A faint memory of Peter promising to show her something, a secret, holding that promise like the sweet, crisp perfection of an apple, just beyond her reach. He would show her, as long as she followed his rules. Had he ever, or had the promise only been another of his lies?

Looking again, Wendy can no longer see whatever it was she thought she saw. Smoke, dissipated now, like a flock of birds moving on. Like something alive.

Wendy lets her hand fall to her side, pushing the unsettling thought from her mind and focusing on the trees again. If Jane were here beside her now, she would point out the difference in leaves and bark, sharing facts Wendy would never know if her daughter didn’t tell her. She aches for Jane’s explanations, her ordered world, and scrubs a hand over her face, trying to focus.

She should be able to cut through the woods here and come out at the sheltered lagoon on the other side of the island. Unless everything has changed since she’s been gone, Peter erasing the map of Neverland and writing it over again.

Wendy retrieves the rolled stockings from the toes of her boots and pulls them on over the sand-grit clinging to her soles. She shoves her feet into her boots, and turns her back on the water. Birds chatter as she steps beneath the trees, their voices subdued. Do they recognize her? The Wendy come home. This was her home once. She cannot deny it, and in fact, doing so might put her daughter in even more danger. She needs to own her past, and use everything she learned here once upon a time to save Jane and bring her back safely.

LONDON 1918

Tears roll silently down Wendy’s cheeks as the razor scrapes across her scalp. Shame fills her; it’s a silly, vain thing to cry over, but she can’t help feeling a fundamental part of her is being taken away. Her hair, her choice to wear it long or short, pinned up or spilling down her back—now she has no choice at all.

Locks scatter on the tiles, curled like question marks. Lice, the nurse who wields the razor claimed, but from the pinch of her lips Wendy knows it’s a lie. If it were lice, the room would be filled with patients waiting to have their heads shaved, but it is just Wendy and the nurse alone. This isn’t for her protection, or her health; it’s punishment.

Jamieson accused her of stealing. Wendy never even saw what she was meant to have taken. All she saw was the expression on his face as he cupped his big hands and angled his body to hide the “proof” he showed Dr. Harrington.

“What about the other girl?” Dr. Harrington had asked. “You say she was involved too?”