Slightly was at the end of his rope. His nerves were frazzled and his mind was in a whirl. Why Lillian had bloody asked him if he could paint this portrait he had no idea. And why should she want to do it here? Honestly, this was complete torture.
He'd set up dozens of possible backgrounds for the painting, moving potted plants upstairs to the attack; the chaise, the gold statue of Aphrodite; even the little china pug dog. Nothing was looking right or felt right for Lillian.
If he'd had it his way he would have painted her in a garden. Alone. A shawl draped lovingly over her shoulders, the sun shining on her brilliantly golden hair.
He was so frustrated with her and with her blasted fiancé, who stole her out from under him. But mostly he was frustrated with himself, for lying to himself for so many years. She wasn't his and never would be.
"Curse the day I came here from Never Land!" he cried throwing a brass tray across the room as it hit the wall and clanged to the floor.
"Slightly! What the devil?" said Peter coming into the attic to check on him. "What's going on?" he asked.
"Nothing!" he cried. "Leave me alone!" Slightly stood there pathetically in the middle of the room; panting and trying desperately to hold in his anger that was threatening to burst out.
Peter stared at him in surprise. He hadn't seen him this angry in a long time. He resolved not to reproach him again. He would do for Slightly what George Darling had done for him earlier: listen.
"Slightly, I know it's not saying much, but I'm here for you. Whatever you have to tell me I'll listen." He sat down on the chaise lounge Slightly had drug upstairs.
The younger boy felt his anger diffuse and sighed deeply. "I'm in love with Lillian Adgate," he said simply.
It took everything Peter had to not look completely gob smacked. "You are?" he asked gently. "I had no idea."
"Well, I would have thought it obvious enough. I ignore her to death."
"And you thought you ignoring her would be enough evidence?" asked Peter confused.
"Well I…" Slightly trailed off at his words being repeated back to him. Oh what a fool he was!
"Have you ever told her about your feelings?"
"No… I couldn't. I couldn't even speak when she was around."
"I have to ask, why her? Why not some other girl? There are plenty to be found in London."
"She's perfection," he said taken aback.
"I've always thought she was a bit... too high and mighty for her own good," said Peter.
"Peter, she's an angel. When I look at her, I see everything I want to be, everything that's good in the world."
"And yet, she's marrying someone else."
Slightly hung his head. "Yes."
"Why the devil did you agree to paint her if she's making you so miserable?" Peter asked.
He sighed again. "I honestly don't know. It just happened. She turned her eyes on me and… here we are. And she'll be here anytime."
Peter could well understand being bewitched by eyes. He could refuse Wendy nothing when she looked at him a certain way. But there was no way he was going to let Slightly be overtaken by that stuck-up society girl. Not his boy.
"Slightly, you're no shrinking violet," said Peter standing up suddenly. "You're a lost boy! You've fought Indians, you've killed pirates! You've hunted bears and lions, all while you were a little boy! Are you going to let a pair of pretty eyes completely destroy you?"
Slightly looked at him in surprise. "Um… no?"
"Are you?!" cried Peter.
"No!" he said smiling. He felt strength coming back into his heart.
"Slightly, this girl isn't married yet. There's still time for you. Even though I wish you'd pick someone not quite so lacking in humility."
"But I have nothing to offer her!" he said slipping back into misery.
"Not yet. But you've been offered that apprenticeship at the bank. And money isn't everything. There's also… Well we've never really had this conversation have we?" asked Peter contemplatively.
"What conversation?" he asked. "You mean like about… kissing?"
"Erm… Yes… That too… I guess what I mean is women like passion. They respond to strength and life." Peter paused a moment to think about how he hadn't had a lot of life in himself lately.
"Show her how passionate you are about painting, about your future. Make her feel like the only one in the room."
"She will be the only one in the room," said Slightly.
"You know what I mean. Talk to her, for heaven's sake! You're a fine boy. Any woman would be lucky to have you."
"Alright," said Slightly smiling. "I'll try."
"That's the spirit! I'm going to put Janey down for the night." He paused as there was a knock at the door downstairs. "She's here," said Peter.
Slightly jumped up and picked up the various things he'd been throwing around the room then went to the mirror, licking his hand and trying to straighten the cowlick in the front of his hair. No matter what he did with it, it would always look like he'd just awoken out of bed.
He gave up and ran down the stairs just as their maid was letting her in. He stopped on the staircase. She was so beautiful. Her hair was piled high on her head, her long neck adorned with jewels and her eyes, vibrant and alert.
"Good evening Edward," she said handing her coat to the maid. "I trust you're ready for me?"
He swallowed hard. Of course he was ready for this. Wasn't he? He forced himself to walk down to the bottom and offer her his arm.
"Yes, everything's all set up for us upstairs."
He started to lead her up the steps, enjoying the feel of her hand resting on his forearm and how perfectly he stood a head taller than her when she stopped abruptly.
"Edward, I just realized. We don't have a chaperone. Will Mrs. Darling be sitting with us?"
He hadn't thought of that.
"Well, I can ask her. But she's with the baby, and the two elder Darlings are out of the house tonight."
She thought for a moment. "Well, if you won't tell, I won't tell. But maybe for the next session you should have that planned out."
"Are you afraid to be alone with me?" he asked suddenly, looking down into her eyes, remembering Peter's words.
