“I’ll only make a mess of it.” Wendy tries to push the circle back into the girl’s hands, thinking of her mother’s attempts to teach her sewing as a child. She knew it to be an essential skill for a young lady, but she’d always made a mess of it, too impatient, always eager to be doing other things like reading or making up stories of her own, corralling her brothers into performing little plays for an audience of toys in the nursery. As a result, Wendy’s stitches had always come out crooked, her threads tangling and breaking. The only real success she’d ever had was sewing Peter’s shadow back on, and even that had withered and faded as soon as they’d reached Neverland.

“I’ll teach you,” she says.

“I don’t think the nurses will let me have a needle.” Wendy glances at her clipped nails. The idea of them allowing her even a tiny sliver of metal sharp enough to draw blood is unthinkable.

The girl waves a hand, dismissing Wendy’s concerns.

“The nurses bring their own embroidery and sewing to keep themselves occupied, but they’re forever losing and misplacing things. It shouldn’t be too hard to get you your own supplies. I’m very good at keeping secrets and hiding things.” She flashes a grin. “I’m Mary, by the way, Mary White Dog. Mary is the name my mother gave me. My grandmother gave me the name White Dog, but they don’t like me to use it, so on all the papers here I’m Mary Smith.”

The torrent of words leaves Wendy feeling breathless, but giddy as well. She gathers herself, offering her own name in turn.

“I’m Wendy. Wendy Darling. I’m very pleased to meet you.”

“Wendy.” Mary grins full on now, a crooked and charming thing. “Tell me a story.”

LONDON 1931

The night air catches at Wendy’s hair, tugging strands loose from her braid and blowing them against her cheeks. She looks down. It isn’t that far to the courtyard below her window, but it’s far enough. If she fails, if she falls, she’ll break a bone at least, probably more than one.

When she and John and Michael had first returned from Neverland all those years ago, Wendy had been dreadfully sick. She’d spent weeks in bed with a fever, as if something there had infected her and her body could no longer tolerate the London air. Her parents had been patient at first, bringing cold cloths for her forehead and warm broth to drink, holding her hand gently and asking her where they’d been. They’d been gone nearly two weeks, and then suddenly reappeared in the nursery again as though they’d never left.