A new burst of activity rose from behind him, and Jack and Maggie came tearing down the hall with Nana in pursuit. Charging past their father, the children raced into Wendy's room, leaped from the bed to the love seat and back again. Nana, too large to gain the bed, raced around the carved wooden posts, barking.

Maggie caught sight of her father and called out, "Daddy, Daddy, come play with us!"

Peter smiled and began fumbling with his tie. "Later, sweetheart." He took a step into the room and caught Moira's eye. "Slippery shoes." He motioned down to them, scuffing at the floor. "You haven't seen my gold cuff link, have you?"

Moira gave him a look. "In here?"

"I think I might have dropped it earlier."

He moved into the room, searching, then bent down on his hands and knees to have a look underneath the bed. Instantly Maggie vaulted onto his back, yelling, "Giddyup, horsey! Ride, ride!"

Peter glanced up stoically. "Maggie, be of some help, please?"

Maggie leaped down and rushed away. Peter went back to looking, finding nothing beneath the trailing edges of the bed's quilted comforter, not even a dust bunny. He backed off and worked his way around the end of the bed and over to an easy chair.

As he peered around the chair he found himself face-to-face with Tootles, also down on his hands and knees, searching. They both drew up just in time to keep from bumping heads.

Tootles stared at Peter. His eyes were glassy pools. "Lost my marbles," he mumbled.

Peter nodded. "Lost a cuff link. I'm not dressed without my cufflinks."

They stared at each other a moment longer, then separated and moved on, continuing to search.

After a minute Peter rose, feeling suddenly foolish. He brushed off his pants and departed the room. The pearl cuff links would have to do. Dratted nuisance, not being able to find the other. Kind of day it had turned out to be.

He worked his way down the corridor toward his own room. Through the windows he passed he could see the snow continuing to fall-huge, damp flakes, as still as midnight.

Midway along, he approached the children's nursery. Jack and Maggie had been given this room. He slowed. The door was cracked open, and he peeked inside. A small fire in the stone fireplace gave what light there was to the room, casting ghostly shadows in all directions. Jack and Maggie's luggage rested on two of the three small, ornate Victorian beds. Peter stared at the luggage for a moment, then glanced around at the room, peering to see into the shadows. Undecided, he hung on the door frame, drawn and repelled at the same time.

What was it about this room that affected him so?

From a darkened corner a cuckoo clock popped out and called six times. Peter released his grip on the door and stepped inside. One step, two, three.

And abruptly froze.

The room was just as it had once been, sometime long ago in a past it seemed he could almost remember, just as Wendy's mother, Mrs. Darling, had left it, the result of "a loving heart and the scraping of her purse.'' The three beds, thick-quilted and comforting, sat two on the left (John's and Michael's) and one on the right (Wendy's). Coverlets made of white satin shimmered in the faint light. Above each bed on tiny shelves were china houses the size of bird's nests containing night-lights. The fireplace burned low and quiet, a faint hissing of sap buried in the wood echoing in the stillness. The mantel sheltering the hearth was supported by two straight-backed wooden soldiers, homemade, rough-hewn, begun once upon a time by Mr. Darling, subsequently finished by Mrs. Darling, and eventually repainted (rather unfortunately) by Mr. Darling.

The memories flashed in Peter's mind and disappeared. One moment he recognized it all; in the next the recognition was gone. He moved deeper into the room, touching this and that, pausing in foreign country that nevertheless was somehow quite familiar.

A ragged teddy bear sat with its back against a battered top hat on the mantel. Peter stepped up to the bear and brushed its fuzzy, worn nose with his fingers.

He saw Wendy's dollhouse then and peered down inside to see if anyone was living there. The bureau sat alone against one wall, and he moved to stand before it. His hands fastened on its smooth knobs and he jiggled it gently, trying to think what might be inside.

At last he found his way to the latticed French windows, latched now against the dark, their curtains drawn. He stepped onto the threshold, reached out tentatively, brushed back the curtains, undid the latch, and pulled the windows open. Thick snowflakes landed on his nose and mouth, and he licked them away. Carefully he stepped out on the tiny balcony to the wrought-iron railing and looked about, up first at the white-speckled skies, down then to the streets and rooftops below. His hands gripped the railing as he felt the earth fall away in a spin. Closing his eyes against the unsettling sensation, he ducked back inside.

The lace of the curtains brushed against his cheek, blown by me night wind, and he opened his eyes once more. There were scenes of some sort sewn into the lace, woven into patterns that backed up against one another like pictures hung on a wall. He bent closer, reaching out to hold the curtains still.

He saw a boy flying in a night sky with stars all about, the same boy standing with his hands on his hips and his head thrust back as he prepared to crow, and the boy again, engaged in battle with a pirate captain whose missing hand had been replaced by a hook.

Peter Pan.

Moira appeared suddenly in the doorway, flicking on the light. "Peter, Brad's on the line. He says it's urgent."

Peter turned abruptly and hurried from the room.

The room sat empty and silent men. But the windows had been left open, and the wind picked up suddenly, rustling the curtains. Moonlight broke through the clouds overhead momentarily and flooded die room. Its light was a strange, eerie color, and it cast new shadows that wavered and shimmered like ghosts.

Then the light crept along the floor and settled in the twin mirrored doors of a massive old armoire that rested far back in a corner, a dark wooden closet that might hold either dreams or nightmares.

Peter raced down the hall, already anticipating the worst. He'd brought the holster phone with him for emergencies. English phones were just too unreliable.

Granny Wendy walked past, twirling girlishly. "Like my dress, Peter?"

Peter went past without slowing, nodding perfunctorily. He charged into the guest bedroom where he and Moira had been settled and snatched up the phone from where it lay on the bed.

"Yeah? Brad? What do you mean, the Sierra Club report? I thought that was settled? A what? A Cozy Blue Owl?" His face had gone beet red. "Well, if they're endangered, maybe there's a good reason for it!"

Maggie appeared with Jack in pursuit. They rushed past him to the far side of the bed and disappeared. After a moment Maggie reappeared, shouting, laughing, "Daddy, save me! Save me!"

From behind the bed, Jack was making monster sounds. Peter ignored them, putting a finger in his ear to block out their noise.

"Since the dawn of time there have been all sorts of casualties in the evolutionary process!" he snapped. "Does anybody miss the Tyrannosaurus rex?"

"I do!" yelled Jack, and began to growl fiercely.

Peter whirled about. "Damn it, Jack, grow up! Maggie, get away! Moira!" He returned to the phone. "Ten inches high and has a mating radius of fifty miles? Well, why doesn't somebody just shoot me in the head?"

Maggie raced back around the bed, screaming with delight, and tried to climb up her father's back. Jack was in pursuit, growling and waving his arms.