the stairs and into my room.
My room was littered with yellowed cardboard boxes, all stuffed to the brim with books and sheet music and records, etc. Trying to get my mind off of my bitch of a step-aunt, I fished my knife from my pocket and sliced through the packing tape sealing one of the boxes. Beneath the cardboard flaps and packing paper lay a stack of books. All fantasy, science fiction, and adventure, as per my personal taste.
The top book was Peter Pan.
I smiled sadly at the memories that bubbled up: my mother tucking me into bed and reading a chapter to me, a young Harper curled up on the couch watching the Disney movie on loop, me and my mother playing pirates in the front yard. A single tear dripped on to the weathered cover and I hurriedly wiped my eyes. There would be no crying. Crying didn't solve anything.
I moved on, unpacking and organizing and shelving books for hours as I recalled all those bittersweet memories of the farm. But, as always, in the back of my mind, Peter Pan lingered as a phantom.
There was nothing I wouldn't have given for a trip to Neverland.