Applying a burst of effort, she rolls onto her side, the coils of rope slithering free, not even tying her down, just piled haphazardly as if someone meant to bind her then forgot. She sits up, twisting around so she can see that the curve of wood holding up the branches is the hull of a ship. The sand beneath her is wet, the dampness soaking through her nightgown, leaving her cold.

“Wendy! You’re awake!” The branches rustle and the boy from her window pokes his head through them, grinning.

Wendy. That’s her mother’s name. And she’s… Jane. The name is suddenly there, like something emerging from the fog, still half obscured so she isn’t certain it truly is familiar after all. Is it her? Her thoughts move slowly, like the long strings of almost-burnt sugar Cook pulls into caramel. She helps Cook in the kitchen sometimes. The precision of the measurements please her, and the way slight variations can produce different results is just like a scientific experiment. But even better, at the end, patient stirring is rewarded with a taste test.

She can almost feel the smoky sweetness on her tongue, the mass of candy clinging to her back teeth. She shakes her head, a sharp motion, bringing her thoughts back to the here and now. She isn’t normally the flighty sort; she’s a very sensible girl, her mother and father have often told her so. Right now, though, her head feels thick and muzzy, and it’s hard to concentrate.

“Who are you?” She presses her back against the ship, drawing her knees up and wrapping her arms around them.

He looks like a boy, not much older than her, but if he brought her here, if he stole her from her room, he might be something far more dangerous.

“I’m Peter, silly.” The boy crab-walks between the branches and into the shelter.

She remembers landing, panic gripping her, and the boy pressing something into her hands saying it would make her feel better. Was it medicine? She can’t recall the details, her memory is incomplete, scattered. A broken shard of sky sliding free, the beach tilting beneath her feet, the hard rain of stars. Darkness. It was night when they arrived, and it’s morning now, or even afternoon. How long has she been gone? Her parents must be worried sick about her.

“I have to get—” She starts to demand he take her home, glaring at Peter as she does, but her tongue sticks to the roof of her mouth. Her throat is bone-dry and the words get lost between her tongue and her lips. They jumble in her mind, and she can’t put them in the right order again, even in her head.