At that moment, Mary looks up from the embroidery hoop in her lap, and her face splits into a smile—sun breaking through the clouds—showing the gap between her teeth, and Wendy’s fear drops away. She forgets the nurse standing in the doorway, forgets everything and runs to Mary. They collide halfway across the room, crushing each other in a hug, breathless and laughing, both trying to talk at once.

“I’m so glad you—”

“I didn’t know if—”

They stop, staring at each other in wonder, and laugh again. When Wendy looks around, the nurse is gone, and they’re alone. She squeezes Mary’s hands, the calluses and warm skin familiar under her fingertips, and leads Mary back to the chairs. They sit, knees almost touching, and Wendy keeps hold of Mary’s hands. Now that she is here, she never wants to let go again.

“Tell me everything. How are they treating you? Are you all right?” The words rush out; she can’t stop staring at Mary, scarcely able to believe she’s real.

“Nothing ever changes.” Wendy’s heart drops, but Mary’s lips shape a mischievous expression, and there’s a glint in her eye. Wendy’s heart turns again, a complicated feeling. She thinks of Mary sneaking through the corridors, pulling off little thefts, all the trouble she might be getting into while avoiding getting caught. She should be here by Mary’s side.

“But look at you, a married woman now.” Mary’s words break into Wendy’s thoughts, and something catches in her chest. She blinks rapidly, and Mary shifts their hands so now she is the one holding Wendy, the pressure of her thumbs steadying Wendy so she lets out a shaky breath.

Mary leans forward, their foreheads touch, and the world rights itself. Wendy lets her weight rest there for a moment. She closes her eyes, feeling the solidity of Mary. She opens her eyes, breathes out and sits back, only slightly dizzy now.

A married woman. The past few months have been a blur. Wendy is scarcely used to it herself. She feared it at first, then began to think it could be something she wants—a family, not like Michael and John, but one all of her own, chosen and not formed by blood. But even as she and Ned learn more of each other, she cannot shake the sense of something missing in her life, something she could not name. Until here, now.

This. Mary’s hands in hers. The thought frightens her, too big to fully contemplate. She wants, but she isn’t certain exactly what it is she wants, and so she pushes the feeling down as it tries to rise up in her like an all-consuming tide.

“Tell me how it is with you,” Mary says. “Are you all right? How does your husband treat you? Do you love him?”