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."

He paused. "So if Wendy means as much to you as she does to me, if she has helped you in your life as much as she has helped me in mine, will you stand up, please? Stand up, if your lives were changed by this wonderful woman." He motioned abruptly with his arms. "Stand up with me and salute her!"

They rose hesitantly, in ones and twos and then in whole groups until all were on their feet and applauding wildly. The hall came alive with the sound of it, a thunderous ovation, and Peter stood proudly at its center, his boyish face wreathed in a broad smile. His eyes met Moira's momentarily, and he was stunned by the depth of feeling he saw there.

Slowly Wendy Darling rose, tears in her eyes. She bowed to the audience with a little, short nod, hands clasped tightly before her.

A cart set back against the wall behind the dais was wheeled to the front. On it sat a model of the proposed addition to Great Ormond Street Hospital and across its front was stretched a banner that read: the wendy darling foundling wing. Hands appeared to lift the banner above the model, and Peter went to Wendy's side to steer her into position for the ceremonial ribbon cutting. The applause intensified.

Then a gust of wind blew wide a set of tall, latticed windows behind them, sweeping down over the dais. Wendy stumbled with the force of it, and Peter reached quickly to steady her. Moira appeared with the scissors. The banner fluttered wildly in the wind. The chandeliers swayed.

With an uneasy glance over her shoulder at the windows, Wendy reached up with the scissors and cut the ribbon in half. Cheers rose from the audience, and the applause erupted anew. Peter smiled and hugged his grandmother, then turned and put his arms around Moira.

By doing so, he missed seeing the glint of fear that crept suddenly into Wendy's eyes.

Wendy's Tale

The Rolls plowed slowly, steadily through the night, snow turning to slush beneath its wheels. Peter laid his head back against the soft leather of his seat and closed his eyes. The evening had gone well. He was pleased with the speech he had given, the words coming from somewhere within, from a place he hadn't visited in a long, long time. He was surprised to discover that it was even still there.

"Home," Moira whispered in his ear.

He opened his eyes and straightened, finding the dwellings of Kensington Gardens all about, their gabled roofs and ivy-grown walls wrapped in the arms of the ancient trees, their draped and shuttered windows pinpricks of light shining through the snow. The Rolls pulled to a stop in front of number 14, snowflakes melting on the windshield. Peter opened the back passenger door and stepped out, stretching. Moira followed, her breath frosting the air, her face bright and very pretty. She shared a smile with Peter and touched his cheek.

Peter stepped around her and reached back to help Granny Wendy out. Wendy's face was drawn and worn by now, the excitement of the evening having finally caught up with her. Nevertheless, she smiled like a young girl.

"That wasn't so bad, Wendy Angela Moira Darling," Peter declared softly.

"For an old woman," she replied.

Peter shook his head and grinned. "Not you. You were wonderful."

"You weren't so bad yourself… boy."

He glanced sharply at her, but she was looking elsewhere, her tired eyes distant. He took her arm and they began to walk, heads bent slightly against the mist, their feet squeaking softly in the new snow.

Moira leaned in from the other side. "I'm glad to see that you're finally enjoying yourself…"

She stopped abruptly, her words trailing off. "Peter?"

Peter's eyes lifted. Before them, the front door stood wide open; a scattering of snow drifted across the threshold and into the hall. In the glow of the front porch lights, Peter could see a deep gouge in the heavy panels-as if someone had raked a screwdriver across the wood.

Granny Wendy glanced up, started, and caught her breath sharply. "The children!" she breathed.

Peter let go of her arm and charged through the door. The house was in blackness, cold and empty feeling. Behind him, he heard Moira flick the light switch without success. The power was gone.

"There, a candle, in the sconce beside you," Granny Wendy advised.

Peter groped along the wall, found it, produced a pocket lighter, and snapped it open. A flame sparked to life, and the candle's wick caught fire.

"Jack! Maggie!" Moira was calling out.

The candlelight chased the darkness far enough to reveal that the gouge in the door continued on along the entry hall and up the stairs, deep and ragged.

"What is going on here?" Peter muttered under his breath.

They made their way up the stairs, Peter leading with the candle held out before him, Moira and Granny Wendy following. From somewhere ahead, they could hear a scratching sound, and then Nana began to bark.

Peter rushed ahead and nearly tripped over Liza, who lay sprawled unconscious on the landing. Peter bent hurriedly over the maid, finding a discolored knot on her forehead where she had been struck. Her eyes flickered, and she gave a low moan.

"Call an ambulance," Peter ordered over his shoulder, and charged up the stairs and down the hall, his heart racing. What had happened here? Where were the children?

He saw Nana ahead, clawing frantically at the nursery door, barking and panting like a wild thing. A broken chain hung from her neck, and her coat was ragged and damp.

The gouge that had begun at the front door ended at the entrance to the nursery, without slowing, Peter charged in.

The room looked as if a hurricane had passed through. The beds were upended, their covers tossed away. Toys and books lay scattered everywhere. The rocking horse was on its side, and the windows were wide open, their lace curtains flapping.

There was no sign of Jack and Maggie.

The wind whipped past, and Peter's candle went out. He stood without moving, staring at nothing, trying to make sense of things. Nana padded past, sniffing anxiously, whining deep in her throat. She rushed to the bathroom and fastened her great jaws about the knob to open the door.