“I know it’s rather a lot to take in.” John doesn’t look at her; the color never disappears from his cheeks. “But Ned is a good man. His father is… His father has been rather a lot of help to me, in business. They are a good family. Ned will be a good match for you.”

Ned. The name echoes, a dull thud against the bones of her skull. Does John realize how many times he’s said the word “good”? Is he trying to convince himself or her? How good can Ned possibly be, to offer marriage to a woman he’s never met? And has John forgotten his last disastrous attempt to matchmake? But nothing has changed since then. As a woman, she is expected to marry, to find a husband to take care of her, and at twenty-seven, she is already nearly too old.

She pictures a towering man with Jamieson’s face, neck thick, smile the thin edge of a knife—the kind of man grown from a boy who delights in pulling the wings off flies. She pictures a man like Dr. Harrington, one with a kindly face but a keen eye bent on studying her. A man who might mean well, but who is all the same set on picking her apart.

And what does John mean by mentioning Ned’s father? The way her brother refuses to meet her eyes, the flush of his cheeks makes her wonder. Does John owe this man money? Is she to be sold to pay back his debt?

How could John do this to her? Just when she thought she understood him, just when she thought the broken thing between them might finally heal.

“I thought you would be happy. Even if… Even if you think you don’t want to marry, surely it would be better than being in this place, wouldn’t it?” John’s hands finally still, and he looks at her, his expression pleading. “Say something, won’t you, Wendy?”

“What should I say?” She meets his gaze, steady and unblinking. Buried within the ice at her core, Wendy Darling, the girl who remembers how to fly, screams.

“Say you’re happy. Or at least that you’ll consider it.” John pulls his chair closer, sitting and taking her hands. The cuff of his shirt is stained with tea.

“Michael and I only want to take care of you, the way you always took care of us. All those stories in the nursery, the games. The way you sat with us when we were sick. You stayed awake with me when I had bad dreams. You sang lullabies.”

He means every word, Wendy can see it. The rift inside her widens; she wants to forgive him, and she can never do so.