Jane sees it too. She sees the moment Timothy slips on the slick mud and goes under. A hand reaches for his, only slightly bigger than his own, maybe an older brother, or even a sister. His arms churn at the surface, but his head keeps going under. Then doesn’t come up again.

Jane’s lungs squeeze tight, as though she too is drowning. Bubbles rise from Timothy’s lips, already blushed the color of dark plums. There are weeds all around in the murky green, wrapped around his leg, holding him tighter than the hand that tries to grab his wrist and pull him free. She feels the scrabbling panic in her own chest, the cold closing in, the feeling of being terribly and utterly alone.

Then suddenly not alone anymore. Not a weed wrapped around his ankle, but a hand, pulling him down to the other side of the world.

Jane shoves the thought away with such violence it’s almost a physical thing. That cannot be what happened. She refuses to believe. She’s let her own imagination run wild. Timothy has a loving family back in England waiting for him, and they’ll be ever so glad when she brings him home.

Jane wills her pulse to slow, letting out a shaky breath. She pulls Timothy closer, fitting his body against hers, even as it remains rigid. In this moment, Jane decides she would like to be a big sister after all. Not just any big sister, but Timothy’s. If they can’t find his family then he’ll come live with them, as simple as that.

“It’s all right,” she says, finally unsticking her tongue. She squeezes his arm to punctuate her words. “I’ve got you now, and you’re safe. I won’t let you fall ever again.”

14: Shadow Play

SHADOW PLAY

“You can’t do this. Let me go.” Peter is back to fighting and squirming in Wendy’s grasp as she drags him deeper into the cave, even as his shouts fade to a whine.

Everything inside her is held in a delicate balance. She keeps putting one foot in front of the other, not looking at Peter. If she does, that balance will collapse.

There’s a scent to Peter, above the struck-match-and-ash scent of this place—fear. A boy smell, like any other lost child. She must be the girl made of ice, the one who survived St. Bernadette’s. She must be the mother who came all this way to find her daughter. Nothing else. She cannot be the girl who flew the skies of Neverland. And she certainly can’t be Peter’s friend.

“What are you going to do?” Tiger Lily asks. Her voice is soft, and Wendy glances her way. Tiger Lily holds herself alert, as if sensing the thing that awaits them without knowing precisely what it is.

“I’m going to put him back together,” Wendy says.