Frustrated, she snaps her mouth closed, staring at Peter. He’s done something to her, bewitched her like in one of the fairy stories her mama used to tell. He might even be a creature out of one of those stories. There’s a scent to him, wild and raw, like the green pond smell from earlier, but also like honey. They fell through the world, like a knight falling into faerie, and now she’s here, wherever here might be. Sunlight peeks through the branches and glints in Peter’s hair—a fire, consuming everything in its path.

He watches her in turn, tilting his head as if her stillness and silence puzzles him. As if she’s the strange creature from another world, which here she might be for all she knows. His hands dangle loose between his knees, which stick up at odd angles from the way he crouches on the sand. Freckles spray his nose and cheeks like stars, but the color of rust. His teeth are too sharp. The thought chills her, and she looks away. It must be the branches casting shadows through his smile. She almost convinces herself, and risks another glance. He lowers his lashes, peeking at her almost shyly as if to show her she has no reason to be afraid. His eyes—they’re a gray-blue like a storm, like the pigeons in Trafalgar Square.

“What is this place?” She finally manages to put words in order, and they’re far gentler than what she meant to say. She wants to call him a rotten thief and shout at him until he tells her where her parents are.

“It’s Neverland, of course. Where else would it be?” Peter says the words like she should know what he means, even though he’s speaking complete nonsense. She’s studied every single part of the globe her father gave her, and there’s no such place as Neverland.

“How could you forget?” Peter says.

She shakes her head, too frightened now for words. There’s a cold crawling feeling in her stomach, something important she’s missing.

“I’m Peter.” He points at himself, speaking slowly and loudly now. Then he points at her. “And you’re Wendy.”

“That’s not my name.” The fear spikes, scrabbling in her chest. “That’s my mother’s name. I’m—” But when she reaches for it, her name is gone again.

Her voice wobbles. She has a feeling like she’s looking at a puzzle—pieces are there, only she can’t fit them together. Peter’s smile flickers, a candle guttered with darkness, but returns an instant later just as bright.