Of course, when her brothers died, she couldn't talk about it any more. Not after what happened the first time.

She wasn't mad. She knew that, and she was almost certain that the doctors knew it too. They went through the motions because that was what society expected of them; because we can't have doctors who believe in make believe lands with eternally young boys, and pirates and Indians. Little boys don't kill, they told her. She agreed with them to make things easy.

She didn't tell them that the little boy had killed her father.

She knew that she meant to think Hook.

They left her alone when she stopped trying to argue with them, and she found out why her mother had all those boxes in her mind. She built her own boxes, taking her time to make them pretty, and then she put everything that she could remember about Neverland in them and tried to get on with her life.

But no one wanted to marry a mad woman. It wouldn't do to have the neighbours gossiping about her husband's crazy wife. She gave up trying to become a governess when she found out that they thought the same way about children.

She tried to read, but the words scared her. All those made-up worlds, and she knew that they weren't real, but had no way to really be sure. After all, her made-up world was real. (No, it isn't, shouts a stern, almost fatherly voice.) So she put away all her books and locked the library. She still read the paper though: The Times, when she remembered, because she was told that newspapers didn't lie.

Sometimes, she wished that she had forgotten too. The Lost Boys did, when they grew up, her brother s memories had grown hazy after a few years, and besides, everyone was far more concerned about the family's descent into poverty. That was what mattered, because that was real and no one was going to eat dreams for breakfast. (Peter would have, says a young girl's voice.) Still, in those moments between waking and sleeping, she sometimes believed that the rest of the world was wrong and she was right, because maybe she was special and different after all.

She slept because it was the only respite she had, and when she was awake, she tried not to see the disappointment in her father's eyes. (Hook's eyes, says a treacherous voice.)

She couldn't forget Hook. She had never spoken about him, not really, because she wanted to keep a part of the madness for herself. As far as anyone else knew, he was the dark, shadowy figure of dread that haunted her dreams. (Didst thou ever wish to be a pirate, he murmurs softly.) She didn't often play pretend anymore, but when she did Hook was alive, and she wasn't a little girl anymore.

Though the memories were precious, she found herself more and more often regretting her childhood fantasy. (But you did love to fly, whispers a glimmering light.) She didn't realise it at the time, but when she left, she took her brothers and his friends, and with his greatest enemy dead, what did the boy have left? (His pretends, grins a large reptile.) But she knows that he's forgotten, knows that she doesn't exist for him any more than he exists at all. (I am not mad, she insists.)

She is so old now. She finds it difficult to move, to think, but the name Pan still means something to her. A part of her wishes he'd come back, because right now she's more scared than she's ever been in her life, and somehow eternal old age seems preferable to death.