PLEASE NOTE: This story is also on Wattpad, under the same username. :)

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"Things aren't always the fairy tale
that you thought they were..."
-Catherynne M. Valente

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| WENDY |

A laughing bundle with strawberry blonde hair squirms on my bed. "Wendy! Wendy, stop! I'm gonna pee my pants!"

Immediately, I stop tickling my baby sister, Johanna, and put her on my lap, giving her one of those you-do-that-and-I'll-rip-your-stuffed-bunny's-head looks. She knows I would never really do it, but the threat works every time.

At that moment, the exact likeness of the five-year-old in my lap comes walking through the door. Only this one is all decked out in her purple fairy dress that has a pair of net wings attached at the back. The chiffon buckled angrily, and I wonder if she has been sitting on the floor with her dolls for the past half-hour.

Michaela waves her sparkly fairy wand that has a star tip in my face. "How come Johanna is screaming like the Barbie Dreamhouse is burning down, again?"

The Barbie Dreamhouse didn't burn down...completely. It caught fire when we lit some candles on Christmas Eve a few weeks back. Dad draped a blanket—Mum's favorite cashmere quilt—over the wooden house and extinguished the flames. The house was saved, but its west wing needed reconstruction, and my sisters begged me to paint the sitting room walls a candy-pink to cover the smoke marks.

"She's screaming because the ugly Captain Hook is on the hunt for little princesses again!" I snarl, before putting Johanna back on my bed and chasing after a squeaking Michaela, who makes a dash for the hallway.

I catch her just as she makes it into our parents' bedroom. With one arm around her tiny torso, I scoop her up and flop with her onto the king-size bed that will be empty, once again, tonight. Our parents are at another charity thing, which they do almost every weekend.

I claw my index finger like it's the ruthless pirate's silver hook. "I'm the captain of the pirates, and I'll slice ye with my hook, from your belly to your nose!" I exclaim in a deep, rumbling voice.

Michaela buries her face against my shoulder and giggles. She bursts into laughter like a volcano, however, as soon as I dig my fingers between her ribs.

There is nothing in this world that delights me more than the sound of the twins' laughter. Their carefree temperament catches me every time, whether I'm stuck in the middle of my school studies, or helping Miss Lynda with the household.

My parents don't like me giving our elder housekeeper a hand in the kitchen, however. "Girls from a good family don't get their hands dirty, Wendy," is what they have taught me my entire life. I've never been allowed to play in the dirt as a child, nor could I wear any clothes with any kind of rip or tear in them, or listen to any kind of music or read any kind of book that they did not approve of first.

When the twins' nanny moved away last spring, and my parents couldn't find a replacement that did an equally good job, my chance for a change came. I offered to watch the girls on the weekend, if my parents would allow me to wear everyday clothes, instead of the expected blouses, pantsuits, or classy dresses—at least, inside the house and as long as we weren't expecting any guests. I hate being dressed like one of the Queen's closest confidants.

Mum agreed after a long discussion, mostly dominated by sighs. Dad insisted they keep looking for a new nanny, but when the twins made their huge puppy-dog eyes at him, he caved. No one in this family can resist Johanna or Michaela's pouty faces when they push the pretty-please button.

Dad's condition to let me wear my own choice of clothes, at least during times of leisure, was that I meet Jasper Ainsworth, the son of his business partner, who is related to the royals in some convoluted way. I agreed, but later nailed Dad on the fact that the deal was: I only had to date him if I liked him. Which, I do not.

Jasper is tall, thin, wears his oiled, brunette hair in a slicked-back side part, and drinks tomato juice with every meal, which comes out through his nose if something absolutely not-funny makes him laugh, like a ridiculous article from the Financial Times.

After a long school day in London, I like drinking a strawberry milkshake if I have a chance to drop in at my favorite dairy bar, but I never release the milk through my nose, laughing or not.

