From the back of her wardrobe, Wendy retrieves the wide-legged trousers she sewed for herself last year. She promised Ned she wouldn’t wear them outside of the house. Like their furniture, like her agreement to call Mary by the title Cook whenever anyone else is around, it’s another concession to her father-in-law. Trousers are too modern, too mannish, not becoming of a proper lady. As if somehow the clothes Wendy chooses to wear might reflect on the tastes of her husband and his father, and not simply her own.

She pulls the trousers on, then slips her needles, her thread and her scissors into their deep pockets. She sewed them deeper than the pattern required, and she could fit several more items, but what else would she bring? What does one bring to the imaginary land of their childhood to rescue their daughter from a boy who refuses to grow old?

Wendy presses her lips together, trapping bitter laughter behind her teeth. There’s an edge of panic to it; if she lets it out, she might never stop. Everything about this is absurd, and yet it’s terrifyingly real. Her stomach twists around itself so she forces herself to focus on her wardrobe instead. She selects a blouse with long sleeves. It’s inadequate, but it will have to do. She digs out an old pair of low-heeled boots, worn but in good condition, and last, a shawl. She’s been freezing since Peter took her daughter away.

Wendy pushes opens the window then climbs onto the small sewing desk beneath it, bracing her hands on the sill and leaning into the night. Reflexively, she pats her pockets again, though she knows nothing will fall out. She crouches on the windowsill, gazing out at the London night. It’s time to bring her daughter home.

LONDON 1917

Wendy sits by the window in the common room, exhausted and numb. True to his word, Dr. Harrington kept the door to her room locked all night long, but in no way did it make her feel safe. She spent the night jumping at every sound, every shuffled footstep in the hall. Now, despite the tension singing through her, she can barely keep her eyes open. Her chin dips toward her chest, and between one over-long blink and the next, the girl who isn’t Tiger Lily drops into the chair beside her, an accusation on her lips.

“Why were you staring at me?” The violence of the girl’s motion startles Wendy, and she scoots sideways in her chair involuntarily. The legs scrape, and one of the nurses glares at her.

“I wasn’t.” Wendy drops her head, staring at the floor, her answer barely a whisper.

The girl leans forward to peer into Wendy’s face, her eyes narrowed.

“Not now, yesterday, in the hall.”