"And the confused traveler said, 'Where am I going to find one?' "
The joke's punch line brought an eruption of laughter from the audience that rolled across the length and breadth of the great hall and echoed off its walls. Peter grinned and glanced to his right momentarily, where Moira sat with Granny Wendy. The table on the dais seated more than two dozen people, all of whom he had been introduced to, almost none of whom he could remember. Lord something-or-other. Lady so-and-so. Most were members of the Great Ormond Street Hospital board. Peter's eyes shifted away. Crystal chandeliers hung from the hall's scalloped ceiling like great prehistoric birds, the light dancing off their facets, bathing the upturned faces below in a wash of gold. Jewels glittered next to glassware and silver. Furs and tuxedos kissed shoulders. Suits and ties and gowns of all descriptions provided a backdrop of color and brightness.
Across the far end of the hall hung a banner that proclaimed: sir james m. Barrie foundation and the GREAT ORMOND STREET HOSPITAL FOR CHILDREN HONOR WENDY.
Dinner was concluded, a sumptuous affair, and the speeches were begun. Peter's was the centerpiece of the evening.
The laughter died away. Peter shifted his attention. "So, please, ladies and gentlemen, bear with me from here, remembering, if you will, that I'm used to addressing shareholders."
The laughter returned, scattered, polite.
Peter reached into the breast pocket of his jacket for his speech and found it missing. His hand moved quickly to his other breast pocket, then to his side pockets and down to his pants. A wave of panic swept through him. Where was his speech? He hadn't bothered even to think about it once they had left the house, determined to read it as it was and the consequences be damned. He'd had it then; he remembered having it. What had happened to it?
He glanced quickly at Moira, who was already searching her purse. Her eyes lifted abruptly, and she shook her head no.
Peter took a deep breath. "I apologize, 1 seem to have misplaced my speech."
Silence greeted his announcement. He cleared his throat. "Lord Whitehall, honored guests, ladies and gentlemen. For more than seventy years Wendy Darling has given hope to hundreds of homeless children…"
That was all he could remember. He cleared his throat a second time. "She has been a most significant asset to the Great Ormond Street Hospital…"
What else? What was the rest of it?
Below the dais, he could hear the sounds of people shifting about uncomfortably, of shoes scraping, of coughs and whispers. He kept going because he had no choice, not sure what he was saying, sure only that he was beginning to lose his audience.
He didn't dare look over at Moira or Wendy.
Darkness hung like a black curtain over 14 Kensington, deep and unfathomable. Although the snow had faded to a sprinkle of stray flakes, the clouds had closed tight again against the moon and stars, and the only light to be found came from the two distant street lamps as they glimmered gamely against a creeping of new mist. The peaks and gables of the aging roofs of Kensington's houses were stark and abrupt against the skyline, sharp edges cutting into the fabric of the night.
In the backyard, Nana lifted her head from between her paws and poked her wet nose out from beneath the covering of the porch. Liza had banished her almost an hour ago, miffed at some imagined wrong, and the faithful dog was awaiting the return of her true mistress for a righting of the matter. A length of chain secured her to a ground stake.
An unnatural movement in the sky had caught her attention, a reshaping of the clouds as they parted momentarily to let something through. A flash of wicked green light appeared and was gone.
Nana came to her feet with a growl.
In the nursery, Jack and Maggie were sleeping. Jack sprawled in a tangle of arms and legs beneath his covers; Maggie was curled into a tight ball with a blanket pulled over her head. Above them, the china-house night-lights glowed steadily, holding back the darkness, keeping the shadows at bay. The fire in the hearth had died out long ago, the embers turned to gray ash.
At the window, the curtains hung limp against the glass, the images of the adventures of Peter Pan lost in their folds.
Then suddenly the night-lights blazed brightly, as if the electricity that powered them had been increased twofold, then flared once and went out. The night pounced instantly, like an animal at hunt. In the darkness at the far corner of the room, the twin mirrors of the hulking armoire began to glow, faintly at first and then brighter-that wicked green light. Images appeared, indistinct, distant still, but growing clearer with the passing of each second, coming closer.
Jack stirred, mumbling.
Shadows crept up the wall, cast from nowhere, come out of nothing, fingers turned to claws, muzzles to teeth. The silhouette of something vast and sprawling rose up amid the sharpnesses, stretching from the mop boards up the wainscoting-jungle trees with their branches intertwined like spider webs, and jagged rocks from an island shoreline, damp with the ocean's spray.
In the mirrors of the armoire, the images took shape-a skull, its vacant eyes huge and staring, its bared teeth set in a chilling grin, and an ancient sailing ship, creaking and moaning as it strained against its anchor.
Lightning flashed suddenly across the toy ship in the bottle that sat atop the mantel, as if a storm had caught her unawares. Jack stirred again. The star mobile that hung over his head began to spin wildly. The old rocking horse settled comfortably by the toy chest began to buck, rope mane and tail whipping in a sudden burst of wind that came from nowhere…
Down in the garden, Nana lunged against her chain, straining to break free, barking something that sounded like "Hoof, Hoof!"
In the study, Tootles stood before the ship models that lined the shelf, fascinated as the tiny masts began to shiver and the sails to fill with invisible wind. His wet, empty eyes stared at the swaying ships, and as he watched he swayed with them. When he heard Nana bark, he stepped back instantly, cocked his head, and whispered, "Danger."
Liza dozed in the kitchen, her head cradled in her arms. A scraping sound at the front door brought her instantly awake.
Wind whipped through the nursery, catching up the loose note cards of Peter's forgotten speech and scattering them. The light from the armoire had grown brighter, the images sharper. There were shouts, cries out of sleep and dreams, and the sound of something scraping sharply-iron on wood.
The blankets on the children flew off, torn away.
Blackness engulfed the room.
At the banquet hall, Peter labored on bravely.
But he was dying. Without his speech, he was a sailor lost at sea. The audience's restlessness was palpable. Desperation flooded through him. The entire evening was on the verge of becoming a shambles^-Wendy's tribute, ruined. And it was all because of him.
He stopped abrupdy in midsentence, threw caution to the winds, and straightened. The audience quieted slighdy.
"Ladies and GenUemen, I've given you enough rhetoric to chew on for one night. Let me just say one more thing about Wendy Darling. Wendy brought me in from the cold all those years ago, a foundling. She taught me to read and write when I could do neither. She found people who were willing to adopt me, to become my parents when I had none, and even then she never stopped worrying after me, caring about me, loving me."
There was dead silence now. Everyone was listening. "She has done so much. I married her granddaughter, my wife, Moira. My children love her. They think she can do anything. They even want her to teach them to fly. She's given me my life. And, my God, she has given life to so many children. That is her true achievement, the achievement we are here to honor tonight."