Somewhere, in a little village in Africa, a baby laughed for the first time and Tinkerbell was born. Tinkerbell was a daughter of the night. She had eyes as blue as the evening sky and skin as black as night. When she flew, the blue borders of her black wings glittered in the moonlight. Her lips curled in a smile that was both sweet and mischievous. Bracelets of flowers dangled around her arms. And sometimes when the world seemed perfect she braided flowers into her messy hair. She fell in love with a boy born from the laugh of a little Tamilian baby. They got married and had no children because fairies do not beget fairy children.
Fairies are like werewolves.
Once a month they transform into humans.
On these nights, there is one rule – no children should be made. But rules are always broken. The moon rose one night, beautiful and full. All around, fairies started to transform. Nine months later, the moon rose again. A baby was born with little fingers and laughter that rang like the laugh that made his mother, with the tinkling of bells.
...
The storks made a mistake.
It happens sometimes. You know how the administration can be – addresses get mixed up once in a while, babies go to the wrong house. It's quite commonplace, really.
Mrs. Darling picked up the baby from the doorstep.
"Oh, you're beautiful!" she exclaimed and named it Peter.
Tinkerbell looked at the ugly squealing baby and gave it a bath. She named him James.
...
The first time Peter bled, his hands turned blue.
Mrs. Darling had guessed, of course. But she loved him anyway. She worried though, about her child, the one that had been replaced.
Then they took Peter. Took him back. One dark rainy night, while the stars watched and the fairies danced.
She would rock Peter in his cradle and would sing the songs of dreams and moons. He would close his eyes and his body would lift into the air. She would tie him to the cot so that he would not fly away. Then one night they came, untied the knots, whispered in his ear and he followed. Followed the music, followed the piper.
She cried that night. She never cried again.
Three children were born – little lights in the dark. And she would sing to them. Song of dreams and moons and flying babies. She would kiss their little foreheads. But never the kiss tucked between her smile, that was his kiss.
The boy with blood that had stained her fingers blue.
…
On the same day, another baby was born.
He was a darling little thing. A squealing loud darling little thing.
…
Mrs. Darling had Peter for three months before she realized. She loved him anyway. She loved his little fingers, she loved his tinkling laughter. She loved him. Real love. Selfish, not selfless love.
…
Tinkerbell had James for five months before she realized. She liked him anyway. Not the way Mrs. Darling loved her son. But you know, the way you like your neighbor's grandchild.
She wanted her own baby so she stole him.