Straight On Till Morning (Disney Twisted Tales) - Liz Braswell Page 0,23

the back. She might have gotten trapped inside had Nana not put up a massive paw to stop the drawer from closing.

The fairy looked around frantically, lighting up every corner with her glow. But all of the shadows behaved normally, twisting and shrugging and shrinking and growing with her movements. None were Peter’s.

She flew out and glared at the dog.

Nana didn’t respond, hearing something with her giant dog ears that even the pixie couldn’t at first.

Something horrible was waking. Bones clicked into place as it stretched its feeble limbs…

And realized it was all alone.

“Yip! Yipyip yipyip yip!”

Tinker Bell froze. Another dog? Where were the humans? Where were Wendy and her two brothers? What was going on here?

She hadn’t realized how much she had expected things to be exactly the same as before: three children in the nursery, Nana puttering about, furniture and toys askew. Everything had changed subtly and strangely like a spring after a bad winter, when plants came up where they hadn’t before.

Fear began to sneak through her anger.

She jingled tentatively.

In answer, Nana just jerked her head toward the window. Peter’s shadow—and Wendy—were somewhere behind the clouds. Beyond London.

Tinker Bell jingled a hesitant question.

“Woof.”

Tink’s facility with dog speak wasn’t perfect.

So there was no way to be certain that Nana had said anything at all about pirates.

Right?

Without a second thought Tinker Bell took off as fast as she could, out of the house and into the clouds.

Some readers might well be curious: was Nana upset at being left home from all these adventures—school, Never Land, doings with pirates and pixies?

No, she was a dog, with dog dreams. Few things made her happier than the stories in her own head when she was hunkered down in front of a warm fire with a full belly.

She would have appreciated some gratitude, however, for time well served. Perhaps a nice juicy steak on her birthday and Christmas—and maybe the occasional Tuesday as a welcome surprise.

“I WILL NOT!”

Wendy sat with her arms crossed and legs primly together. Before her was a washtub full of hot salt water, suds, pirate clothes, and stink.

A half dozen half-naked pirates glowered around her, arms also crossed—though some were holding knives in their fists.

“But you’re the mother of the ship now,” one said—Screaming Byron, whose jacket she had patched. It was only the second or third day and she had already learned most of their names. “The washing’s your responsibility.”

“Absolutely not!” Wendy snapped, glaring at him so violently he almost fell backward. “I already take issue with the whole idea of being your mother, but being your scullery maid is entirely out of the question! Go find someone else to do your dirty work. My mother’s beautiful hands never scrubbed a nasty pair of pirate unmentionables, and neither shall mine!”

The men looked at each other in surprise; apparently this was an idea new to them. Mothers always did the wash, didn’t they? But perhaps they hadn’t much experience with the type.

One leaned forward with his long knife and actually growled.

“Oh, cut me if you will, Ziggy,” Wendy said, rolling her eyes. “That’s proper behavior toward a mother. Let’s ignore the fact that not a single one of you has presented me with a posy, or a badly done but affectionate drawing, or a pretty shell you found, or even a—” She had been about to say kiss, but thought better of it at the last moment. “Even the tiniest token of your appreciation. And after I sang you all that lullaby last night!”

The pirates looked, if not exactly chagrined, then at least a little thoughtful.

“We’re new at this,” the one with green teeth said: T. Jerome Newton. “Ain’t never had a mother before. Don’t know the rules.”

Another—Djareth—cleared his throat. “Well, if you’re not ginna do the wash…then just…set a nice table tonight then. With folded napkins? Maybe?”

“We’ll see,” Wendy said levelly.

The pirates shuffled off, muttering, chastised.

Wendy collapsed. It had taken all of her will to remain indignant and cold. Their knives were actually absolutely terrifying, and the pirates’ behavior was violent and insane.

“And here I am, negotiating with them,” she said with a disgusted sigh, kicking the washtub. “They’ve made me their slave, and I’m telling them I won’t do the very worst of the work.”

She sighed and picked up the finished clean clothes, folding them. These she dropped into a basket, trying to remember which thing belonged to which pirate so she could place each on the proper hammock and they wouldn’t just tear into the pile,