We usually don't have things like strawberry milkshakes at home, per my parents' request. Miss Lynda is advised to serve things like lobster, chicken breast, and sometimes even caviar on toast. The twins are allowed to skip the fish-egg antipasti, but from the time I turned twelve, I was told to get used to the god-awful stuff, so I wouldn't embarrass my parents again by spitting a mouthful back into the bowl in front of their guests... Yes, sometimes it's exhausting being George and Mary Darling's firstborn.

I grab Michaela by her waist and set her on her feet. "Now you've gotta make the bed, again," she giggles, waving her wand at me.

I obey.

Miss Lynda makes the twins' beds at least five times a day to keep my mum pleased, since she is a stickler for tidiness. I make my own bed every morning and try to keep it that way until the evening, which doesn't happen often so I have to remake it a few times. But to frolic with my sisters in my parents' bed is a sacrosanct no-no. We aren't even allowed in this room. But Mum and Dad are out, so who would stop us from turning the house into a playground?

I pull at the ends of the satin sheet and smooth the wrinkles out with the palms of my hands. Michaela has left me alone, no doubt going back to her room to continue having a tea party with her stuffed animals.

As soon as I turn off the light in the bedroom and step out into the wide carpeted hallway, Johanna skips into my arms. I lift her up and wonder what her shit-eating grin is all about. It usually means she has a brilliant idea...or that Miss Lynda has smuggled in some homemade cookies into the Darling house, which happened earlier this afternoon.

"What is it, Jo?" I ask, raking my fingers through her thick hair.

"I have a surprise for you!"

Uh-oh. Her last surprise gave me strand of green hair. Thank God finger paint isn't a permanent dye.

I shroud my grimace with a fake smile. "Great! Let's see it, then."

"It's a tattoo!"

"Bloody hell!"

Johanna instantly covers her mouth with her tiny hands and sucks in a shocked breath, but I don't care. My parents aren't here to send me to my room for swearing. In a slight panic, I put my sister down, squat in front of her, and shove up the sleeves of her red panda-bear sweatshirt, one at a time, checking her arms for images of any kind.

She giggles. "Not me, silly!"

Phew. My mother would kill me.

"It's our name, but I want you to wear it!" Johanna informs me.

My chin knocks against my chest as I peer down., brows furrowed. "What?"

She holds out her hand and uncurls her fist. In her palm lies a snippet of paper with the world 'darling' on it. I take the cutout from my sister's hand and examine it; it's one of those tattoos you can find in a child's coloring book. The letters are curvy and purple, with a mist of small stars underneath. Fantastic. And she wants to put this where? On my forehead so that my parents can blow a gasket about it in the morning?

As if she can read my thoughts, Johanna shrugs. "I can put it here," she suggests, gesturing to the inside of my forearm. "Mummy won't see it!"

How can I ever say no to a hopeful heart-shaped face like that?

I blow out a resigned breath and make a mental note to scrub off the temporary tattoo in the morning, before joining my family for breakfast.

"All right. Let's do it."

I usher Johanna across the hallway and into the bathroom. The light comes on as soon as we open the door, reflecting in the shiny peach-and-white tiles all over the place. I perch myself on the edge of the oval white tub and watch the little girl pull out the stool from under the washbasin so she can step on it and reach the faucet. She then brings a wet cloth and tampers with my outstretched arm while I patiently wait.

When Johanna is done and radiantly happy with her handiwork, Michaela appears in the doorway.

"What are you two doing in here?" she asks and stems her little fists on her hips. For once, she didn't bring her wand.

"I tattooed our name on Wendy's arm!" Johanna informs her.

"Really?" Michaela dances over to us, clapping her hands when she sees the result. "Aw, this is so beautiful! You must never wash your arm again and leave this on forever."

"Why? So I can use my forearm as a cheat sheet in case I forget my name?"

Johanna scrunches up her face. "What's a jeet jeet?"

"It's something you have in...ah, never mind." Better to change the topic and save myself from being dragged into another what-and-why inquisition that always leave me with a headache.