She looked at him startled. "I… well no, but my reputation…"
"Is safe with me," he assured her, kicking himself mentally. "Next time, maybe you should bring your Aunt or Lady's Maid."
She continued to stare at him as they began their ascension up the stairs again. No one ever spoke to her like that; ever. She would have been furious if she hadn't been so astonished.
He led her through the hallway, past his room to the door leading up to the attic. He opened it for her, and let her climb the last flight until she emerged into his sanctuary. People came up here rarely, only to call him to meals or retrieve more chairs for guests at parties. Otherwise, the space was his. There were unfinished canvases, an old couch and paint splatters on the floor. There was a high window, but other than that, completely secluded.
Lillian perused the various paintings and art projects on the floor leaning against the wall. There were portraits, but there were also pictures of scenery. There were Jungles and forests green and lush, jumping out of the canvas. Strange, beautiful dark people adorned with feathers and mermaids swimming in coves and pirate ships. Then one in particular caught her eye. It was a simple painting, but it held such meaning for her.
It was of a beautiful fairy, glowing with green light, staring straight out, mischievous and proud. She waked over to it, and touched the edge.
"Do you like fairies, Miss Adgate?" asked Slightly, walking up behind her.
"I do. I've always wanted to meet one."
"So you believe in them?" he asked incredulously.
"I know it makes me sound like a silly girl, but I saw one in our garden once. You must think me foolish…" she said turning around, but stopped talking when she met his eyes. He was staring at her with an expression of pure belief, but also something fiery that made her throat tighten. She'd never noticed how beautiful his eyes were. Sleepy looking, but there was a depth to them one couldn't detect unless you looked straight into them.
"No, I don't" he said quietly.
"Um… shall we get started?" she asked, moving away from him and standing next to the chaise he'd brought up.
"Of course," he sighed. "I thought maybe you could sit here, and then… William, could stand behind you like so. Is that suitable?"
"Oh yes, I think that will do quite nicely. Is here alright?" She sat on the end of the chaise, and stared at a point on the wall behind him.
"It's really better if you keep your eyes on me," he said lifting his brush. "Pretend you're looking at William."
She met his eyes obediently, but instantly regretted it. He was staring at her like she was a meal he desperately wanted to devour. Surely this was just an artist's way. She stared back, wanting to be a proper subject, but felt seat shiftingly uncomfortable. She felt her cheeks heating up.
"Head down," he said commanded.
She obliged and was grateful that he broke eye contact with her. But then he would set those eyes on her again. She was barely breathing, not being sure whether it was her trying to pose, or the breath he kept stealing away from her with every sweep over her face. It felt so intimate, like they were sharing secrets. This was becoming a bad idea. She cursed herself for not bringing her aunt Susan with her, or even her mother. Or even William.
William! She hadn't thought about him once from the moment she sat down, which was odd, because he occupied most of her thoughts at all times. And wasn't she supposed to be pretending to look at him? The shame came rushing back to her from the other night. No one was in the foyer when he was leaving for the night after a particularly short visit and she'd walked him to the door. She had been frustrated with him all evening, as he'd barely said a word to her. He was so handsome, so tall and big, she had been attracted to him immediately, and his wealth hadn't impeded her decision either. But she was exceedingly tired of his cool behavior toward her.
Her best friend Charlotte DuGray always shared with her in whispered voices about how her husband Cecil couldn't keep his hands off of her while they were courting. She'd let him pull her into closets where his hands would roam, and he would always brush against her discreetly, even in public places.
She found her heart racing at this idea against her will. If she could only land a husband, maybe she would feel alive like Charlotte did.
But William had always kept his distance physically, and the other night when she'd been so frustrated, longing for something affectionate from him, anything; she had tried to kiss him.
Her eyes stung at the memory of the way in which he'd taken her shoulders, and held her away from him like he was disgusted with her. "Control yourself Madam!" he'd said. "I don't know what'd gotten into you lately, but I'd remind you that we're not married yet." He'd put his hat on and left.
She'd stood there for several moments, willing herself not to cry. He was right. They weren't married yet, and her behavior was reprehensible. But she'd also been cut to the core by his words. Maybe though, things would be different after they were married. Maybe he wouldn't be able to keep his hands off of her then.
She blinked and looked toward the window. It seemed to be getting lighter outside.
"Keep your eyes on me," said Slightly. She turned back him, and all thoughts of William were pushed out of her mind. He was still regarding her with his passionate gaze, trying to look past her eyes into something deeper. She didn't want him too, but there was a pull toward him that she didn't think she could deny him in this moment. She wanted to be known.
He tore his eyes away and studied his work for a moment. He nodded his head pronouncing it good and she jumped up and ran around to see it, before he could stop her. Her breath caught in her throat.
He'd painted her face only, and her eyes shone out, in them something she'd never seen in herself before: passion.
"Edward… I'm beautiful. I… thank you." She turned toward him and he looked down at her and time slowed down.
The room suddenly lit with a bright light, and a ringing started that made her put her fingers in her ears.
"What are you doing?" she shouted. The room began to vibrate and shake, and his paintings tipped over one by one, his easel crashing to the floor.
"It's not me!" he cried. He tried to find the source of the light, but it was impossible to see or even think. The light became brighter until he could see nothing. Then there was a pull on his body, lifting him and sucking him to his right. The room went silent and there was nothing. No sound, no light, no easel or paints, no Slightly and no Lillian Adgate.