Air whistles shrill and sharp. Her clothing snaps like sails and flags on a long-ago pirate ship. Jane. Jane. Jane. Wendy thinks of her daughter fiercely, love and pain wrapped all in one. Happiness. Home. The thought slips in, unbidden. She’s going home.

She shoots upward, toes nearly scraping the courtyard’s stone as she rises sharply and soars over the gate, diving into the sky above London. Up, up, Wendy twists until the sky is beneath her and she’s swimming down into it, flying through to the other side of night where Neverland lies waiting.

The rush of air is no longer a scream, but a triumphant yell. Her body remembers flight, the ache of muscles held taut against gravity, and the years fall away. Wendy stretches her arms, her shawl spread between them like wings, and embraces the glittering dark. She banks, rolls, then turns a loop, shedding fear with each motion. The map of London spread below her becomes mere points of light, blurred together as she gains speed.

Is that Westminster Abbey? Kew Gardens? She skims low again before rising once more—a shooting star in reverse. It is glorious. The pain inside her uncoils, and for just a moment, Wendy allows herself to laugh out loud. The wind snatches the sound from her and streams it out behind her.

Neverland. She marks the stars against the velvet sky. They’re no longer the stars above London. She’s already passed through that invisible barrier to where they’re different, other and impossible. Too far to turn back now, not that she would. Wendy finds the second star from the right, knowing it like an anchor to her soul, and sets her course, flying straight on ’til morning.

4: Lost Boys

LOST BOYS

Her mouth tastes of berries and the faintest hint of sandy grit. She’s been helping Cook make jam to go with the scones, licking the spoon once all the stirring is done. It must be the sugar combined with the heat from the stove that’s left her so lightheaded.

She shakes herself, as if clearing away a sound on the edge of hearing. No. Of course. She isn’t in the kitchen. She isn’t even at home. She’s in N______. The name is just there, on the other side of the sticky muzz filling her head. Oh, why can’t she think straight? Jam and burnt-sugar caramel and the lingering sweetness in her mouth…

Neverland! She snatches the name from the air, like a butterfly caught in her net. She must hold the net closed tight so it doesn’t flutter away again. But when she reaches for her own name, it remains gone. The boy, Peter, called her Wendy, and he called this place Neverland.