Wendy awoke in a cold sweat, the feeling that she had dreamt about something horrid still trailed over her body, leaving gooseflesh in its wake. A shiver raked its way from her shoulders to her pelvis as she swung herself to the edge of the bed, her head hanging down as she tried desperately to remember what had caused such a strong reaction.
As promised, the oldest Darling child had grown up, and now, seven years later, she lived in a very small flat above the publishing house at which she worked as a typist, errand-runner, and message-taker. It seemed she was living past her means, the small garden she'd always imagined having in a backyard was nonexistent, as was the husband she was expected to move in with. She couldn't say she was particularly unhappy, but for her, happiness had always been a strange thing.
Now, at nineteen and on the cusp of adulthood it seemed to her that she had always been searching for the recipe to happiness.
Shaking her head she caused loose curls of her strawberry blonde hair to fall into her face, she pulled herself to somewhat unsteady feet and shuffled tiredly to the worn vanity that Mother had found at a secondhand shop. First, she grabbed the small clock that sat in front of the mirror – almost three thirty in the morning – she grumbled to herself about having to work in the morning, or rather, work later that morning. Then, she slipped the small white skeleton key she'd been given by her boss Mr. Hanson (who was also her landlord). Finally, before making her way downstairs, she lit the small gas lamp and held it tightly in her hand.
Having reached the bottom of the stairs, she reached out and unlocked the door with the peeling blue paint; the other side was a perfectly pale peach color. Perfectly pale peach, yes that was how Mrs. Weatherby described the new wall color.
Darkness had always disturbed her; her wild imagination had always made moving shadows the bogeyman and creaks at night an intruder coming to steal her away at night. Wendy reminded herself of how the office looked when it was day time, neat rows of desks and wooden chairs. Each had a typewriter and a stack of paper as well a few bottles of ink, although each desk had some unique touch to it depending on who sat there. Wendy kept a book on her desk at all times, in case there was ever a lull in her work and she had a moment to read, and she also kept an hourglass on her desk because Mr. Hanson was always heckling her about her typing speed.
Swallowing what she knew was irrational fear she made her way to her desk, wanting to take a bit more paper and ink up to her flat so she could write (as she often did when she couldn't sleep). What she saw startled her, her mind running away as it created as many implausible conspiracies as it did plausible.
Sitting in the typewriter was a single piece of paper with only a few words:
One must have happy thoughts to be able to fly Miss Darling. – Captain J. Hook
Wendy stumbled backwards, terrified by what the shadowed corners could have been hiding where she couldn't see, no one else knew about Neverland here apart from John and Michael. Well, perhaps her Father and Mother had once stolen away to Neverland with the promise of adventure and never growing older, but it seemed they couldn't remember, yet another curse to adulthood, forgetting the adventures you'd once had as a child.
As ridiculous as she knew it was, it certainly must have been Hook himself, somehow here in her present, come back to haunt her. She'd watched as he'd fallen away into the Crocodile's jaw. He couldn't possibly be alive. Perhaps it was Smee – that was somewhat plausible – although she wasn't sure that he would be able to concoct such a scheme.
Her thoughts were reeling, and finally, she simply snatched the paper from the typewriter and bolted back upstairs, completely neglecting to lock the door in the process. Wendy was usually very neurotic, perhaps a result of her devil-may-care childhood attitude, but in her almost nostalgic fear, she'd forgotten her usual routine of safety. Lock the door.
Lock the window.
She spent the night in bed, burrowed beneath the covers, as if they would protect her, she had only just begun to fall asleep when her alarm clock began its incessant racket.
First, she had go out and do her duties for the publishing house, buying whatever was on the list Mrs. Weatherby had left for her.
Sitting up straight in front her vanity, she piled her hair – which now fell past her shoulder blades – into a bun atop the back of her head, although, as was the style of the time, it was an incredibly sloppy show of hair. Loose curls framed her face, which she carefully pinned up, as to keep them from falling into her eyes.
She liked to think she was a proper lady, that she was a reflection of her Mother.
Adulthood terrified her though; did she really want to end up the wife of a clerk? Married off before she'd even been given the chance to explore the world and learn all the things she'd always wanted to understand? No.
No.
With a tired sigh she slowly made her way downstairs, the chatter of the other women and the ever-present clicking and clacking of the typewriters already floating up through the door.
