And what of her? She’d had no business concerns to occupy herself with like John. Unlike Michael, she could not go to war. As a woman, what could she choose? Only marriage, only motherhood, and she’d had enough of playing mother in Neverland. The thought of being a wife—it had frightened her in a way she couldn’t say. John had hinted at it, more than once, before St. Bernadette’s. He had even tried to engineer a chance meeting, inviting a young man to the house as if he had no idea Wendy would be there, and inviting them both to sit down for tea.

He’d meant well, she knows that much. It hadn’t only been wanting to get his troublesome sister off his hands; she’s certain he genuinely expected her to be happy at the prospect. What woman wouldn’t want to marry, after all? But Wendy had found herself stunned to silence by the very idea, terrified and angry at once. She’d barely spoken a single word to the man, stretching awkward silences through the room until the young man had taken on the look of a frightened animal, desperate to flee, and John had finally admitted defeat.

If growing up meant marrying, then of course she would cling to Neverland all the harder, refusing to let go.

She sees the weight of all that on John’s shoulders now, and more. She’s been cruel, thoughtless, digging into John’s wounds again and again, demanding he look at the blood. She opens her mouth, an apology crowding her throat. But John speaks first.

“I have good news.” John hands her the cup. It rattles in its saucer. “I’ve found someone—that is, Michael and I have found someone who’s willing to…” He clears his throat. “I mean, there’s been an offer for your hand, Wendy.”

The words land like a blow, and all thoughts of apology fly from her mind. Wendy’s fingers go numb around the eggshell thinness of the saucer. The cup slips, crashing to the table. Shards fly and hot liquid splashes. John leaps up, knocking over his chair as he does. His cheeks are ruddy above his moustache. He’s flustered, but he recovers quickly, waving away the attendant standing at a discreet distance as he looks their way.

“Oh dear. Well, never mind, darling.”

He cleans the mess, and Wendy watches him, stunned. She is a creature made of skin wrapped around a core of ice, solid and immovable. She is a girl in a bathtub. She never climbed out. She is frozen through and through.