I wrestled with whether to post this here for a while. It ultimately came down to me realizing this is a safe place with amazing people and fantastic writers on here who inspire me and whose opinions I value.
It would be great get some feedback on my semi original story. It’s a Peter Pan prequel of what happened before Neverland with an Arthurian twist. Peter Pan was my love long before Superman and will always hold a special place in my heart. There is no shortage of Peter Pan retellings out there, usually dark and casting Peter as the villain. I respectfully disagree with that take on the character. Yes in the original he can be a vet self absorbed and tethers on the edge of dark, but he’s not evil. This is my take on how Peter became Peter Pan. It still will be a bit angsty but he’s not evil like OUAT. I hope you enjoy!
Chapter 1
On the rooftop where smoke tendrils kiss the sky, between the tiles and the heavens, is where you’ll find me always. The world falls away at my feet, an endless labyrinth of chimneys and gables that have no end in sight.
What I’d give to be able to taste the clouds.
Birds have no idea how lucky they are–everybody pauses to listen when they sing– they can go where they please and eat as much sugar as they want–they have perfect faith in what they are. I once had a dream in which I hatched and flew away with the birds, and never looked back.
I watch enviously as a blackbird leaps and spins through clouds – the wind carrying him farther away from the gardens and toward the wasteland known as Lac Fen. It’s a silvery marshland that glimmers like a shattered mirror.
The silhouette of the Sacred Hollow is a blister on the land–– her gnarly limbs clawing out of the frozen ground. On a clear day, if you’re lucky, you’ll see the pixies do the dance of the Serpentine over its murky waters. Most days, the marshland is dead, the wee folk too scared to come out and play.
Beyond Lac Fen, situated at the center of the barren wasteland, is the Arondight Estate –the reason for the wee folks' terror. Lord Du Lac – better known as Lord Clotpole– snuffs out any spark of joy they might have. By now, he would be overseeing the second watch of the day, weapons at the ready. It would be a death sentence for any creature to cross into our borders.
No. His borders.
I will never be like him.
High above the world is where I belong. There are no shackles holding me down. I don’t have to answer to anyone. Surely no Clotpoles up here. My neck prickles with unease, and I cling tighter to the round finial shaped like an owl. Unforgiving cold talons bite through my gloved hand.
I’m not the only one in the family fond of haunting rooftops. She could be up here with me, and I won’t be the wiser. She was scaling walls long before I was born. I take comfort in knowing it’s a brisk morning, and her ancient bones couldn’t stomach the cold.
Mist rolls in from the East, carrying the promise of snow and possibility. I breathe it in, loath to leave my perch on the dome. But there is work to be done. I loop the rope around the ornate owl and give a hard tug to make sure it's fastened tightly. Snug as a bug in a rug. I salute the bronze bird and slide down the dome, clutching the rope with both hands. The wind whistles through my teeth, peeling laughter out of my chapped lips. This is more fun than sledding.
Briefly, I soar like a bird, giving an elated crow as I swing down. Then my heels hit the ridge of a windowpane. I start to release the rope, and the shutters slam open, walloping me in the face.
The maid screams.
I scream.
The rope slips through my fingers, and I fall. I kick, trying to find purchase, and meet empty air. The wind tears through my cheeks as the pavement soars closer. The pastel cabbageheads are enlarging as I near the ground. A splash of gold flies across my vision as the end nears. I swallow another scream and close my eyes.
It can’t end like this. Astrid will have a conniption. Mother will die of a broken heart.
My tombstone would read:
Here lies David P.L. Du Lac:
The World’s Greatest Nincompoop
A summer breeze blows through me, warmth seeping into my bones. The pain in my rope-scored palms is gone; the soreness in my legs has evaporated as if it were never there. If this is death, it’s quite pleasant. Slowly, I open my eyes, expecting to see a wall of hellfire. I have no delusions about myself. Wicked boys don’t go to the good place.
Instead, I glance up at the blank, gray sky, black smoke drifting midair like liquified shadows. Gold stars dance across my vision. My hand flies to my belt, where I keep the iron blade. It is long past dawn; the stars shouldn’t be visible. Stars invading daylight are a sign that fae are afoot. They love to play tricks on unsuspecting humans. I hold my breath and slowly stand, careful not to make any sudden movements.
I landed on a balcony and miraculously have no broken bones. Logic would say I should be dead. I crane my neck to glance up at the open window and am met with a row of gargoyles standing guard on the second storey. I frown. I’m no longer on the same building. I find the open window I fell from at the neighboring house. It’s on the fourth storey. If I were a leaf, I would guess a gust of wind blew me next door.
