The air whips against my face, my eyes stinging with tears. I hold onto the shadow hand with all my might. The sugary smell of pixie dust lingers on my face.

We weave around rooftops, climbing higher and higher. The clock chimes midnight somewhere behind me and I'm reminded of my first flight to Neverland. How different will this time be?

The lights of London are far below me now, shrinking into tiny flecks until they resemble stars against a dark sky. My arm grows tired the longer we fly; the chilly clouds dampen my blouse as we fly along.

After maybe an hour, the shadow passes through a cloudbank and we emerge on the other side into a bright clear patch of sky. Our aim is clear. I watch it glow brighter and brighter as we approach, a beacon to the belief that's buried deep inside me.

The second star to the right is calling me home.

The full island comes into view –every bit as magical and mystical as the land that haunted my dreams for the better half of a decade. It is dazzling –an undying star shimmering against a sea of sky. Only, it's not sky at all. It's an ocean. Now I can see the waves lolling below us, lapping against the crescent beach.

My eyes follow the charcoal smoke spiraling up from Camp Black Cliff, vapor against the dark Neverpeak Mountains. A great green river snakes through the plains, disappears into the jungle, and empties out into Cannonball Cove. There anchored in the harbor is the Jolly Roger, captained by the evil Hook.

A bright sun appears, obscuring my vision as the shadow plummets lower still. I feel myself fall from the clouds and break into Neverland's atmosphere.

My lungs catch a fresh breath of island air –a sweet concoction of sea salt and bonfire smoke folded into sugary pixie dust. It smells like I remember it. It's intoxicating, stimulating my senses tenfold. A feeling envelops me, inflating my heart, as if I've been cloaked by the prospect of eternal happiness.

I remember this all too well. This is what Neverland does.

It makes all other air feel like stale breath.

It's why you never want to leave.

Shadow Pan dips even lower still. We are gliding over the sparkling waters of Mermaid Lagoon. I hear a canon fire in the distance and turn my head to find three pirate ships racing into the cove.

"Arg! There goes the booty!" shouts a pirate.

"Hold ye fire," bellows a second man.

"Land ho!"

"A flying lady bird, she goes."

Raspy voices echo across the open water.

I can feel the spray of the sea now. My reflection watches me from the sparkling surface. Close enough.

I take my chance and release my grip on Peter Pan's shadow. I free fall 20 feet; it is a slow drop thanks to the lasting effects of the pixie dust. With a small splash, I land in the water. It's delightfully warm, like being submerged in a tropical bath.

I break the surface and see the three pirate ships gaining on me. I stand no chance of tussling with pirates right now. The silhouettes of three ships loom behind me and I start to panic.

"This way!"

I swivel around in the water, noticing a tiny mermaid flipping her fin ahead of me. I hesitate. My last encounter with these mythical sea creatures did not go swimmingly.

"Come on! There's safety ahead," the mermaid says again, her voice calming.

OK.

I wade behind the mermaid, floating in the current of her wake.

She leads me to the nearest strip of land –a grotto etched into the cliffs just north of Mermaid Lagoon. It's almost entirely concealed beneath the jungle overgrowth and framed by curtains of seaweed. I duck my head under the waterfall and am relieved to find the small cave empty.

I'm not sure I am ready to face more sultry mermaids.

"Thanks for that," I breathe, clutching at the stitch in my side.

"No problem, girl." The beautiful hybrid stares at me, expectantly.

"Er–" I look around.

"My name is Calysa," she says, smiling.

I regard Calysa –admiring her silken strawberry hair cascading over her opalescent skin –examining her larimar scales and the crushed shells wrapped around her bosom. Beauty doesn't do her justice.

"Can't the pirates come in here?" I ask, sweeping the cavern. I do not see any entrance large enough to fit a ship. The only sliver in the grotto wall is barely wide enough for a canoe to pass.

"The pirates never come in here. Only the boys to bring us gifts," she says.

