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The boys frolic around the table, shrieking and laughing and tumbling about. Every once in a while, one of them will roll and halt, wave at her and grin.
Wendy curls against the arm of her chair and smiles, because they're all so young.
A finger taps against her elbow, and she looks around to see Peter, leaning against her chair, over her.
"Yes?" she asks, and congratulates herself on her composure.
The corner of Peter's mouth quirks up, and his hand encircles her wrist. He tugs.
"Where are we going?" she protests, but she's already up and following.
Peter leads her up and into the woods, and the leaves crunch quietly underneath her feet. She hasn't quite learned the trick of bounding the way Peter does, toes only occasionally tripping against the dirt.
"There's hunting to be done," Peter murmurs to her, his eyes roving through the trees. "A fierce and fearsome beast."
Wendy pauses. "Are we in danger?"
Peter returns to her side, grins. "Not if you're with me."
Somehow, she finds that reassuring. At her nod, they continue on.
"What is the beast like?" she wonders. "Is it a lion? Or a bear?"
"A bird," Peter replies. "With a sword for a beak. They say it never stops to sing."
That strikes Wendy as familiar. "Is it small?"
"But quick," Peter confirms.
She stops, sets her hands on her hips. "A hummingbird?"
"Yes." Peter circles about her. "You've hunted one before?"
She laughs, sharp and merry, and Peter responds with a scowl.
Before he can dart away, she grabs his ankle, pulls him back almost to eye level.
"Peter," she says, "I shall be most impressed should you catch one."
He eyes her suspiciously.
"Really," she emphasizes. "Truly."
He smiles and clasps her hands.
"Come on, then."
She loses track of time, because Peter hunts in ever-widening circles. Her legs are tired, so she stops to sit underneath a tree.
As she waits for Peter to fly back to her, she gathers fallen leaves in her hands. They crackle and crumple between her fingers, and she rubs the fragments into dust.
Peter alights on a branch above her, hops down to the earth and crouches.
"What are you doing?"
She shrugs. "Nothing, really."
She crumbles a few more leaves, methodically, and watches him stare at her hands.
Finally, he sits. Tilts his head and asks, "Why do leaves turn brown?"
"Because it's autumn." She reconsiders. "Because they've aged."
"They're dying," he observes.
"Yes," she says, "of course."
"That's a silly thing to do."
Wendy frowns. "It's not as if they had a choice."
"Of course they do," Peter retorts.
And he flies off before she can ask what he means.