Disclaimer: If you recognise it, I don't own it.

AN: Thank you so much to the people who reviewed; you have no idea how fuzzy that made me feel.

Chapter Six

She heard a voice close to her ear sometimes during the night, dragging her up from the depths as it soothed and reassured and begged her not to cry.

Floated up again briefly near dawn, warm lips on her sleeping ones and he told her to say her good-byes today.

Morning's sun was cold and grey, and the lamps had gone out.

Wendy suddenly shot up in bed clutching her heart, her blood pounding in her ears and oh God, it had been another awful dream and he was never, never coming back and each time she dreamed even a little of him the waking was worse. Her dishevelled hair fell about her, and just as she was about to put her head in her hands and cry, in the very corner of her vision she noticed something strange.

On the dark, polished wood of her nightstand lay what was unmistakably an acorn.

She didn't whoop for joy, nor crow as Peter would have done, but hugged herself tightly and whispered, "Oh, frabjous day!" It had been really, truly real!

Leaping up to dress, she had the opportunity of noticing her own state of deshabille, and the accompanying chaos of the bedclothes, and if it had been anyone but Peter, and if last night had been anything but what it had been she was sure she would have blushed.

And then when she picked up her corset she did blush, because oh yes, now she remembered; that maddening, clever boy had sliced the laces cleanly though with his knife, and how she laughed and blushed now to think of it. No, she'd wear her old burgundy wool today; it was a squeeze, but it didn't fit too badly without her stays.

Dear, cunning, insolent boy she thought, laughing softly still as she hid the mutilated garment under her bed.

It had taken her quite half an hour to compose herself to a degree sufficient for breakfast. Now, seated primly at the table, she was utterly amazed at how calm everyone was. Mother and Father had greeted her quite normally, and none of the younger boys threw more than half a glance her way. John had looked surprised to see her there, but even he hadn't seemed to notice . . .

The fact of the matter was that she was sure they could all see, if only they looked, the brands that Peter had left on her skin. Unable to see her own face, she felt awfully certain that the truth of the matter was right there, in her lips and eyes and blushing cheeks and hands that had touched him, and yet – apparently it was not.

And they didn't see, and she was leaving them.

If Peter's hands hadn't still felt warm on her skin she might have cried at the thought. She was leaving, and she could never come back.

Of course she knew she had to leave; she rarely told stories now, didn't fight, hadn't even run for years and was having trouble remembering how exactly make-believe was played. Of course she had to get out, as soon as possible, before she grew up all the way and entered into a grey living death. Of course she had to be with Peter in Neverland - both names, she knew now, meaning home.

But going away would mean staying away, maybe forever. Wendy Darling would fade out of this world, taking only her memory of her family just as it was now – the boys still in school, John not yet a man, Mother and Father's hair untouched with grey. She would not return to watch them grow up, marry, age and die. She wouldn't fly blithely in the nursery window to wake Michael's children –

- she choked a little at the thought, passing it off as a too-hot sip of tea.

But there would be Neverland, and there would be new Lost Boys, and above all there would be Peter, and she couldn't say that she wasn't ready to go.

Father was leaving for work, putting on his greatcoat and hat in the hall. Mother was going out with Aunt Millicent to pay calls, possibly on Lady Hemsworth and the Hon. Alistair Beazley.

And though she caught them quite by surprise with hugs as they left, still she felt guilty about letting them go.