There’s an unseemly screech, and the door flies open next door, the maid running out. “Somebody fetch the constable!” she wails. “A boy has just fell to his death!” she wrings her hands through her white hair. “Accident I tell ye,” she laments.
“Was opening the attic window to let in some fresh air.”
The morning strollers congregate around the hysterical old woman. “I swear to ye, there was a boy outside me window.”
I duck behind a tarped flower pot on the balcony, hiding from the simpering cabbageheads. I quietly laugh to myself.
A whimpering meow cuts through the womens’ jabber. Sparrow’s call. It’s not long before I see the tip of his brown hat pop out of one of the bushes below me. Sparrow cranes his neck to study the towering houses and then faces the cabbageheads. From my perch above, he seems so small and scared.
I sigh, wait till the ladies' backs are turned, and make my way into the tree below the balcony.
I crawl across the chilled branches, acutely aware of the stars buzzing in my peripheral vision. There’s the tell-tale sound of Christmas bells, tolling loudly in my ears, but try as I do, I can’t nail the beastie. The dagger slams against my hips as I move through the branches.
Father would have already unsheathed the blade and run the bugger through. It doesn’t seem to be doing any harm. If my suspicions are correct, I owe my life to it.
The only good fae is a dead one.
Father’s voice thunders through my head.
What he doesn’t know won’t kill him.
I drop lightly to my feet beside Sparrow and grin. “Did you miss me?”
Sparrow gives a start of surprise and punches me in the arm. Then proceeds to hug me tightly. I falter, unsure what to do. He smells like mud and sweat. “I thought we lost you!” Sparrow screams.
One. Two. Three . . . now this is getting uncomfortable. “Good lord, I should fall to my death more often,” I say, giving his shoulder an awkward tap.
Sparrow releases me and jumps away, face turning an ugly plum color. “Don’t expect me to go to your funeral, Fox.”
“Not even if there’s ice cream?” I challenge.
“Especially not then!” He retorts.
It’s been an age since I tasted the rare delicacy. The frozen custard, sweet as sin, is the stuff dreams are made on– the dessert was the only joy provided on my birthday. But like all good things, that came to an end too. Each year, my birthday marked another year closer to Purgatory. This year will be no different. Soon I shall be a man. Expected to carry on the Du Lac legacy . . . wake up and find one morning I’m hunched and walking with three legs.
“Fox!”
Sparrow elbows me in the side. “You haven’t heard a word I said.”
“It’s a brilliant idea,” I agree heartily, not willing to let on he’s right. “Best plan yet.”
“You had one simple job,” he hisses, wagging a ratty finger at me. “One job.”
I wince. Right. The key to Driscoll’s Antiques. It slipped my mind.
“We can’t return to the Baron empty-handed.”
“And we shan’t,” I grin. “Look around you, mate.” I give a flourishing wave, indicating the fashionably dressed ladies strolling in Kensington Village. “It’s a treasure trove waiting to be found.”
“That’s not good enah—”
I’m already gone, crawling beneath the undergrowth. The cabbageheads were kind enough to dress in their finest winter frocks and enough jewels to draw the attention of a leprechaun. Their skirts whistle as they glide past, too immersed in small talk to notice me. I relieve the nearest girl of the gold bangle bracelet and pocket it in the satchel. I move on to the next lady, sliding off a sapphire necklace.
Who needs Driscoll’s Antiques when we’ve got such easy pickings?
“I suppose some prefer the company of a wild bear,” the cabbagehead pauses, a breath away from me, her foul perfume tickling my nose. I reach through the hedge and unclasp her pearls with practiced ease. It helps having a sister to play tricks on.
“Mr. Lichtenstein shall set his sights higher,” a woman with exquisite diamond earrings says. “The Du Lacs will soon be as dead as the dodo.”
I falter at the sound of my family’s name, hand inches away from her diamond earring. She turns away, and I lose my window of opportunity. I hold my breath and lean back against the frozen ground. Twigs and leaves press into my torso.
“Such a terrible thing to say,” her companion says. She’s so close that the tip of my boot grazes the hem of her lacey petticoat. I squeeze further under the hedge, wiggling my legs close to my chest. “The Du Lacs are odd to be sure, but they are a credit to society.”
“I cannot imagine Hyde Park without them,” says another woman with a boisterous voice. I’m embarrassed I recognize her. She’s the dame Father tried to rope me into marrying — some nonsensical botanical name like Daisy or Petunia.
