Peter. Should she have guessed the truth? Not a boy but an ancient creature, a wicked thing. Wendy tries to hold the words from Tiger Lily’s story in her mind—of a creature unfathomably old—but even now her thoughts shy away from the truth. She wants to slam the door again, to forget.

Dreaming of Peter, dreaming of Neverland—those thoughts saved her from St. Bernadette’s. And those thoughts put her there in the first place. She hurt her brothers for the sake of them. She kept them secret from Jane, from Ned, and for what? They were all lies.

Wendy feels herself crumbling and it’s a fight not to dig her nails into her flesh instead of her clothing now, clawing down as if she could shed every horrible thing she’s done with her skin. Like a shadow.

The thought goes through her, sharp as a needle, and she gasps aloud. She must tear the door in her mind from its hinges and never allow herself to forget again.

Which version of Tiger Lily’s story is true? The one where Peter took responsibility for his actions, or the one where he had it forced upon him? Is his forgetting a mercy he gave himself, or a deliberate lie? Or is the truth somewhere in-between? No wonder he hates age—it’s a reminder of what he once was, or a reminder of what he might one day be.

“Tell me,” Tiger Lily says softly. “You saw something, in here.” She touches a fingertip to Wendy’s forehead, peering at her.

Wendy opens her mouth, but she can’t find the words to answer. She sees Peter looming over her, the angles of his face sharp, his eyes raging and heartbroken. You have to love me.

A little boy. A monster. Both and neither. Peter wanted desperately for Wendy to see all of him, like looking at two sides of a coin at the same time. John and Michael had only ever seen the boy, the adventures. But he’d shown Wendy all the darkness along with the light, and he’d expected her to be infinitely vast enough to contain it all. A mother, strong enough to scare the monsters away, strong enough to love the monster even when it cannot love itself.

“Peter showed me the truth, then he took the memory away.” Wendy shakes her head. “The monster from your stories, that’s what he really is.”

Tiger Lily’s expression mirrors what Wendy imagines must be her own. They both failed. Somehow they should have known what Peter was, and kept others safe from him. Even as the thought crosses Wendy’s mind, anger rises in her. She wants to shout at Tiger Lily—how dare she think she bears even the tiniest bit of blame for Peter’s actions? And she wants to laugh at herself, a bitter, hollow sound.