Chapter One

The Darling children were most darling indeed. From their brown curly hair to their perfectly polished shoes, most anyone who lived near Number 14 Young Street could agree they were indisputably the dearest bunch. N'er so much a contrary thing could be said about the three children. At least until the day of July 13, 1955.

The street at which the Darling Manor resided at was a short walk from Kensington Gardens, which was where the children spent most of their time; running across the finely manicured grass and playing made up games around the fountains. But it had been a good few years since Wendy, the eldest child, joined in these activities.

Wendy Moira Angela Darling was at the smart age of fifteen, almost at the cusp of sixteen. She prided herself of knowledge and cleanliness. Her hair fell impeccably in ringlets and her school uniform was pressed with precision. She would never once leave from the red front door of her house without looking fully decent. The walls of her large bedroom were stacked full of classic books and expensive paintings. Each page and splash of colour meant something to Wendy. She felt a great sentimental attachment to everything in her beautifully adorned room; but none so much as her window-seat.

The embroidered fabric was worn from years of Wendy sitting upon it, gazing out through the glass barrier from the first floor to the street across from her. When she was young, at the age of seven or so, Wendy would imagine she were a trapped princess and longed for the day when her heroic prince would come and save her. It was an entirely romantic thought, Wendy felt, to be rescued by a handsome man.

At least it was until the years past and her prince never came for her. It was then that Wendy began pouring herself into her studies at the prestigious academy school the three Darling children attended. She soon stopped believing in romantic nonsense. Knowledge was far more important than make-believe. And this, to Wendy, was as clear to her as the blue English sky that filtered though her stained glass window on the morning of July 13, 1955.

The day was promising to be bright and lovely as Wendy slid out of her tall four-poster bed.

"Mer-ow!"The displeased sound of the once-sleeping animal had come from Wendy's cat, Miss Scarlet. She was named for her fiery fur and Wendy's love for the American's cinema Gone with the Wind.

"Well, hullo there, Miss Scarlet," Wendy cooed to her cat, plucking her off the cotton bedspread and into her arms. Wendy carried her to the love-worn window-seat then sat and placed the small orange fur-ball in the lap of her night shift. Wendy gazed out her window as she did every day.

She took in the powder blue sky above the buildings then said in a delightful voice to her cat, "I should think it would be a jolly good day. I believe we must leave the window open to enjoy it. "

With this thought in mind, Wendy set about unfastening the brass lock and sliding open the window-pane to start her day without knowing just what was in store for her.

...

At the same time, not far from Wendy's window, a young man was hurriedly pacing down a sidewalk. He searched in vain for an escape. There was none.

With a sharp glance behind him, he saw his captor a few metres after him. The young man lengthened his stride. He couldn't let the other man gain on him.

The chase seemed endless. The two men kept their tight tempo of steps continuous and unchanging down the never-ending streets and alleys. Still, the young man hunted for getaway. Something, anything, to avoid getting caught. He couldn't, under any circumstances, be found out. It would mean certain death for him and the others.

No, he wouldn't let it happen. But it had never been this bad before. He had always been able to escape from them, vanishing without a trace. Elusion was his specialty. And now, ten years later, he was finally going to be beaten at his own game.

The captor; he hadn't known was tracking him the entire time he had been in London. All that time; he had been careless, thinking he was at last free. But he was never going to be free. He would always be running for the rest of his existence. And that, in itself, was an infinite amount of years. But the young man had already stopped living ten years ago, so this thought didn't faze him one bit.

Then, fate. It had lead him to a prominent street near the flourishing greens of the Gardens where a lone window stood open. He could see the number posted on porch cover: Number 14. This was it. This was the house.

Without a second thought, the young man took this opportunity and leapt through the window, not knowing just what was in store for him.