“You mean you cannot imagine Hyde Park without Lord David,” Flora’s proud friend retorts. She’s not even saying the name right. It’s Dah-Veed, not boring David. “I do wish you would give up this foolish dream, Rosetta,” she says. “Your obsession with beasts is unbecoming for a lady of your station.”
Rosetta! Ah, yes, the flower that smells funny.
“The beast, as you so eloquently put it, dear sister, is a lord,” Rosetta says.
“Only in name,” she replies. “He will bring disgrace to his . . . my heavens!” she screeches. “My pearls, they’re gone!”
That’s my cue. I roll over onto my stomach and crawl away from the frantic women, staying in the shadows beneath the hedge. I wait a beat for their voices to fade and scale up a tree, perching on a top branch. From above, I have a perfect view of the cabbageheads bobbing about and squawking as they hunt for their missing jewels.
“What seems to be the problem, madams?” Noodler approaches the distressed ladies, carrying himself loftily.
I can’t take him seriously in that atrocious outfit. I cough to hide my laughter. The gentleman’s coat is a size too big on Noodler, and he is willingly wearing the noose around his neck. I’m impressed he tied the ascot correctly. It usually takes four servants to wrangle me into one – a servant to hold me down while the second servant ties the noose. The third and fourth block any escape route.
“I believe we’ve been robbed,” Rosetta laments. “Would you be so kind as to fetch the Constable?”
“It would be my deepest honor,” he bends low, kissing her hand, and discreetly sliding the bejeweled ring off her finger.
This close to Kensington Palace, the women are always eager to flaunt their wealth in the hope of catching the eye of a rich lord. Noodler tells them he’s Nathaniel Churchill the Third, and the lovesick fools believe him. They always travel in packs of twos or fours — the February weather dulling their senses. Noodler engages the women in fine conversation and guides them in the opposite direction.
“Truly, you have such a gift for capturing the natural world.”
My heart jumps in my throat. Surely not. Even this high, I’d know that stifled voice anywhere. I swing to the lowest branch, praying I’m wrong.
But no, there my sister sits in the shadow of a big man. Mercy’s sake! What is Astrid wearing? She looks like a strawberry custard puff. And what is she doing keeping company with that curmudgeon? Her gloved hand brushes against the man’s arm, and I almost fall out of the tree.
Astrid smiles at him the way she once smiled at Tommy. I always thought... well, everybody expected the Asters and Du Lacs to merge their bloodline. The Asters were almost as old as our family and no stranger to the dark underbelly of the world. The aspects nobody wanted to discuss and refused to acknowledge.
“You are too kind, Lady Diana,” he grumbles, shutting the leather journal in his lap. “I am no Caravaggio.”
Who was this weakling sitting so close to my sister? The woods would gobble him up and spit his bones out.
Astrid places a hand over the closed journal. “I do not jest when I say your paintings are much more enchanting than Caravaggio’s,” Astrid proclaims. “His paintings were always so sinister and depressing.”
“He was a master of shadows and light,” the strange man argues.
“And you are a master of the heart.”
A soft giggle draws my attention away from them. Seated on a boulder near Astrid is Aretousa, trying to hide her amusement behind a thick book. Red Claw is nearly unrecognizable in her elaborate gown. Aretousa’s dark eyes sparkle with the same mischief she had when tossing me into a pigsty.
“I’m afraid, I’m quite ignorant in the ways of the heart,” he says. “It remains a mystery to me.”
Two hands pop out of the bush and make my sister’s locket disappear. For a moment, my heart clenches, an unfamiliar emotion taking root. Is that guilt? I shake it off. Fox doesn’t have to worry about dumb sisters. He’s a free boy with no noose hanging around his neck. I stay hidden and hold my peace. The locket is the only thing Astrid has to remember Robin by.
What of it? It will fetch a high price with The Baron. Gold is not easy to come by.
My knuckles whiten on the branch. I could dart forward, snatch the locket back, pretend it fell… or… I could stay here and let Sparrow carry it away. Gold is gold. Sentiment doesn’t fill a starving belly. Lord knows Sparrow needs the gold more than Lady Astrid-Vivien Diana Du Lac.
“Not your responsibility,” I tell myself. But I’d never hear the end of her whining if I don’t help.
I am doing something.
Nothing.
I climb to the highest point in the tree as fast as my throbbing limbs can carry me, out of sight and out of mind. I continue to climb and find a sturdy branch that twists over a roof. I don’t dare slow down till I’m secure in the shadow of a chimney, away from the family. I won’t let Astrid drag me back to the gallows.
