Origins: Peter before Pan

Three

Day had hardly shed its first light when there was a knock on Peter's door.

"Peter?" called Wendy, standing outside his door.

Peter buried his face in his pillow. "Noph now, Wembee," he murmured.

"Oh, come in?" She asked, mishearing him. "Okay!"

Sigh.

The door creaked open and Wendy raced in, narrowly avoiding stepping on Peter's old toys that he pulled out in his reminiscing.

"Peter, Peter, Peter, Peter, Peter!" She squealed. "Peter Peter look!"

As he grumpily rolled into a sitting position on his bed, Peter looked at Wendy. At first, he couldn't tell what she wanted him to look at. Was her hair curlier than usual? Did she cut it? Did she paint on her face again?

After a moment, his eyes adjusted and he could see that she was holding a package, which she then thrust in his face.

"Look! It's got your name on it."

Never in his ten years of living at this awful orphanage had anything come for Peter in the mail. All he could do was stare at it for a moment. Then another. And another.

Finally, once Wendy started to bounce up and down impatiently, Peter took the package.

To:
Peter
c/o Partridge Orphanage

From:
A Friend

A friend? I don't have friends aside from Wendy...

Peter tentatively pulled at the coarse string holding the box together. The box, no bigger than a child's shoe, hardly had any weight to it. He couldn't quite believe there was actually anything in there. Once he got the box open, however, Peter froze, his mind going blank.

Wendy watched Peter for a moment. Then, unsatisfied with his reaction --or lack thereof-- she took the box from his hands and looked inside.

"Ooh!" she squealed, reaching in for the contents. From within, she pulled a carving knife.

With a body of wood and gold trimmings, the knife was the most beautiful thing Peter had ever seen. He could tell that it had been used, but not recently. He knew instantly that the knife would need a good cleaning and some oil in the joints.

Moving slowly, Peter took the knife from Wendy's hand and inspected it admiringly. As he flipped it over, he noticed an inscription on the side.

For Peter, with love from Marianne

For....for me? Peter's mind raced wildly. Who sent this? Who's Marianne?

"Look, Peter!"

Wendy's voice pierced through Peter's thoughts, bringing him back to his bedroom.

"There's paper in here, too!"

Peter reached in the box and pulled out a small, folded piece of paper with his name on the front. Hoping to learn more about the sender, he hastily opened the letter and began to read.

Dearest Peter

I hope this finds you well. This knife belonged to your father, after whom you are named. It was a wedding gift to him from your mother. Your father was an excellent craftsman. He could carve the most beautiful things out of the most dull bits of wood. This knife was his pride and joy. After he died, your mother told me countless times that she wanted her child to have this knife, to learn stories of its father. She was going to give it to you on your eleventh birthday. I'm so sorry she never got the chance to give you this herself or to tell you stories of your father.