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through the night sky in a trail of fairy-dust. But Holmes shook his head and said primly, “I shall take a cab. Like most adults, I do not travel — at least in this instance — without baggage. I shall see you in Deptford at three.”
    He laid emphasis on these words and met my eye with a look that said, Can you make sure he gets there?
    I gave a tiny shrug and a grimacing nod: I’ll do my best .
    It came to me that he knew Peter as well as I did.
    Barsham Lane lay on the far side of Deptford, far enough back from the river to be half in the countryside still. Number 37 was part of no ribbon-development, but rather lay apart, in its own grounds and about three-quarters of a mile from the last of the suburban villas. It took Peter and me exactly three hours and ten minutes to get there, and we swooped down out of the sky just as Mr. Holmes’ cab was disappearing into the thickness of the river mist, leaving him standing by Number 37’s iron gate.
    As we came down through the fog I asked Peter softly, “Did you know Mr. Holmes before?”
    “Of course I did, silly.” Peter dove in a circle around me, to pull my pigtail. “He helped me slay the dreadful Gallipoot, that haunted Kensington Gardens. You were there.”
    I hadn’t thought Peter had seen me. “I mean before that.”
    “Look,” said Peter, pointing, “there he is. D’you think he’s brought some more of those biscuits in that carpetbag?” For Holmes did indeed have a large carpetbag at his feet. He wasn’t looking at his watch, but into the fog above him, as if he knew we would take just as long to arrive as he did.
    “Tell him to save me one,” added Peter, and flashed away over the wall in the direction of the house, Ten Stars like a glittering comet-tail behind him. The mud of the drive was very cold and nasty between my toes, and the gravel hurt my feet. I waved to Mr. Holmes but came down on the other side of the gate, lifting the bar there that was heavy to my child’s strength.
    Holmes whispered, “Good girl, Mary,” as he slipped through, and shut the gate behind us. He stood for a moment looking down at me — he stood many inches taller than even my adult, real-world self — and though the fog made it too dark to see more than his outline against the dim reflection from his dark-lantern, when he spoke again I could hear the concern in his voice. “Can you find your way back to your home without Peter?” he asked quietly. “You know that you are not dreaming now—”
    “I know.” I reached out, took his hand — cold, the way they always were, even through his gloves — and pinched his wrist with my fingernails, hard. His hand jerked back and I grinned up at him, then sobered again, when I saw that in my swift smile he almost recognized me. “But I’m not really real, either — or perhaps I’m more real than I’ve been in many years. And I know the danger is real. If something happens to me…”
    I hesitated, not knowing what would become of me — where my self, my true self, whatever that true self was, would go.
    “Peter,” I went on hesitantly, “doesn’t understand. He’s never really lived in this world, not since he was a tiny baby…”
    I glanced back toward the house, invisible in the absolute blackness, save for the swift-moving foxfire glow that was Peter Pan, scouting every window, chimney, and door for signs of occupancy.
    Then I went on, “But we can’t let the King of Dreams… It isn’t just about finding Bobbie Lewensham, you know, though of course he must be rescued. But if indeed some mage in this world has found the way through to the world of dreams — or even through to the borderlands that lie between them — he must be stopped. Even for the good mages of this world to go tampering on its borders is … dangerous. Too many of us need the Neverlands, to let the King of Dreams close its gates.”
    Holmes whispered, “Yes.” I thought he would say something else, but after an intake of