David Du Lac is not here.
Fox the orphan is. If I don’t return to Arondight Hall, I’ll be spared from seeing her cry and dodge Mother’s cursed wooden spoon. A low whine pierces the air. I answer Sparrow’s cry with a crow of my own, signaling to him where I’m at. I skid down the slope, the wind peeling my tattered cloak back.
Mother’s cloak.
The one she’s too grown-up to wear anymore. People say I have her wild spirit. People know nothing worth a fart. If she saw her son now flying through rooftops and trees, she’d wallop me from here to Kensington Palace. She’s such a hypocrite.
I brace my boots against an ornate marble statue and untangle the spare rope from my satchel. I loop the rope around a crooked gutter bracket, give it a good tug to test the hold, and toss the length down. Sparrow grabs on, and I haul him up. Not all boys have my training.
I dig my heels into the slats, bracing against an ornate marble angel. The rope bites into my palms, but I don’t dare let go. Sparrow swings up and rolls onto the roof, huffing and puffing like a dog, snow-caked throughout his muddy-brown hair.
“Best to lay off the sweets for a while, mate.” I wince, rubbing at my sore arms. “You’re as heavy as a cow.”
“I’m not fat!” Sparrow kicks the legs out from beneath me. My head spins as I fall on my back, laughing. I catch myself on the ledge before I slide off the roof.
I leap to my feet, unable to stop laughing. “What was that?” I ask. “I know girls who kick better than you.”
Sparrow stands, gaze darkening. “I know toads with better manners than you!”
I give a flourishing bow. “That is the nicest compliment anyone has given me.”
He scoffs and elbows me in the side. I return the favor and hit him harder, nearly knocking Sparrow off the roof. He squeals and dives to catch his satchel. “Careful!” he screams. “You know how long it took me to collect these!”
“Careful isn’t in my vocabulary,” I say, keeping a wary eye on the ladies beneath us. Astrid wants so badly to be grown-up that her wild mane twists into a gaudy knot On top of her head. It looks like she’s balancing an antique vase on her head.
We’re low enough, I hear my sister’s laughter.
“My gown! It’s utterly ruined!” Sparrow says in an exaggeratedly high-pitched voice. “I shall never be able to show my face at court again.” He drapes an arm over his head and leans against me, pretending to faint.
I snort and join in on the fun. “As a matter of fact,” I straighten, mimicking Astrid’s voice. “You are an embarrassment to the family. We shall have to leave the country!”
Sparrow shudders. “It’s so eerie when you do that.”
“Do what?” I smile innocently. “Think you’re being funny, boy?” I cuff him behind the ear, channeling The Baron’s anger. Sparrow’s eyes widen. “I’d throw you back in the gutter where you belong!”
“Fox!” Sparrow chides. “What if he hears you!”
“Let him hear,” I say, using my normal voice. “That old sod doesn’t scare me.”
I return my attention to Astrid and almost fall off the roof. The strange man has gotten closer to my sister. For mercy’s sake! His hand just grazed against her arm. And she didn't brush him aside. I can’t see Astrid’s face through the branches, but she is entirely too close to this clotpole.
No, this won’t do. This won’t do at all. Sparrow calls my name, but I’m not listening. I creep down the building and drop into the tree above the hideous couple. At this angle, the white feather on his tricorn hat is visible. It’s too easy. His attention is solely on Astrid. I dangle upside down from the branch and use the dagger to slice off the feather. I lose my balance and topple into my sister’s lap.
Her cheeks flush like the time I used her corset for makeshift sails and Tom Aster saw her undergarments.
“Pleasant morning, love,” I grin.
Her mouth parts in surprise, brown eyes widening humorously. Well, I’ve made a proper pickle of things. David Du Lac is supposed to be at Westminster Academy. “You rotten . . .” She swallows visibly. “I am going to get the Constable!”
Ugh-uh we can’t have that. Father always ruins my fun.
“No need for such theatrics,” I leap to my feet and fling the hood off, standing up straighter. “Lady Di, you grow more beautiful each time I see you.” I try not to choke on the words. It’s a sticky situation. Technically, I’m not supposed to be here.
I grab her hand and kiss it like I saw Prince Boring do. Her fingers tremble in my grip, fighting to break free. “I couldn’t help falling at your feet.”
Astrid makes an unladylike noise between a scream and a cough. Seeing her composure shatter makes up for all the awkwardness. The gentleman looks as if he swallowed rotten eggs. “You know this ruffian?”