"Good morning, Wendy!" happy Mrs. Weatherby greeted the young girl with a bright, crooked-tooth smile. Mrs. Weatherby was short and plump and gave the best hugs Wendy had ever experienced.
"Morning, Mrs. Weatherby, have anything you need me to do?" Wendy asked automatically as she continued to trudge toward her desk toward the front of the publishing house.
The day continued without much excitement, although Chastity, whose name didn't reflect her behaviors in any way, was spotted in Mr. Hanson's office again.
She was – once again – obligated to attend one her parents' never-ending dinner parties because as always, Father was determined to marry her off to some young co-worker.
With a tentativeness that only appeared when Wendy was with her family, she entered into the Darling home, which had been transformed from a child's dream house to a home suitable to hold adult company.
Mother's seemingly ancient china had finally been put back into the china cabinet that sat in the corner of the sitting room where there was no longer the threat of rambunctious children knocking into it. Toys were no longer scattered here and there throughout the house, and perhaps the most saddening change was the absence of Nana, the Darling's faithful canine companion.
Taking a deep breath, she continued through the house, groups of people standing in clumps and completely ignoring her existence, not that she particularly minded. They knew better than to engage her in conversation.
She felt completely out of place in what had once been her own home, her Mother's paintings she'd created while pregnant with Wendy no longer hung on the walls. Everything was changing around her, and she wasn't ready. She knew Mother didn't mind, they'd only ever stayed on the walls because Wendy had insisted. Father had sold them, which she supposed was better than keeping them on the wall where no one really appreciated them.
"Wendy!' Michael, who had been sitting on the staircase, suddenly leapt to his feet, the crowd of people parting as he bounded toward her. She hadn't even noticed him, and she could only imagine how bored he must have looked, his chin problem resting on his knees as he looked on at all of the adults. The women with their silly, over-sized hats, they'd always loved to make fun of those huge hats.
At only ten – nearly eleven, something he constantly reminded her of – he was still quite a bit shorter than she was, "Oh, Michael, have you gotten taller?" she murmured good-heartedly in his ear before pecking him on the cheek and pulling away from his vice-like hug, her eyes searching for the rest of her family.
"Father you know that every time you sit me down with one of these men it turns out horribly," Wendy was very close to simply dropping to her knees and begging, she had not volunteered for another one of her Father's fixed chats.
Resting a hand on her shoulder he replied, "Wendy, all you need to do is not argue, it's that simple," he chuckled, and Wendy pursed her lips.
"Once more, Father, this is the last time," she waggled her finger teasingly, but the knot of nervousness was still coiling about in her stomach. Wendy was certain that almost every eligible bachelor in London was well-aware of her argumentative streak when it came to table conversation.
With his crooked grin that seemed to graciously return some of his more youthful features, her Father led her into the living room where she caught a quick glimpse of John who was trying desperately to avoid the throngs of old women who loved pinching his cheeks, and the few more spirited ones who pinched his other cheeks when no one else was looking. Wendy smiled wryly when he gave her a pleading look, to which she shrugged and giggled. Some things never changed, John and Michael had always been too smart for such foolishness. They'd hide away in their bedroom until the guests had filed out of the house.
"Nathanial Smith," her Father presented Wendy to the young man, "this is my daughter Wendy, I do hope you find her company… acceptable," her Father stumbled to finish his sentence, and Wendy knew right then that she was already doomed. Acceptable.She'd surpassed being worthy of interesting or rousing; now all she could hope for was acceptable.
The young man stood, his red hair was a familiar shade of copper, but Wendy filed away that comparison for later, when she was alone and feeling decidedly more lonely than she did at this moment. Offering her hand she curtsied politely.
Wendy was a perfect lady.
As long as she wasn't required to speak.
"Good evening Miss Darling," he said, as they all did, in the same tone with the same expression of mild interest.
She suppressed a sigh, and instead smiled brightly, although it took quite a bit of force on her part, "Good evening Nathanial."
Their conversation had been worse than dry, it had been positively dreadful. Not only had he brought up her stint at Miss Kingsbury's Finishing School, he'd also commented on the fact that she was employed, explaining that he wouldn't allow his wife to wander the streets, but instead prefer for her to be home.
It was then, and only then, after an hour of pure torture, did Wendy simply stand up without saying a word and begin striding purposefully away toward the door.
"Goodnight Mother," she pecked her mother on the cheek before turning to her father to whom she gave a sharp look, "Another miss, I'm afraid Father."
