Peter's wife smiled, her tears gone now, her face calm. "Yes, of course, Gran."

"And warm the pot. Peter, you stay with me, please."

Peter watched as Moira departed the room, slim, pretty, a hint of the old assuredness back in her stride. He reached up and ran his fingers through his mop of brown hair, and his boyish face crumpled with fatigue.

"Don't worry, Wendy. Gran. I won't leave you."

She fixed him with a fierce gaze, her eyes sharp and knowing. "Ah, Peter, but you always did. You don't remember, do you? Every year, you left me. And when you came back, you remembered nothing. And finally you forgot to come back at all."

Her words were so harsh sounding that Peter immediately became defensive. "Take it easy, Gran, maybe you should try not to talk."

Her thin hands clasped before her. "I'm not raving, as you put it, Peter." She reached out and gripped his arm. "Listen to me carefully. What happened to your children has to do with who and what you are."

She took her hand away again and pointed to the worn copy of Peter and Wendy on the nightstand. "Hand me my book, please."

Peter hesitated. "I don't think… It would be better to rest now, Gran."

Her lips tightened as she faced him. "Do what I've asked, Peter. It's time to tell you something, time that you knew."

"Knew what? Tell me what?"

She waited wordlessly while he passed her the book. Then she opened it and began to read:

" 'All children, except one, grow up,' " she read. She looked up at him. "That is how Sir James began the story he wrote for me… such a long time ago. It was Christmas, yes, in the year 1910, and I was almost eleven. A girl becoming a woman, caught in between two chapters. How far back can you remember?"

Peter was immediately uneasy, shifting away from her on the bed, glancing about the shadowy room as if the answer lay there. He exhaled irritably. "I don't know. I remember the hospital on Great Ormond Street…"

"But you were already twelve by then, nearly thirteen. And before that?"

Peter wished Moira would return. He glanced briefly at Wendy and away again. He tried to remember and couldn't.

"Before that, there's nothing."

Granny Wendy's hand closed on him again, tight, unyielding, a surprising amount of strength in her fingers. Despite himself, he turned to looked at her.

"Think hard," she urged.

Peter swallowed. "I was cold, alone…" He stopped, angry now. "I can't remember! No one knows where 1 came from! You told me I was a foundling-"

"I found you," Wendy cut him short. "I did." She took a deep breath to steady herself. "Peter, you must listen to me now. And believe. You and I played together as children. We had wonderful adventures together. We laughed, we cried." She paused. "And we flew. But I didn't want to remain a child forever. I was so anxious to grow up and become a part of the real world. I wanted so much for you to grow up with me. But you wouldn't. Because you were afraid. And when you finally decided you were ready, it was fifty years too late for me… for us."

Her face crumpled into a sad, worn smile. "I was old, Peter. And you, you were just beginning to become a man."

Peter stared at her as if she had lost her mind-which, in truth, he thought she had. "Okay, just relax, Gran. I'll find some Valium…"

But Wendy held him fast. "When I was young, no other girl held your favor the way I did. Oh, I half expected you to alight on the church and forbid my vows on the day I married. I wore a pink satin sash. But you didn't tome. I couldn't have you."

Peter tried unsuccessfully to pull away. Something unpleasant was stirring inside him, something just beyond the reach of his memory. He wrestled with it, not quite certain if he was pulling or pushing.

"I was an old lady when you returned for the last time and I wrapped you in blankets, already Granny Wendy, with my thirteen-year-old granddaughter asleep in the nursery. Your Moira. And when you saw her, that was when you decided not to go back to Neverland."

Peter's eyes went wide. "What? Go back where?"

"To Neverland, Peter."

Peter nodded rapidly, his smile forced and entirely too quick. "I'm going to get Moira. Moira!" he called loudly.

Granny Wendy bent close, her face only inches from his own. "Peter, I tried to tell you so many times. But I could see you had forgotten. You would just think I was a silly old woman at the end of her life. But now you must know."

She took the book and pressed it firmly into his hands. "The stories are true. I swear it to you. I swear it by everything I adore. And now he's come back to seek revenge. The fight isn't over for him, Peter-he wants you back. He knows you'll follow Jack and Maggie to the ends of the earth and beyond, and by heaven, you must find a way to do so! Only you can save your children. Not the police. Not anyone else. Only you. Somehow you must find a way to go back. You must make yourself remember. Peter-don't you realize who you are?"

She released him then and pried open the book from between his fingers. She paged through it desperately and stopped. She tapped the page.

Peter Banning looked down. The book lay open to an illustration of Peter Pan, legs spread, hands on hips, head cocked back as he prepared to crow.

Wendy waited, searching his eyes in vain for some sign of recognition. There was none to be found.

^Tink

Moira returned with Wendy's cup of tea, and Peter immediately rose and left the room. He departed in a rush, mumbling something about checking the house one more time, desperate to escape, barely giving either of the women a glance as he went. The urgency of his need surprised him. He felt as if he couldn't breathe, as if he were suffocating. It was all he could do to keep from running as he hastened down the hall, moving away from the light and into the darkness beyond.

Had everyone gone crazy?

It was bad enough that whoever had kidnapped his children-and he was pretty convinced by this time that it was a kidnapping-was obsessed in some way with that ridiculous Peter Pan story. But to have Granny Wendy believing in it, too, trying to make something out of family history and fairy tales-well, it was really too much to take. Wendy's mental state had fallen off more than he had realized during the past few years. Or perhaps it was simply the strain of what had happened.

Peter slowed in his flight, running his hands through his hair, across his face, and down his sides. Then he stopped altogether, leaned back against the paneled wall, and hugged himself as if it would keep him from falling apart.

Exactly what had happened? he asked himself. Who was responsible for this? It had to be a personal enemy, someone who knew him, someone who hated him. Otherwise the note would have been addressed to Moira as well, or to Mr. and Mrs. Banning or some such. Not to Peter. He grimaced. Some joke. JAS. Hook to Peter. He slammed his fist into his palm helplessly. It could be someone in competition with him, angry that he had gotten the contract, kidnapping his children to try to force him to withdraw.

He shivered. So what was he supposed to do now? What could he do?

He pushed himself off the wall and continued on, exhausted now both mentally and physically, worn-out from the strain of what had happened. Somewhere along the way he had discarded his tails. His waistcoat hung open and his shirt was unbuttoned. He knew he looked a wreck. He should get some sleep. He should go back to Moira and Granny Wendy and tell them everything was going to be all right.

He wished he could believe that.

He squeezed his eyes closed. Jack and Maggie-how could he ever forgive himself?

He found himself suddenly at the nursery door. He stood staring at it for a moment, at the gouge that traveled the length of the wall leading up, at the gash where the knife had pinned that infuriating note to the wooden panel. He reached out and touched the marks experimentally, as if by doing so he might discover the truth behind their origin.