“Aye,” I say.
“No,” Astrid says at the same time. “I’ve never seen him before.”
“Thick as thieves we are,” I drape an arm over her shoulders, and tense. Either Astrid has shrunk or – Lord save me—I’ve grown taller since the last time I saw her. “She has a birthmark on her left shoulder.”
Astrid elbows me in the ribs, and I chuckle, jumping away from her. Her face turns red from the effort of holding back her screams.
Prince Boring looks between the two of us, bushy eyebrows knit together. “Your face,” he frowns. “Have we met before?”
I stiffen. “I make a point of avoiding familiarity with royalty.” I pointedly look at the man’s antiquated doublet and study his pale face. It would be rude of me to assume he’s one of the Turned. He certainly dresses like one, though.
“Mr. Alexander Lichtenstein of Lenore Hall,” he murmurs, adjusting a gold button with visible embarrassment. “My sister had me dressed — that is, my usual garments are quite ruined.”
“Pray tell, what monstrous beast did you slay?” I ask, trying to keep myself from laughing.
Aretousa snorts indelicately at my sister’s side, hiding behind a curtain of black ringlets.
“He is an artist,” Astrid says cooly. “Mr. Lichtenstein is under no obligation to justify his taste to the likes of you. It is beyond your comprehension, boy.”
“You’re right, milady,” I match her tone. “I don’t understand,” I say, surveying the man’s finely combed mustache. I brush a finger across my upper lip. “You’re not honestly going to keep that?” I ask. “He looks positively ancient,” I whisper to my sister.
“The Constable is near. I would hate for such a young boy to face the hangman’s noose,” she smooths down her fur cloak importantly.
I lift the hood and whisper in her ear.“Better than bedding Prince Boring.”
Astrid slaps me across the face so hard she knocks some teeth loose. She gasps, horror-struck, and hugs her shaking arm. It is too easy to rattle her.
“You’re the Wild Man of Kensington.” Lichtenstein’s eyes widen. “I have seen you haunt the palace grounds.”
“I am not a man,” I hiss, repulsed. “I am so much more.”
Astrid looks physically ill at the prospect of her brother being so infamous.
He faces Astrid. “Strange company you keep, milady.”
“She belongs to no man,” I hiss. “Run along and go play with your sword . . . assuming you have a real one.”
Aretousa sidles toward me and gives my arm a warning squeeze, shaking her head. “ Arhontopoulaki –se parakalo, iremia na eisai,” she whispers in my ear. I don’t understand Greek, but I know enough to know she’s giving me an order. She should know by now that I never listen.
“Careful how you speak, boy,” he says in a deceptively calm voice. “I don’t want any trouble but . . . ”
“You’re nothing but an overgrown codfish,” I laugh in his face. I blow my sister a kiss. She reddens furiously and looks like she’s about to slap me again. Aretousa stills her with a single look. “Bet he tastes scrumptious,” I tease Astrid.
“I’d dare say, we Lichtensteins taste a deal finer than your gutter offals,” Mr. Lichtenstein smiles, pleased with himself.
I feel Astrid stiffen beside me, her shoulders trembling with silent mirth. I’m not as dimwitted as she thinks. I know the clotpole just called me boring.
“I’d dare say,” I mirror his calm tone. “One bite out of you and the giant will keel over dead.” I squeeze my sister’s arm, showing her this is no game. “You can take your poisonous hide and be gone,” I unsheath my dagger and aim the blade at the interloper.
“Lord David!” Aretousa hisses in my ear, knowing full well how much I hate that name. My lunatic parents gave each of the Du Lac siblings three names to confuse the fae. I much prefer Fox or Peter.
Astrid tugs on my arm. “Peter... please,” she begs in a low whisper. “Must you always ruin everything!”
“I am a gentleman, so I am anything if not fair, ” I say seriously, letting David Du Lac out to play. I offer Aretousa a grin. She looks on with disappointment. “I would give you a choice, Sir Clotpole,” I twirl the dagger through the air with expert ease, balancing it on my fingertips. “Which would you prefer to keep, your hands or your eyes?”
The lordling looks like he’s about to wet himself. He glances between Astrid and me, torn. Oh, dearie, it’s as I feared. The weakling has never been in a fight in his life. He’s all words and no breeches.
He tilts his head to Astrid, silently pleading with her for forgiveness. “Another time, perhaps,” he faces me, gaze shifty like a stag who knows he’s dead. “I find my schedule quite full today,” he tips his hat to me and then to Astrid. “Lady Diana, a pleasure as always.”
