She hasn’t decided what she will tell Ned of her life, and she doesn’t know what he may be willing to share of his. All she knows is that she would like to learn more about him. She would like to have someone else in the world besides Mary that she can rightfully call her friend.

Wendy allows herself a smile, a small one, and hope creeps into her chest. For the first time since walking out of St. Bernadette’s gate mere hours ago, she feels as though she can breathe properly.

“Thank you, Miss Darling.” Ned returns her smile, relief in it, and also genuine pleasure.

“Please,” Wendy says, “if we are to be friends, you must call me Wendy.”

* * *

Jane leads Timothy back to the spot where arrowheads and stones pelted her, keeping alert for more unseen assailants. She peers into the blue-blackness under the trees. Where the path splits and the trees bow inward, forming a natural tunnel and blocking most of the moonlight, the air looks almost solid there.

The very thought of walking beneath those trees repulses her, so that she can almost feel hands on her shoulders, turning her around, turning her away, pushing her back. It’s like Peter’s voice in her head, his eyes fixed on hers. Wouldn’t it be so much nicer to go back to the camp? There’s more meat to fill her belly, and more games to play. They can sit by the fire and be warm; no need to wander off into the dark where anything might happen, where monsters might eat them.

She can almost feel her name trying to slip away from her again as the thoughts roll through her mind, and Jane clenches her teeth so hard her jaw aches. The pain focuses her. She’s known since she was Timothy’s age that there’s nothing to be afraid of in the dark. It’s just like shadows, something blocking the light, but the light and the daytime always return. But she’s frightened nonetheless.

At home all that might be true, but here… Unreasoning fear grips her, a fear she can’t explain, like the crooked-tailed cat brushing unexpectedly against the back of her legs and making her jump. And just like that, she’s certain. As much as she doesn’t want to go—because she doesn’t want to go—the path through the trees is the one they need to take.

She touches the arrowhead still tucked into her sleeve. It feels like a token for good luck somehow. She can’t say why, but more than ever now she’s sure someone, or something, meant to warn her away, to keep her safe, not merely to frighten her. She offers a silent apology to that unseen guardian for ignoring their unconventionally delivered advice.

Beside her, Timothy stares into the space beneath the trees, his posture rigid, an eerie emptiness to his eyes.