Wendy has gotten good at interventions, creating distractions, and when necessary, redirecting Jamieson’s attention to herself and away from Mary. Jamieson is not a particularly subtle man. If she’s able to catch him whispering with the other attendants, or even simply glancing Mary’s way, she knows it’s time to go to work. Once, Wendy secreted a small amount of cleaning powder in one of the many temporary pockets sewn into her clothes. The smallest of pinches in Jamieson’s tea—not enough to harm him, really, just enough to make him sick—saved Mary last time. Another time, one Wendy is particularly proud of, a well-aimed stone upset the wasp nest built into a crook of the tree Jamieson favored for smoking beneath, sending him screaming and running.

The thought brings a smile to Wendy’s lips, but the sense of victory is short-lived. She’d paid for those transgressions even though Jamieson could never prove his sickness or wasp-stung flesh was her fault—bruises where Dr. Harrington would never see, pain inflicted but leaving no mark. She’d once spent nearly two days locked in a small supply cupboard until Mary had contrived to get her out. His suspicion was enough. Or perhaps, like all the other times he’d chosen to hurt her, he would have done it regardless of whether she took action against him or not.

Now, as the nurse marches her down the hall, it takes all of her will not to run her hands over her scalp, but she will not give the nurse the satisfaction. Another memory comes unbidden to her mind—sitting on a rock beside Neverland’s lagoon, one of the mermaids braiding her hair, weaving in fragrant blossoms with thick white petals that shimmered in the sun. Wendy blinks, lifting her chin higher.

Only once she’s alone in her room does she allow herself to run a hand over her head. The ghost of her hair bristles against her palm. Wendy sits in the center of her narrow bed and tucks her feet beneath her body. She closes her eyes, resting her hands on her knees, straightening her spine. It’s been fourteen years, but she can still summon the feeling of wind streaming past her skin, whipping strands of her hair around her head like a wild nest of snakes as she flew. Hair that, like so many other things, has been taken from her now too.

A deep ache fills her, like a bruise close to the bone. She is worn thin, a piece of cloth washed so often the individual threads begin to show. She will not let Neverland go, she cannot let it go, but every day it seems farther away. If only she had some sign, something to hold onto, she could endure forever in this place without breaking.