“Of course, the garden is quite lovely.” In his haste to stand and accommodate her request, Ned almost knocks his chair over. His father catches it before it hits the ground, righting it with a scowl.

If she were bolder, Wendy might loop her arm through Ned’s, if only to spite his father, but she restrains herself. After all, this man is a part of her life now; she doesn’t have to make an effort to like him, but she must at least try to get along.

As he and John retreat to another room, Wendy follows Ned and Michael through a set of double glass doors leading onto a stone terrace overlooking an enclosed garden. Crossing the threshold, Wendy takes a moment to appreciate the novelty of stepping outside of her own free will, of not being under the watchful eye of Dr. Harrington, or Jamieson, or any of the nurses. She draws in a deep breath, and not even the pinch of her corset is enough to dampen her joy.

Michael moves to one of the benches at the terrace’s far end. Wendy surprises herself with disappointment; he intends to chaperone them in name only. It isn’t that she fears being alone with Ned. A glance at his face is enough to tell her that he is still far more frightened of her than she is of him. Rather it’s the fresh loss of her brother that saddens her. For a moment, she caught a glimpse of the old Michael, when he called her Windy, when he smiled as he offered to chaperone.

Perhaps it’s terribly rude of her, but she watches her brother for a moment longer, ignoring Ned. It’s been so long, surely he can’t begrudge her. A bright slant of sunlight picks out golden highlights in the wheat of Michael’s hair. It’s thinner than Wendy remembers. Everything about him is thinner. The suit jacket she’s certain John picked out for him hangs from his shoulders as if from a scarecrow. She can practically see Michael standing in a field, surrounded by high stalks of corn, staring endlessly at the horizon. A cloud of black birds might descend on him, and he would never move. Wendy’s heart aches for him.

Michael leans his cane against the bench beside him and reaches into his pocket, pulling out a tin of tobacco and a paper. She doesn’t miss the way his hands shake as he rolls the cigarette. He turns slightly, and her pulse snags, but he barely seems to register her. His face is lost in a wash of sunlight, ghosted out as he raises the tin toward Ned in a silent question. Ned shakes his head, and Michael turns away, his shoulders rising in an effective wall, shutting Wendy and Ned out.