“Come on.” Jane takes Timothy’s hand, glancing down at him. The trust in his eyes frightens her even more than what lies at the end of the path, but he’s counting on her. She cannot let him down. “Let’s show the monsters we aren’t afraid.”

LONDON 1921

Wendy takes a deep breath, smoothing her hands over the front of her dress, then clenching them together across her midsection, the fingers of each hand gripping the wrist of the other. All she has to do is put one foot in front of the other and walk. She made the same journey in reverse almost a year ago. Step. Breathe. Step. She walked out of St. Bernadette’s, surely she can walk back in. It can’t be that hard. This time she is a guest, a visitor. No one can hold her or keep her here.

And yet her body itches, prickling with sweat all over. Sweat that doesn’t quite emerge but remains secret, like a bruise, tucked onto the wrong side of her skin. The brick facade of St. Bernadette’s leans out toward her, and it seems only the blink of an eye since she was here last. She never left, and now the door is a mouth, tongue lolling out to swallow her whole.

She shakes her head, dislodging the thoughts, and takes a determined step forward. White stone crunches under her boot heels. She’s heard Jamieson doesn’t even work here anymore. Some illness, leaving the left side of his body weak, perhaps the same hidden illness that kept him out of the war. She wants to feel spitefully, vindictively glad, but she can’t summon either hate or pity, only apathy. Jamieson is nothing to do with her now; this isn’t her life anymore.

The sun beats down, turning the scar of the path blindingly white. Leaf-stripped branches stir overhead in a gust of wind, and puffs of condensation frost from her lips as Wendy walks toward the door. She doesn’t belong in this place; there’s nothing to be afraid of here anymore.

Her footsteps sound extremely loud as she crosses the threshold. The sudden transition from bright sunlight to the relative darkness inside throws her for a moment. She’s disoriented, and reaches a hand to steady herself.

“Miss?” A voice at her elbow, and Wendy jumps.

A nurse. A young one. No one Wendy recognizes.

“It’s Mrs.” The words come from her in automatic response. She’s said them so many times to herself, trying to convince herself or convince the world, and they still don’t feel like they belong to her.

“I’m here to see Mary—” Wendy’s voice breaks, and she hates that it does, wishing it were stronger. “Mary White Dog.”