A/N: Good chapter, good chapter. I'm proud of this one. Read on.
He sprinkled me in pixie dust and told me to believe
Believe in him and believe in me
Together we will fly away in a cloud of green
To our beautiful destiny
Cara hummed as she worked, the fairy song swaying around in her mind like a willow tree in autumn.
"Hey, Darling," said someone, and Cara turned.
Usually, when a person called someone a 'darling', it was an endearment, unlike when people called Cara a Darling. When they said it, it was much more like an insult.
It was a boy, with dark hair and a nice smile. He didn't look mean enough to push her around, but Cara glared at him anyway. "What do you want?" she asked bitingly.
The boy held up his hands in surrender. "Nothing— I just wanted to take a look at that thing you're making. It's really interesting, it is."
Cara scrutinized his face to see if he was joking. Then she smiled, shrugged, and turned back to her work. It was a painting of the waves she saw in her dreams— Mermaid Lagoon.
"My name's Michael, anyhow." continued the boy. "I'm new here, are you?"
"No," Cara responded, not really paying attention. "I'm not new."
"Ah." replied the boy, fidgeting awkwardly. "So, what is that? The painting?"
Cara put down her paintbrush, accidentally smudging some paint on her cheek. The boy's eyes were drawn toward it.
Cara examined the painting for a moment, looked at the boy, then shrugged again. "I don't know," she lied. "Just something I made up."
Michael looked at the painting. "It looks awfully realistic for something made up."
"I'm a good artist." Cara said, turning back to her work.
"I see that you are."
"Thank you."
Feeling as if the conversation had been closed, Michael left Cara's table and went to sit with some other boys in her school. Their artwork was nothing but a few splotches of paint on paper. He looked at her curiously, as if he really did want to know what she was painting.
Cara unlocked the door of her house, since Miss Leanne believed in effective house security and not leaving the door open.
She dropped her bag by the entrance and hurried upstairs to visit her mother. When she opened the door, however, there was no one in the bed.
An instant cold feeling dropped from her mind to her stomach, like she'd drank ice water and it'd traveled up her bloodstream. She froze.
"Cara."
She whipped around, heart beating. "Is she alright?" she managed to get out.
Miss Leanne sighed. "Your mother is in the hospital." she said tightly. "I'm leaving to visit her now, but you will stay home."
"No, I want to come too—"
"Cara." Miss Leanne said sharply. "You will stay home. I am the mistress of this household."
Cara glared at her. "You were never the mistress, this is my house. And I say that I will come with you. I want to see my mother."
Miss Leanne looked as if she wanted to hit Cara. "Your mother is leaving the house to me." she said through her teeth. "This house belongs to you no more than it does to your neighbors."
Cara stood her ground, looking Miss Leanne straight in the face. "She is my mother." she said.
"She has given me strict orders not to bring you."
Cara felt as if she'd been slapped. "Wha—why?"
"I wouldn't know." snapped Miss Leanne. "Stay in your room. Maybe Peter Pan will talk to you."
With that, she turned around and left.
Cara stood, frozen, surrounded by the scent of her mother's gentle perfume.
"Why does everyone hate me so?" she wondered aloud, and left the room.
She sat on her own bed, staring out the window she'd stared out of so many times.
She thought about her mother's disease, and how she was in the hospital and didn't want to see her. She wished Peter Pan would visit her mother, if only to cure her of her sadness and make her believe. She'd almost rather he visit her mother than her.
She walked to the window, and instead of looking up at the sky, she looked upon the ground. The people and cars were far from her eyes, almost too far. It really was a large house, she mused.
She pulled the chair from her desk to in front of the window, and sat upon it, cross-legged like an Indian girl from a Neverland tribe.
And she waited for the night, her eyes closed, humming the song of the fairies.
When she opened her eyes, her ears were filled with fairy song. She smiled and stood, looking out the window, outwards and up. "Peter," she called out softly. "Peter, you're there, I know you are."
The pan flute sang cheerfully.
"I have a favor to ask of you, my dear Peter." she said, sitting back on her chair. "My mother is dying, the daughter of Jane, you remember her?" Then she laughed, almost bitterly. "Oh, of course you don't remember her. But Jane remembered you, always. Anyways, could you visit my mother in the hospital? I want her to believe in you, just as I do. Just as all the Darling women do. I believe she'd get better."
The pan flute carried on merrily.
"Please?" begged Cara.
Something flew out of the night and hit Cara straight in the forehead. "Ow!" she cried out, rubbing her forehead. "What on earth—"
She picked up an acorn off the floor. "What's this supposed to mean?" she called out, holding up the acorn. Something plucked the acorn from her fingers and she gasped.
