I pulled the sheets up to my throat. I was so astounded at her recovery, I nearly forgot the fear of discovery. The fairy shook her fist in the air and let out harsh ringing tones. She was so distraught, she nearly lost her balance. Peter reached out to catch her, but she righted herself with a flap of her wings. She pleaded with Peter, pointing at me, but the boy would not hear her.

"You've hurt my friend, Tink!" He finally said, "I brought her to take care of the boys, to be our Mother, and you turned them against her." Tink protested.

"No. You're sick and you don't know what you're talking about. I won't have it. Leave." The little woman fell to her knees at this. I heard her little heart flutter in pain and I longed to cup her in my hands, to comfort her. I looked to Peter, but he folded his arms. Tinkerbell pressed the palms of her hands to her eyes, then rose with a snarl and flew out the chimney. We both looked at the fire for a moment.

"Poor Tink," said Peter finally.

"What did she say?" my face felt hot.

"She says that you are an unnatural child, that you have killed many fairies. You use their bodies for black arts, and their souls for your own amusement."

"I haven't-why would she say that? How horrible!"

"The fairies are dying... each year, fewer are born and the sickness is everywhere."

"Sickness?"

"And people don't believe in fairies anymore."

"What happens to them?"

"They... die, Wendy," he looked at me.

"I mean... what happens before?"

He paused, then sat on the floor by the bed and leaned in. He spoke softly, "First, they grow cold, and their voices hoarse," he cupped his hands around some small form, "then, it devours them. Eat away their skin and their hearts and leaves them with great hole in their bodies," his hands shook a little, "Then blood pours out from everywhere. Eyes open... they bleed out," he let the memory fall to the cold stone floor.

He went to the fire, and hung a pot over it. It was streaked with grease, but father says that a good cast iron pot is better seasoned. The room seemed too quiet now. Peter sat on the floor by the fire, feeding it small twigs. Some times he removed one and waved it about, drawing pictures in the air with smoke. He wrote a rude word and I laughed. He beamed, and wrote another. The surprise was gone, but I laughed for him anyway.

I sat beside him. I showed him how to use charcoal from snuffed twigs to make pens. He drew for a time, scraping the sticks against the floor, but grew tired of that and challenged me to a sword fight. My bruised ribs scolded me for the movement, but I agreed. Peter proved a swift and dangerous swordsman. He chased me about the room, landing touch after touch. My body felt greatly abused, but I could not stand the idea of losing to the cocky boy. Finally, he disarmed me with a swat across my wrist, and a sharp tap to the side of my head.

"Peter! You mustn't aim for the face or hands when playing. You could hurt me."

"That is how I defeated the most horrible pirate of all, Captain Hook. I cut off his hand and threw it to a crocodile."

"Just like that, in one stroke?" My fingertips tingled at the idea of ringing steel and grand victories.

"Just like that!"

"Like this?" I smacked him on the wrist. We began another skirmish. When the boys arrived home, I still had not caught my breathe. They showed their trappings off for Peter. "A dinner party for our Storyteller," they said. Slightly had caught a fat rabbit, and Toodles had shot down a fine looking bird, which he insisted be roasted and not stewed. The other boys objected to the long wait, but he pouted and said the flavor would be boiled away.

Peter's friends seemed to have entirely forgotten their feelings of animosity to me, and introduced themselves properly before we began our meal. The tallest was Toodles, as I had already gathered. He boasted that he was the one who had shot me; the finest bowman in Neverland. Indeed, his tunic was decorated with a great many feathers. He was either quite practice with his weapon, or spent a good amount of time gathering feathers. I admired the craftsmanship either way, and he was flattered. The twins would not, or could not give me a name. Peter had told them that twins should share everything, and they attempted to stand by this, sharing a title: The Twins. I made note of the slight differences in stature and musculature, and vowed to find a way to differentiate the two. Slightly was the smallest and clearly wanted to be sure he was not forgotten. He spoke so quickly he often started new thoughts in the middle of sentences, and whatever story he was trying to tell, I do not remember, nor did I understand at the time. I was rescued by a soft-spoken boy named Nibs. He seemed frightened of me, and didn't say much.

Michael assisted me in putting out table setting for our party. Though indeed, there was no table. I had the band of boys lay out their bed clothes for seating. We would sit cross-legged like true adventurers, and drink tea out of wooden cups like a civilized party. Michael bemoaned the lack of dessert, but John revealed he had picked some apples on their trip and proposed that we roast them for a treat.

The party itself was rowdy and operated more like a game than a dinner. Boys like to argue, and they liked to throw food. They argued and threw food in anger. Then a game of throwing second helpings to each of us was made, but when Nibs second helping hit Slightly, they just started throwing the meat for fun.

"Boys! This if this is my dinner party, then I desire a bit less broth on my dress, and more in my bowl."

"That's just what mum would have said," said Michael, cuddling his bear.

"You have a mother?" asked Toodles in awe.

"Is she a Storyteller also?" asked Nibs.

"She is." I answered.

"Tell us a story and we'll sit quiet," said Slightly, crossing his arms.

"Very well," I agreed, "Dinner time is a good time for stories. What kind of story would you like to hear?"

And so I told them the story of Cinderella. Michael and John may have noticed that I added a battle or two, but they didn't tell on me. All boys like a good fight, after all.

"Wendy," said Toodles when I had finished, "will you be my mother?"

"She's not old enough," said John.

"You have to be my mother too!" said Slightly.

"You already had a mother!" said Toodles.

"You never had a mother?" Michael held his bear over his face, "Oh Wendy!"

"It's alright, Michael..." I reassured him.

Nibs frowned, "You like Toodles better than me."

One of the twins stood up, "You'll like me even better than Toodles."

"Not you!" said the other.

"Not you either!" said Slightly.

"Quiet lost boys," said Peter, with a hand on each twins' shoulder, "Wendy, would you be a mother to us?"

"You can't, Wendy," said John.

"They need me John..."

"Please Wendy," said Michael.

I looked at all the boys, my brother, then Peter.

"If I am to be your mother, then Peter must be your father."

"Then it's settled then, you shall be our Mother," and with that, he sprang up the the ceiling and all the boys cheered.