"The boys?" I raise my brow. "The Lost Boys you mean?"

"He brings them –Peter Pan." Calysa's eyes shine bright when she says his name.

"Right," I sigh.

"Sometimes the pirates come –if we lure them," she giggles mischievously. "Don't drown again, girl."

"Right," I utter. "Well, thank–"

I stop myself short as Calysa's head disappears beneath the surface, her tail splashing water over the beach.

I picture 12 year-old Wendy here, standing next to Pan, jealous of the mermaids. I shake the recollection from my mind. This is not a stroll down memory lane.

I clamber from the water onto the shell-strewn beach inside the grotto. Smooth seashells of pinks and golds crunch beneath my feet. I kneel at the water's edge and my fingers find a shell. It looks just like the one I stole all those years ago.

My knapsack is soaked through, but there's nothing of value in it now. I braid my hair back off my face, and tie it with my blue ribbon. I wring out my chemise and tuck the front into my high-waist khakis. I can't help but think I rather look equestrian.

More canon fire echoes outside the lagoon. The floor quakes and tiny bits of the cave ceiling sprinkle down on my head.

I slog along in my shoes sodden with seawater. Thinking of how much hiking I have ahead, I find myself wishing I had Rat's rugged boots.

The trail winding out of the coastal cavern is longer than I remember and much more narrow, but then I suppose I've grown quite a bit since my last trip. Sunlight spills into the tunnel up ahead.

Ready.

I step into the sundrenched air and immediately feel myself drying out. There is not a cloud in the entire sea of a sky. Looking into the deep cerulean blue, I find it momentarily impossible to believe London –or anywhere else for that matter –is up there. For the first time since my feet have been on the ground, I have a chance to survey (and admire) the island.

Neverland is, as advertised, the stuff of dreams. A sprawling sea stretches along my right, the cliffs and caves behind me. Pirate Village and Cannonball Cove are back there as well. The tree canopy of Time Trap Forest looks like a bundle of olive cotton balls zigzagging across the plains and the dark outline of the Neverpeak Mountains looms in the distance.

Beyond that I see the Indian Trail that leads to Camp Black Cliff. I wonder if Tiger Lily is there now, waiting for Peter Pan. I step lightly on the sandy dunes that surround the edge of Mermaid Lagoon. Way ahead I can see the unmistakable silhouette of Skull Rock painted black in the sunlight. Along the north side of the island I see another forest, one I know too well.

Neverwood.

Somewhere deep in the forest lies Peter Pan's hideout: A hollowed-out tree carved into rooms and decked with weapons and booby-traps.

I remember my first visit to Hangman's Tree. It was utterly whimsical –a cottage carved from a tree –festooned with flowers, pinecones and plumages from all the wild animals of Neverland. My favorite part was the laughter.

Hangman's Tree is home to all the Lost Boys on Neverland and it was always crowded with boys sharing stories and laughing and playing games. It was simply marvelous. Was.

I pull the damp map from inside my rucksack and unfold it in front of me. I seem to have gotten it mostly right –apart from the fork in Croc Creek and the slope of Shade Valley.

I make my way across the littoral marsh, around the gully, and up the coast with one target in mind: Neverwood.

I do not expect to walk into Peter Pan's camp and demand my brothers' return. It would be unwise. For I know time does not pass here, but it doesn't mean things remain the same. How much has changed?

Do the Lost Boys still play games with the Indians –taking turns capturing and releasing each other? Or perhaps has their friendly pastime turned deadly? Is Captain Hook still hell-bent on imprisoning Pan? Do the faeries still mine pixie dust for flying?

Will Peter Pan remember me –the 12 year-old girl he tricked into leaving Neverland without her brothers?

It matters not. I remind myself.

I'm not the 12 year-old girl he tricked into leaving Neverland empty-handed. I'm 17 and he no longer frightens me.

He is nothing.

Peter Pan is nothing.