Suddenly, the acorn was unfurling, and it was an acorn no more, but a pouch!
Cara cupped her hands in wonder, and the pouch dropped into her fingers. She undid the twine holding it together, and in her hands held a bag of glittering dust, and a note.
She plucked out the note, and read it.
Sprinkle some of this dust in your mother's room, and she will believe.
She gazed at Peter's handwriting, and wondered.
"Thank you," she said softly, almost in confusion.
And so she waited.
When her mother finally returned from the hospital, it was late at night.
Cara lay awake in bed, eyes wide open, staring up at the ceiling and wondering what it would be like to fly up and touch it with her fingertips.
When she heard her mother coughing, she sat up, and grabbed the pouch by the side of her bed. She hurried into her mother's room.
Margaret Darling was drinking a glass of water when she saw Cara come in. Her eyes softened. "Why are you up so late, my dear one?"
"Why didn't you want me to come to the hospital?" Cara blurted out.
Margaret looked at her daughter sadly. "The hospital is no place for a girl. Maybe, when you're a woman, I'll allow you to come. Only women have a strong enough heart."
"I'll never be a woman." said Cara stoutly. "I'll always be a girl, forever. And I'll still have a strong heart."
Margaret sighed. "Cara, not this again—"
But she never finished her sentence, for Cara had opened up her pouch and had flung the dust into the air, where it glittered like tiny shards of diamond.
Margaret stared at it as if it was some kind of disease. "What—is that?" she said, covering her mouth. "You know how dust affects my lungs, Cara!"
"Wait." said Cara, staring up at it, and she believed. She believed so strongly that the dust sensed it, and it started glittering unnaturally.
"Cara, where did you get that?" said Margaret, a little apprehensively.
Cara faced her mother, her eyes blazing. "I got it from Peter Pan, and you'll never forget it."
And at that moment, the dust burst, exploding into a million colors, and there were pictures. Pictures so incredible that they are impossible to describe; like Neverland flowers and white sand, like the bluest ocean and a shining ship upon it, like a tree with curled branches and emerald leaves stretching itself to heaven, and a light, a light so wonderful there was none like it on earth.
And then there were more pictures, pictures that Cara could not understand. Of her mother standing next to a man with hair like hers, of her mother standing by the window in Cara's room and looking earnestly up at the sky, of joy and laughter and youth. And Cara felt it in her heart and soul, in her hands and feet. It was a feeling that her mind would never forget, and would yearn for for the rest of her life.
And the dust dispersed, forming a glittering trail of a brilliant color Cara had never seen, and swirling about her mother, pushing through her hair and curling about her shoulders, wreathing her in youth. Cara had never thought her mother looked so pretty.
Margaret had her eyes closed, and her palms facing upwards, and she was whispering under her breath and swaying, and Cara stood, mesmerized.
The dust exploded for the last time, and faded out through Margaret's open window.
Her mother opened her eyes, her eyes filled with fire and a health that Cara had never seen resting upon her shoulders.
Her mother sat up, and got out of bed. She stretched out her arm, staring at it in amazement. She walked, and looked down in wonder.
She looked at Cara in awe. "I believe you." she whispered finally. "Oh, Cara, I believe you."
She took Cara's arms and stared into her daughter's face, as if she'd never seen anything so beautiful. "You are my light, my joy, I live for you. But I must go now, I cannot stay. Your father, he waits for me, but I will not have you cry. Promise me. You will not cry."
Cara stared, eyes wide, at her mother. "I-I—"
"Promise me."
Cara swallowed. "I-I promise you."
Her mother smiled, and not even the blanketed darkness could dampen that light. It shone through her eyes and hands and her mother's skin glowed with health and joy.
"Goodbye, my love. My darling."
"But where are you going?" Cara blurted out desperately.
Her mother smiled again. "Somewhere, a place that your heart may know too. A good somewhere."
"Take me with you!" Cara said, stumbling forward, her eyes wild. "Don't leave me here. I will be alone."
Her mother laughed, a wondrous, joyous laugh. "My dear Cara, you are never alone! Don't you know who sits by your windowsill and plays the pan flute?"
Her mother took a step back, letting go of Cara. Cara fought the urge to grab her mother's hands, to stop her from leaving her.
"Never stop believing." whispered her mother earnestly, and smiled again, a soft smile, a mother's smile.
She raised her arms, and the wind swirled all around them, dancing through her hair and eyes. It spun faster and faster, and soon, there was nothing left of her mother except a carpet of rose petals, so soft and sweet-smelling that Cara almost forgot about her mother herself. She reached down and picked one up, and put it in her pocket. The other petals were gently carried out the window by the wind.
The night was clear, and Cara did not cry.