Moira appeared, her eyes moving from the gouge to the empty room. He could hear her gasp, hear the beginning of her sobs. Then she was past him, darting for the open windows.

"Jack! Maggie! Answer me!" she cried out.

Woodenly, Peter followed, stepping out on the balcony and leaning out over the railing. The yard below was white and deserted. He tracked the yards to either side and along the alleyway, choking back his fear, his growing sense of desperation.

"Jackkkk! Maggieeee!" he cried out.

"Peter!"

His name was spoken in a stifled cry. Granny Wendy stood at the door, staring at something. Slowly she reached up and removed a note pinned in place by a wicked-looking dagger. Woodenly, she carried the note to Peter.

Peter took the note from her and examined it. The writing was elegant, studied, some form of calligraphy scrolled by a sure and practiced hand.

It read:

Dear Peter: Your presence is required at the

request of your children.

Kindest Personal Regards,

JAS. Hook, Captain.

Peter repeated the words aloud, then stared at the note in disbelief and confusion. What in the heck was going on here?

A shrill, rasping voice cackled sharply behind him, causing him to jump in fright. He banged his head on a window frame as he wheeled about.

Tootles was crouched behind the dollhouse, wispy hair electric, hands clutched together like claws. There was a frantic look in his bright eyes and a twisting of his slack face.

"Have to fly!" he hissed. "Have to save Jack and Maggie!"

He caught his breath and held it. "Hooky's back!"

And abruptly Wendy's hand clutched for Peter, her eyes rolled back, and she collapsed to the floor.

Within a half hour, the police were there and the electricity restored. Liza sat in the kitchen with an ice pack on her forehead, telling two less-than-enthusiastic officers over and over again how she hadn't seen anything and would regret to her dying day her failure to do so. The ambulance was still parked in front as the attendants waited in vain to take her to the hospital.

"Them l'tle uns be needin' me, right 'nuf, an' I plans on bein' 'ere for em! Take more an' a bump on the noggin to change that!"

Peter could hear her voice from where he stood by the front door, one arm about Moira as he stared out at the lights of the police cars and the neighbors' windows. Everyone was awake by now, peering out curiously. A ladder leaned against the Darling house where one officer had stood high up by the eaves to examine the outside of the nursery windows.

Inspector Good appeared at his elbow, pulling on his greatcoat. He was a plump, round-faced man with soft eyes and a weary voice. He smiled wanly as he faced them.

"Now then, Mr. and Mrs. Banning, we've done what we can. We've wired the phones should there be a call, and two of my best will stay close at hand should you need them." He shrugged the coat into place on his stooped shoulders. "No sign of forced entry. The locks are all in place. Nothing out of sorts anywhere except for that odd gouge and the dog's clawing. Even those upstairs windows are clean. They must have been opened from inside."

Peter shook his head stubbornly. "I locked the windows myself before I left."

"Well, sir, be that as it may." Good fished in his pocket and produced a plastic bag containing the note and dagger. "The chaps at the Yard will have a go at these. Might I ask, were you ever in the armed services? You don't remember anyone named J.A.S. Hook from there, do you?"

Peter shook his head doubtfully.

"Inspector," Moira said hesitantly. "This may be something from my family history. My grandmother is the Wendy on which Sir James Barrie based his stories."

Good stared at her. "Sir who? Run that by me again, missus."

"Sir James Barrie, Inspector. He wrote Peter Pan. He was an old friend of the family. When Granny was a little girl, he wrote stories for her about her imaginary adventures."

Good's nod was decidedly condescending. "Well, then, the note may refer to that, mightn't it? It would be nice to think that this is all a prank, someone's foolish playing about, reference your family history and all. But I don't think we should leave it to chance."

Behind him, the lights to the Christmas tree that had been placed in the study blazed unexpectedly to life. All three turned and stared wordlessly.

Inspector Good cleared his throat. "The season seems to come earlier each year, doesn't it?" he murmured, and was momentarily lost in thought. Then he smiled and touched the brim of his bowler. "Try to get some sleep. We'll need to talk with you again, come morning. Don't worry. We'll do our best."

He gave a short nod and went out the door, sweeping uniformed policemen up in his wake. Car doors slammed, and the revolving lights began to drive off. Peter pushed the door closed on the night and walked Moira slowly back into the study.

Tootles stood at the window next to the tree, staring at nothing. "I forgot how to fly," he was whispering. His voice was as dry as old leaves. "We all forgot. No more happy thoughts. All lost, lost, lost."

Moira moved woodenly out of Peter's embrace and began to tidy up the room, picking up bits and pieces of things, straightening presents, brushing off this and that.

"Moira," Peter called softly to her.

She didn't turn, still working at her meaningless task, her head bent determinedly. She was working her way along the bookshelves when suddenly she brushed against something and sent it crashing to the floor. Everyone jumped. Peter went to her as she collapsed in a chair, crying uncontrollably. "Peter, oh, Peter" she sobbed.

He smoothed her hair, fighting back his own tears, his sense of helplessness. He looked down at the floor. A ship in a bottle lay shattered at his feet. Transfixed, he reached down and picked it up.

It was a brigantine. On its mast was a tiny black flag that bore the skull and crossbones of a pirate ship.

A little later, Peter and Moira went up to Granny Wendy's room to check on her. They had put her to bed after she collapsed, telling Inspector Good he would have to wait until morning to speak with her. They made the journey in silence, lost in their separate thoughts. Peter was still trying to come to grips with the fact that something had actually happened to his children. It was just so inconceivable. All their lives, all the while they were growing up, he had done everything he knew to protect them, to keep them safe. And now this-this Peter Pan business. Some crackpot. Here, at Granny Wendy's home, the safest place in the world. How could he have foreseen such a thing happening?

He felt dead inside, and the feeling was the most frightening he had ever experienced.

They pushed open the door to Granny Wendy's bedroom and peeked inside. The old lady was sitting up in her bed, staring back at them.

"Are the police gone?" she asked quietly.

Moira nodded. "Yes," Peter breathed.

There was an awkward moment of silence.

"Come in, sit with me," she invited.

They moved into the room. It was lit by a single bedside lamp, the light softened by the frills of the cloth shade. Peter sat next to Wendy on the bed. Moira walked around and tucked the blankets carefully about the old lady before coming back to join him.

"This waiting is very unpleasant," Granny Wendy declared, fixing Peter with a sharp gaze.

"I know, Granny. Try not to…" He failed to find the right words and gave up. "There's nothing more to do tonight, nothing to do but…" He didn't want to say wait. "The police are doing everything they can."

"Which is nothing, Peter," Wendy said flatly. "There is nothing they can do."

"Gran, you can't believe…"

"Moira." Wendy looked away from him. "In times of crisis, we English do best with a cup of tea. Would you mind?"