She shuddered at the thought.
Still, Tinkerbell missed the freedom that being a fairy was all about. And so, every once in a while, she turned back into a pixie and soared through the night. She had learned, over the years, to keep a watchful eye out for owls and to stay away from the ground, where cats and other predators would eat her like an insect. She had also learned to stay out of human sight, for a bright, twinkling light streaking through the sky was a very strange thing for them to see. And humans did not treat strange things very well.
Now, Tink sighed a satisfied sigh and raced beneath branches and over boughs. Eventually, she reached the edge of the small copse of woods that she and Peter lived in, and she chanced a peek out into the adjoining street. There was no one coming. It was late; all of the humans were in their homes, asleep or close to it.
She smiled and flew out into the street. She hovered for a moment as she decided where to go next and then she made her way down the sidewalks and neighborhood alleys, appearing, for all the world, like a tiny piece of fallen star.
Tinkerbell flew in this manner for several hours, basking in the cool night air that chilled her smiling face and danced around her wings.
And then, quite suddenly, she stopped.
She froze in midair, looking from side-to-side, wondering what had made her so unexpectedly want to pause. Something felt not quite right. It was like a tingle at the back of her tiny neck and the faint hint of music that she couldn’t quite make out.
Tink turned slowly in place, taking in her surroundings. She was in an alleyway between two tall houses. One house was dark, its windows shuttered, its people asleep.
But light streamed from the windows of the other.
On a whim, Tink chanced a closer peek. She flew to the first level and landed daintily on the sill of what appeared to be the largest window. There was a crack in the curtains on the other side. Tink leaned over and peered inside.
Chapter Three
The numbness that had crept over Wendy earlier that day had, by now, enveloped her completely. She sat still as a statue on the couch in their family room while her father raged and John paced and Michael stared at the floor. Her mother, too, sat still, but her eyes were on her husband and her expression was a mixture of weary concern and plain old weariness.
“This has gone too far. It’s gone beyond too far. I am at my wit’s end with you two. It was bad enough before, but now you’re fighting with your classmates? What will you do tomorrow? Skip school? Rob a convenience store?”
“George!” Wendy’s mother interjected, but George Darling shook his head stubbornly.
“You know I’m right, Mary. One evil deed always leads to another, does it not?”
“George, I should hardly call this evil-”
“Call it what you like, it’s wrong.” Wendy’s father insisted. “Fighting in the school yard is for ruffians who grow up to spend most of their lives in prison. Not for children like you!” George whirled on Michael, who still stared at the floor.
The room was silent for a moment.
And then Wendy’s other brother, John, cleared his throat. “If you want my opinion-”
“We don’t,” Wendy and Michael both replied. They gazed at their brother. John Darling stood stock still where he’d ceased pacing. He was the same height as his tall father and had the same blue eyes and black hair. But where as his father’s expression held more than intelligence, John’s seem to contain only intelligence. Wisdom and experience, it lacked. This made his face somewhat uncomfortable to behold. At least, Wendy and Michael thought so.
“Michael,” Mary Darling spoke again, her calm voice like a balm on the raw nerves of everyone in the room.
Michael looked up to meet her gaze. She smiled at him. It was an ever gentle smile, the kind that only mothers can produce. And Mary Darling was a very good mother.
“Michael, you haven’t told us what happened yet. Would you care to explain your side?”
Mrs. Darling’s suggestion was so logical and patient that George Darling could only blink in the wake of it. Why hadn’t he allowed his son to explain? That made so much sense, didn’t it? Perhaps he had a good reason for pummeling another boy bloody. . . .
And that, Mr. Darling reasoned, was why he hadn’t bothered asking for an explanation. There were only so many times you could hit someone before it simply became too much. And Michael had crossed that line today with a hurdle.
“He tried to hit Wendy.”
Again, the room was quiet. Only this time, both John and George Darling stood with their jaws dropped open, their eyes wide as golf balls.
Mary Darling’s brow furrowed. “What?” she asked, in disbelief.