Nearly forgetting to say goodbye to her brothers, who had mysteriously (or not-so-mysteriously) vanished from the party, Wendy trudged up the familiar stairs that led to what was once their bedroom. She knocked twice on the door, the first two one after the other, the third and fourth two beats later; this had been their secret knock for years.
The door flew open and there stood a very sleepy looking Michael who, despite swearing he'd gotten rid of it, held Teddy, whose face was a little more worn than it had been when they'd first visited Neverland.
"Turning in early, I see," she cooed with a smile as she ruffled her youngest brother's blonde hair that seemed to be in need of a trim.
Through a yawn, Michael replied, "Wanted to… hear a story, Wendy."
Wendy sighed, looking to John for help in deterring Michael, but the middle child simply shrugged before turning his attention back to the cards he was so carefully stacking on top of one another.
"Alright, one story," she said tiredly, sluggishly motioning for Michael to lead her to his bed.
Michael suddenly perked up, bounding toward his bed.
John frowned when she started telling a story about Peter Pan and the mermaid queen, "Wendy," he began, sounding too much like Father.
"What?" Wendy asked pointedly, but she felt squashed under the heavy foot of adulthood. Wriggling up from beneath the covers Michael glared at his brother, "Let Wendy tell her story." At least there was one person on her side.
Sleep had started to wash over Michael before Wendy had even finished describing the sweltering summer air that was hanging over Neverland, but as soon as she had said, "The end," his cornflower blue eyes opened slowly.
"You already leaving?" he asked with a slurred, drowsy tone. John rolled his eyes before turning his attention back to whatever he was reading.
"I was thinking about it," she murmured, pushing his strawberry blonde hair off of his forehead.
Michael seemed to be thinking something over, and before whispering he glanced over at John to make sure he wasn't paying them any attention. "I've been saving you something."
It sounded like a game to Wendy, so she played along, "Really."
"It's underneath the green scarf in my dresser; take it when you leave… I think you need it," he yawned and rolled over.
For a moment, Wendy wondered if Michael had been talking in his sleep, as he used to when he was younger, always mumbling about Tiger Lily and the Lost Boys.
Wendy sat on the edge of Michael's four poster bed for a few moments before curiosity overtook her sensible side, which had come with age and her two years spent in boarding school.
"Heading out?" John asked in that voice that was far too sophisticated for his age. He had somehow surpassed her, nearly a man now as his older sister was still struggling with growing up.
With a sigh she answered, "I am," and she ran her hand over the old toy chest, its blue paint beginning to chip and flake off. With slow, dragging steps, Wendy moved to Michael's small dresser where she used to teach him to neatly fold his clothes.
"Wendy."
"Yes, John," she responded without looking over her shoulder, her gloved hand pulling open the drawer, revealing neatly-folded squares of fabric, she could only imagine the scathing lecture he'd prepared for this moment.
Wendy could hear John closing his book, and then there was silence as she searched for what Michael was hiding. As she neared the bottom of the drawer her fingers skimmed over something. It felt small and smooth.
"Was it real?" he was struggling to maintain his usual tone of vague interest, but Wendy knew he was faltering, and she was taken aback by his question, he usually avoided talk about childhood at all costs. Especially Neverland.
Grasping whatever it was, Wendy simply asked, "Have you forgotten?" It felt small and delicate in her hand, she decided to wait to look until after she closed the drawer, she didn't want to seem as though as she was lingering, and she certainly didn't want to hear about how John was conveniently forgetting about Neverland.
"Sometimes," he paused. "There are blank spaces, and things fade in and out."
Still facing Michael's dresser, Wendy opened her palm. In her hand was a small glass flask, no bigger than her pinkie fingers, its contents were kept from spilling by an even smaller cork.
Wendy's stomach twisted at the sight of what Michael was giving her. Flecks of gold shimmered like the ocean when the sun hits it, and crawled freely up the sides of the tube as though it knew someone had found it. Michael had saved pixie dust for seven years.
"Wendy?"
Realising she'd never said anything to John in response to his confession she fumbled for a clumsy reply. "It just means you're growing up, you know Mother and Father can't remember." She wished she could have found something more comforting to say.
Before she could say goodbye and escape, John asked tepidly, "Do you remember?"
"Not much," she lied, and it sat heavy on her tongue. "Goodnight, John."
