The boy came slithering down. Kay watched him, how he dangled by his arms, caught on with his legs, dug in with his toes, got himself completely dirty and always saved himself at the last moment from falling.
He dropped breathless at their feet. “It’s fine up there. Different from down here. Up there it belongs to anybody.”
Kay wasn’t quite sure that she approved of him. He had ripped his coat, and it didn’t seem quite kind to give his mother so much work. She spoke reproachfully. “D’you like tearing your clothes?”
He gazed at her out of the corners of his eyes with a sly expression. “I don’t mind. Don’t need to mind—my clothes are magic. They mend themselves.”
“Mend themselves!” She tugged at Peter, to see in what spirit he was accepting this amazing assertion. “Why, how wonderful!” And then, reluctant to show doubt, “But—but how can they?”
The boy grinned broadly. “Not really, you know—just pretence. I—I mend them myself. I’m an awful liar. Come on now.”
Confession had made him self-conscious; he darted ahead. Kay and Peter followed slowly. He turned. “Aren’t you coming?”
It was Peter who answered. “But to where?”
“To where I live—the Happy Cottage.”
Was this also pretence? The name sounded too good to be true—and yet it was the kind of name you tried to believe, despite yourself.