gigantic roots that stuck through the ceiling. Some were hammocks hanging from those same roots.
There were a few civilized details, like chairs that looked as though they had been purloined from more modern and elegant domiciles—a red velvet recliner, for instance, which would have been far more at home at Mr. Darling’s club than in a cave. Wherever did that come from? Wendy wondered. But the rest of the furniture consisted primarily of things like barrels cut in half with moss for cushions, and the stumps of trees with hastily hammered-on backs. Enormous mushrooms made for tables. Some of the lanterns were fungus as well—softly glowing bluish-green “flowers” that spread in delicate clumps just below the ceiling.
“John would just have a field day with those, I’m certain,” Wendy said with a smile.
One large barrel was placed under the end of a hollowed-out root to collect rainwater. There were shelves and nooks for the few possessions considered precious by the Lost Boys: piles of gold coins, interesting animal skeletons, shiny crystals, captivating burrs and seedpods. Also more strange detritus of the civilized world: a hinge, a pipe, a knob from a drawer, a spanner, and even a pocket watch.
“Oh, this is all…amazing! Not that it couldn’t do with a bit of a woman’s touch.” A proper cauldron could be hung from a chain above the fire for soups and stews, for instance. The rugs could be beaten out a bit. Where was the washtub? And the out-of-place, ornate gold frame that cleverly delineated a window could have used a nice little chintz curtain to keep bright light and prying eyes out.
Oh, she could do so much with it! Imagine if it were hers, and all the Lost Boys, too; she would take care of them…
…like young pirates.…
Wendy struggled with that thought. In many of her stories about Never Land, she kept house for Peter and them much like Snow White for the dwarfs. And they revered her and promised to never leave her and always brought back the best little trinkets from their adventures.…
An inquisitive tinkling brought her out of her reverie.
“I don’t know where they are,” Wendy answered, thinking she had guessed the question. “But I’m sure they’ll be back soon.…”
With an irritated swoop, the fairy grabbed one of her locks and pulled, flying to the far corner of the cave and forcing Wendy to stumble quickly after to avoid any pain.
“You don’t have to—oh!”
The fairy let her go and pulled aside a piece of bright gold-and-pink silk hanging on the wall. Behind it was the fairy’s own private room.
She had a soft bed of bright green moss with several iridescent feathers for a counterpane. A shelf mushroom served as an actual shelf displaying an assortment of dried flowers and pretty gewgaws the fairy had collected. There was a charming little dining table, somewhat bold in irony: It was the cheery but deadly red-and-white amanita. The wide top was set with an acorn cap bowl and jingle shell charger. In the corner, a beautifully curved, bright green leaf collected drops from somewhere in the celling much like the water barrel did, but this was obviously for discreet fairy bathing. An assortment of tiny buds, rough seeds, and spongy moss were arranged neatly on a piece of gray driftwood nearby to aid in cleansing.
“Oh my,” Wendy sighed. “This is the most beautiful flat I have ever seen.”
The fairy tried very hard not to look pleased.
“The accessories…the flowers…the furniture. It’s all perfect.”
Maybe the fairy didn’t precisely blush, but she did allow a single grudging smile.
Wendy felt her heart leap. They were, despite the fairy’s initial hatred, growing closer.
Maybe.
Suddenly the cave resounded with bumps and knocks and disturbing echoes from above. The furniture—fairy and full-sized—shook.
“What’s that?” Wendy cried. “Are we being attacked?”
The fairy rolled her eyes, once again dismissive of her human companion.
As the first boy’s body tumbled into view, Wendy understood: the Lost Boys were home.
They came flying down the tunnels’ slides, landed neatly, and unfurled like ferns or strange creatures. These were the lads Peter had rescued from orphanages and the terrible fate of growing up. In her stories, Wendy always had them wearing the skins of animals.
And so they did, sort of. The first boy definitely had on a real bearskin, as real as the rug on the floor, and the animal’s claws were worn over his hands like gloves. The next one, the tallest, had on the tail of a fox, but he also sported the bright red coat