Wendy moved quietly down the staircase, being careful to not trip on the hem of her dress or drop the pixie dust. She could see the yellow light of the lamp in the living room, and the static murmur of their new radio. As much as she wanted to quickly return home, she knew it would be awfully rude to not say goodnight to her parents, so she quickly crossed the foyer and poked her head into the living room.
Father was sitting in his favorite plush armchair, his head tipped back and his mouth cracked open, of course he had fallen asleep beside the radio, Mother, on the other hand, was content to sit beside the lamp and sew together the quilt she had been working on since Wendy had been born.
"Goodnight, Mother," Wendy murmured as to not wake Father.
Her mother looked up from her patchwork, her eyes lighting up when she saw her daughter, "Wendy," she said with her usual kind smile. "Have you been eating well?"
Wendy looked down at her dress that did seem a bit looser here and there, but she hadn't thought much of it. "I suppose so."
"Wendy darling," it was funny how different "darling" could sound when it was being used affectionately and not simply as surname.
"I'll start eating more," she promised.
Mother nodded, although her small smile and raised brow showed that she wasn't entirely convinced.
"Goodnight Wendy."
"Goodnight Mother."
Back in her flat Wendy went through her nightly ritual, locking every door and window in the building, and only when she was sure she was secure, she pulled the small flask from her corset. As tempted as she was to sprinkle a little atop her head, she knew it would be irresponsible to waste any. There was also the possibility that she didn't have any happy thoughts strong enough to lift her off the ground.
Wendy frowned and set the flask on the desk next to the letter she'd found in the typewriter.
"I'm getting too old for these games," she grumbled to herself as she tried to ignore the nervous little flops her stomach was still doing.
It was one thing for Michael to have saved pixie dust, it was almost understandable. Well, more than understandable, Wendy sighed as she looked at the small acorn on the thin gold chain that she kept hung on the corner of her mirror.
It was entirely different when Captain Hook was leaving her letters.
One was good, and one was bad. Very bad.
That night as she lay in bed tipping back and forth on the precipice of being awake and being asleep, she wondered what made him so bad… While she rolled and writhed in bed she dreamt of icy blue eyes and the Jolly Roger, sailing silently over London. She dreamt of clear blue waters lapping at the white sands of the beaches. She'd never gone anywhere other than Neverland Forest and Mermaid Lagoon –which wasn't nearly as pretty as it sounded – but she had always wanted to see the other islands and places of Neverland she'd never had the opportunity to, it was only now that she realised she may have been happier as Red Handed Jill.
The worst kind of sleep was the sleep that was wrought with what ifs' and perhaps'.
Wendy woke up in a much worse mood than she gone to sleep in, which seemed to be a sound indication that all of these strange occurrences were taking their toll on her.
Normally she would already be up by sunrise and on her way to the bookshop to visit Mr. Carroway, one of her favourite people. He owned the bookshop four blocks up and two blocks over from Hanson Publishing, and he was always willing to give her a discount after watching her try to read books in the shop so she didn't have to spend her paycheck.
A headache was beginning to pound behind her ears and she could see the sun struggling to shine through her flimsy light blue curtains. As much as she disdained complaining, the heat of summer always darkened her mood. Women were still confined to skirts that fell beyond the ankle and collars that rose past the sternum.
Outside the sun was struggling to break through the passing clouds, and Wendy was gracious that it wasn't beating down upon Bloomsberg just yet. She received the occasional glance in her direction; it was strange for a girl her age to be living on her own. A young, unmarried woman was usually still living with her parents or at University. Wendy's middle-class upbringing couldn't give her a college education when John and Michael would soon be her age as well, but she desperately wanted independence and adventure. To combat the furrowed brows and looks of distaste, Wendy simply smiled and hoped that her forced expression would fix itself onto her face.
If there was one thing she knew for sure, it was that a new book would brighten her mood.
"Miss Darling! I didn't get to see your lovely face last Sunday," Mr. Carroway was busy shelving new books and dusting at the old shelves, but he always knew when she arrived.
"I had some left over errands from Saturday that I had to attend to, Sir," she strode purposefully over to the display where he always put the new arrivals and then ran her hands over the spines.
"What books do you have for me today?" Wend was wandering around the shop now, looking for any wayward books that she'd missed.
Mr. Carroway hummed to himself like he always did when selecting books for a customer, although he paid extra attention to Wendy, because there had been a few occasions when she had barged in angrily waving a book. He made his way down the rickety ladder he kept leaning against the bookshelves. Once he was safe on the ground, Wendy stepped toward the counter; she didn't want him to feel rushed.