As fate would have it, downstairs, the tall grandfather clock starts chiming nine o'clock.

"Time for bed, girls!"

The twins smile, because getting ready for bed starts in the same way whenever we're alone at home. Everybody finds a spot in Johanna's bed, Michaela brings a book, and I read. We do this before all the other stuff, like brushing their teeth and changing into their flannel PJ's, because Michaela likes to keep her costume on until the very last minute.

I sprawl out on the bed, leaning against the headboard, let my sisters snuggle up to me at either side, and open the book that Michaela hands me. It's Peter Pan. I'm not surprised. It's their favorite, and I read this book to them night after night. The twins speak every single line with me while I read.

With the girls pressed to my sides, I soon get warm in the already heated room. I pull my jumper over my head and toss it to the end of the bed, then continue reading.

"'The pirate took the kids aboard his mighty ship, the Jolly Roger,'" all three of us say with the same dramatic edge to our voices. "'He tied them to the mast in the middle and laughed into their frightened faces. The dirty crew hurrahed their captain, each waving a flag in their hands. For they all knew, today was the day that Peter Pan would lose the battle.'"

"Oh no!" Johanna whines when I take a breath and turn the page. "What if the ugly Captain Hook catches him this time?"

I roll my eyes. She knows exactly how this tale goes. But every time we read it, she gets sucked into the story so much that her fears seem genuine and her tiny hands clench into shaking fists. I let the girls look at the pictures for a while, before we reveal the ending together and everyone takes a relieved breath—including me. I don't know why I do it. Possibly because of the twins' infectious excitement whenever I read the story of Peter Pan.

I shut the book and put it back on Johanna's nightstand. We will surely read it again tomorrow night. The girls know what comes next and, without complaints, they both head into the bathroom to brush their teeth.

While they're gone, I open the French doors that lead to a semicircle Victorian balcony. In the moonlight the slowly falling snowflakes look like a romantic rain of stars. A cold breeze wafts around my body. Goosebumps rise on my bare arms and remind me that the French doors in my own room have been open for the past couple of hours.

I shut the cold out from my sister's room and head back to mine.

It's freezing cold in here, but before I close the French doors, I can't resist stepping out into the dancing flakes once more. I drag my feet through the thin layer of snow on the concrete balcony, leaving a trail with my tennis shoes. My hands braced on the marble railing, I tilt my head skyward and catch some snowflakes with my mouth. They melt away on my tongue and more keep falling on my face where they tangle with my lashes.

It's the time of the year I like best. Everything is calm and peaceful outside. I look down at our wide English garden and imagine a deer coming out from behind the few trees at the very back.

But nothing happens. We live just outside London. There's no city bustling around here, but we're still too far away from any woods to glimpse a deer or rabbit scurrying by.

"Wendy!"

With my mouth still open and my tongue lolling out to catch more snow, I turn to the left and find Michaela on Johanna's balcony. We're separated only by three meters of space and the crown of a common ash tree planted close to the house between our balconies.

I straighten. "What's up?"

"You forgot your jumper!" She holds out my black piece of clothing in her tiny hands.

"Toss it over!"

I walk to the left side of my balcony and stretch out my arms to catch the bundle of fabric. But her aim is as bad as my mother's taste in music, and it lands in the top of the tree.

"Ah, no..." I sigh and lean over the railing as far as I can, but there's no way I can grab the jumper. It's caught in the many twigs and branches.

It's only a few inches away, so I get a hold on the façade of the house and climb onto the broad marble balustrade. This way I'm able to lean farther out and finally reach one sleeve. My fingers around it, I want to step off the railing again, but it's slick from the snow, and I slip.

A high-pitched cry bursts out of my throat as I struggle to catch my balance. I pray that somehow I'll come down on the inside of my balcony. But when I catch a glimpse of Michaela's shocked face as I fall, I know this is going to hurt.

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A/N: Please let me know your thoughts! :)

Until the next chapter,

Dev