Tiger Lily’s shoulders curl in upon themselves, and she looks down, away. Scraps of cloth and leather cling to her narrow frame. Wendy remembers elaborate beads and beautiful stitching, more precise and perfect than anything she could ever produce, even with Mary’s patient tutelage. Behind Tiger Lily, other forms emerge to stand between the trees, but draw no closer, giving the two of them space.

Peter’s Indians. Like Tiger Lily, they are drained and dry. Hunched. Mere echoes of what they once were.

“Please,” Wendy says.

Tiger Lily drags her gaze back to Wendy’s. Her eyes go wide, but her posture straightens, even though the motion looks painful.

It’s all the sign Wendy needs. She closes the distance, throwing her arms around her friend. Tiger Lily feels hollow, and she’s afraid to hold her too hard, as if she might snap in two if Wendy holds her too tight.

Wendy forces herself to let go, step back, look her friend in the eye.

“What has he done to you?”

LONDON 1920

Wendy keeps her head bowed, sliding one foot in front of the other. All she has to do is make it to the door at the end of the hall. John is waiting for her in the garden; Dr. Harrington told her he sent ahead to say he had big news. Perhaps she is being released. His visits have been few and far between and all of them brief. It’s clear this place frightens him, leaves him feeling guilty for what he’s done. That he’s here again now, and made it clear he means to stay more than a few moments, must mean his news is big indeed. Perhaps John and Michael have finally come to their senses and remembered Neverland.

Three more steps. Two. Hope flutters in her chest, a fragile and terrible thing. She shouldn’t allow it, but she can’t help herself, even now. One more step and she’s outside. The sunlight makes her squint, and the smell of fresh grass tickles her nose. Wendy raises her head. John sits at a small table beneath one of the massive oak trees dotting the lawn. There’s even tea.

It’s so civilized, the picture of familial bliss. Wendy wrestles down the thing clawing at her throat—a scream, laughter, a shout. She makes herself cross the lawn at a steady pace. Flowers spill from neat beds all around her, wild bursts of color, like bright jewels scattered on the lawn. If she doesn’t look too closely, she can almost forget there’s a fence with thick iron bars hidden within the dense greenery on either side of the gate. If she doesn’t look behind her, she can pretend there’s no wall that she tried and failed to scale.