"I've been keeping your little care package safe and sound behind the counter," he said cheerily as he reached down behind the counter and pulled up a stack of three books tied together with the same kind of tough string they used at the post office.
Wendy rocked back and forth excitedly on her heels, itching to get back to her flat so she could read her books. "How much do I owe you?" she reached toward the pockets of her dress.
Mr. Carroway flapped his hand, shooing her out of the store, "I can't believe you're still trying to give me your money."
"Sir," she started defiantly.
"Wendy, go enjoy the rest of your day and stop arguing with a little old man like me."
Wendy nodded with a grin; she was fighting against the giggle that wanted to escape. "See you next week, Mr. Carroway!" she called from the door .
There wasn't much else to do, Wendy considered stopping at the butcher or the bakery, but the sun was beginning to poke out of the clouds and she could feel irritating beads of sweat beginning to form at her hairline. She didn't particularly mind skipping breakfast, and perhaps she would join her family for dinner tonight.
"Wendy!" a familiar shrill voice called from somewhere being her, and Wendy wondered if she could simply ignore it and move on. She was only two blocks away from her flat. Wendy faltered for a few moments before hurrying ahead to match her previous pace, weaving between pedestrians.
"Wendy, is that you?" the voice had surged closer, and Wendy whirled around, a smile plastered across her face.
The expensive dress, perfect waterfall of chestnut brown curls and plump red lips that were always quirked into a secretive smile were unmistakable.
"Hello, Eleanor," they had been at finishing school together, although Eleanor had been there by choice; Wendy had been shipped off to prevent her from continuing to "fill her brothers' heads with Never Land rot".
The two engaged in polite conversation, much to Wendy's dismay.
"A job?" Eleanor gasped. "You haven't married yet?" Wendy was unsurprised to find the gasp was genuine. How terrifying, the thought of an independent woman.
Wendy bit her tongue, fighting the strong desire to tell Eleanor just what she thought of her. Instead, she simply didn't respond, and instead stared absent-mindedly at the beautiful woman, hoping that she could simply let her mind go blank and instead admire Eleanor's lovely bone structure.
"I suppose it's understandable, you've always been a bit… spirited," Eleanor's smiled intensified as if she knew some dark secret about Wendy. The only thing she knew about were the scars from Miss Kingsbury's switches that ran along the backs of Wendy's hands. If there was one thing finishing school hadn't taught her, was to stop being defiant and stubborn.
"Yes, well, how have you been?" Wendy asked disinterestedly after a few moments of silence, the sounds of passerbys filling the quiet. As much as she wanted to end the conversation, she knew she wouldn't be helping her case any if she was rude. Word seemed to travel much faster than most expected in London, and she preferred to not get lectures from her father when she joined them for dinner.
"My fiancé is running to a few shops with me, and we're staying with his parents for a little while." A fiancé. Wendy wondered how Eleanor resisted starting their conversation off with that tasty bit of gossip.
Wendy congratulated her which seemed to satisfy Eleanor's need to brag as she finally said goodbye and let Wendy go, although she seemed disappointed that Wendy hadn't seemed elated at the news.
After making herself a small cup of tea, Wendy sat down in her rocking chair with A Tale of Two Cities.
She'd been expecting humor, or at least a scant sarcastic comment strewn here and there, but Charles Dickens had let her down and left her with this dense, dry novel that was chronicling the depressing downfalls of each tragic character trapped in the French Revolution.
Wendy flipped the page, hoping to muddle through it as painlessly as possible when a small scrap of paper fell into her lap.
Who could blame Sydney Carton for sacrificing himself for the happiness of the beautiful Lucie? See you soon Miss Darling - Captain J. Hook.
Wendy wasn't as terrified as she had been when she had found the first letter, she now believed that Hook didn't intend to harm her, if that was his plan she was certain he would have done it already. She wasn't of any use to him anymore anyway, she was sure Peter had moved on to let other young children steal away to Never Land.
Although she was none too pleased with the "see you soon".
I hope you enjoyed my little story so far, please review, as they are very much appreciated! If you spot any typos please let me know so I can fix them (I've proofread it quite a few times, but I'm bound to have missed something). Hopefully I'll be able to update sooner rather than later, but my summers are always busy.
Anyway, thank you so much for taking the time to read : )