“I THINK WE’RE GETTING NEAR MY HOUSE,” said Wendy.
“You think.” said Peter, a bit testily, through chattering teeth.
“I’m sorry,” said Wendy, also a bit testily. “I’m doing the best I can.”
It’s not very good, said Tink, from inside Peter’s shirt.
“Oh, be quiet,” said Peter.
“What?” said Wendy.
“I wasn’t talking to you,” said Peter.
“I should hope not,” said Wendy.
I WAS talking to her, said Tink.
After a few more steps, Wendy said, “Listen, if you don’t like walking with me, you can fly.”
Excellent idea! said Tink.
But Peter shook his head. He didn’t like walking, but he couldn’t leave Wendy alone. The truth was, he wasn’t enthusiastic about being on his own in London at night. He’d had more than his share of bad experiences in this vast, confusing city.
They slogged on in silence. Their physical condition was as miserable as their mood. They’d been walking for hours—Peter in short pants and sleeves, Wendy on one bare foot—through the fog and chill of the London night, made all the chillier by the fact that they were soaking wet. They’d taken a zigzag route through a maze of dark streets, avoiding people as much as possible, and hiding whenever they saw, or thought they saw, a bobby. They were hungry, tired, and cold. And, at the moment, lost.
They rounded a corner; ahead was a busy, well-lit street. As they drew closer, Wendy said, “I think that’s Old Brompton Road!”
“Is that good?” said Peter.
“Yes,” said Wendy. “We’re near my house.”
It’s about time, said Tink.
They reached Old Brompton Road and turned left. In a few blocks they turned left again, and walked halfway down a residential street. Wendy stopped and said, “I don’t understand.”
“What?” said Peter.
“This is my house. But there are no lights.”
“It’s late. Maybe George…I mean, maybe your father is asleep.”
“Even if he were, there would be lights front and back.”
Wendy climbed the front steps, tried the doorknob, then rang the bell several times. No answer.
“Where could he be?” said Wendy, her voice quavering. She’d been counting on seeing her father again, being held in his strong arms, letting him take the burden of making decisions. And now …
She put her face in her hands.
Now she’s going to cry, said Tink, not sympathetically, but accurately. Wendy stifled a sob; a tear, then another, leaked through her fingers and spattered on the porch. Peter wanted to put his arm around her, but couldn’t quite get up the nerve, so he patted her twice on the back and said, “There, there.” It felt like a stupid thing to say, but it was all he could think of at the moment.
After an awkward moment, Wendy raised her head and sniffed, regaining her composure. “All right,” she said. “We’ll go to Grandfather’s house.”
MORE walking? chimed Tink.
“Is it far?” asked Peter.
“Less than a mile, I should think,” said Wendy.
If only you COULD think, said Tink.
“What did she say?” said Wendy.
“She said let’s go, it’s cold,” said Peter.
They trudged back up the street and continued north, crossing Kensington Road and entering Hyde Park. Wendy led the way, sticking to a footpath. There were few lampposts here; most of the time they could see only a few feet in the fog.
We were here, said Tink. Bad men chased us.
“I remember,” said Peter.
“Remember what?” said Wendy.
“Tink and I were in this park,” said Peter. “With Mol—your mother. I flew her out of Lord Aster’s house when Ombra was after her.”
She nearly got us killed, said Tink.
“What did she say?” said Wendy.
“It was a scary night,” said Peter. “We escaped through this park. That was the night I met your father. We hid in his room.”
“Really? His room?” said Wendy.
“I’d rather not talk about it,” said Peter.
They hid me under the bed, fumed Tink.
“What did she say?”
“She’d rather not talk about it either,” said Peter.
They walked some more in silence, passing by the looming shape of Kensington Palace, its lighted windows barely visible off to the right. They were approaching, from the back, a row of grand homes on a grand street called Kensington Palace Gardens. Wendy pointed to a particularly large house off to the right.
“There it is,” she said.
“I know,” said Peter. He would never forget that house.
They started trotting toward it, energized by thoughts of warmth and food. Suddenly Tink made a low sound. Peter grabbed Wendy’s arm.
“Wait,” he whispered.
“What is it?” she whispered back.
“Men,” he said.
Wendy peered toward the house. “I don’t see anybody,” she whispered.
Of course you don’t.
Peter led Wendy into a stand of trees. It was pitch-black there, save for Tink’s glow.
“What do we do?” whispered Wendy.
“I’ll have a look,” said Peter. “You and Tink stay here.”
I’m not staying with her.
“Yes you are,” whispered Peter. “If you go with me, they’ll see you glow.”
Put me in your shirt.“No. They still might see you.”
Hmph, said Tink, this being the closest she ever came to saying “I suppose you’re right.”
“I’ll be right back,” whispered Peter. Before Wendy could say anything more, he launched himself straight up, his body brushing against tree branches. In a moment he was a hundred feet in the air, hidden by fog. Flying felt good after all the walking. When he figured he was close to the house, he descended slowly until he could see that he was over the large back lawn. He first studied the service entrance at the back of the mansion, which had an electric light glowing over the door; he saw nobody near it. Upstairs from the entrance and to the right was a large window revealing a well-lit room. Inside, Peter saw two children—one small, one medium—and a stout man with a red face and white hair.
As Peter watched, a large, red-faced woman entered the room and said something to the children. Despite the tension of the moment, Peter smiled as he recognized Mrs. Bumbrake. He was about to swoop forward for a better look when he heard a cough almost directly below. He froze, then slowly leaned forward, straining to peer through the darkness. Finally he saw the shape, standing against a bush.
A bobby.
Peter’s eyes swept the lawn, but he saw no other men. Slowly, silently, he flew straight up into the fog, then forward over the high roof of the Aster mansion, stopping when he could see the street in front. This time the bobby was easier to spot: he was across the street, using the shadow of a large tree to keep out of what little light was cast by the streetlamp.
Peter turned and headed back toward the park. It took him a few minutes, flying through the fog, to locate the stand of trees where he’d left Wendy and Tink.
“Well?” whispered Wendy.
“Two policemen are watching the house,” he answered. “One in front and one in back.”
“Did you see anybody inside the house?”
“Mrs. Bumbrake,” said Peter. “Two boys, one little and one maybe seven or eight.”
“Michael and John!” said Wendy. “My brothers!”
“And an older man, sort of heavy, with white hair.”
“That’s Uncle Neville,” said Wendy. “Did you see my father? Tall man? Handsome?”
“No, nobody else,” said Peter, annoyed at himself for resenting Wendy’s description of her father.
“Maybe he was in another room,” said Wendy.
“Maybe,” said Peter.
“Well,” said Wendy, “whoever’s in there, we need to get them out.”
“We do?” said Peter. “Why?”
Because she’s crazy, said Tink.
“Because the police are here,” said Wendy. “That means they’re in danger, especially if von Schatten finds out we’re in London. We need to get everyone out of that house, so we can all go to someplace safe, and then we can figure out what to do next.”
“Someplace safe?” said Peter. “Where?”
“I don’t know,” admitted Wendy.
She is just full of good ideas, said Tink.