When it had become clear to them that Wendy wouldn’t change her story, their parents had sent John and Michael away to a boarding school, while keeping Wendy at home under their watchful eyes. It was as though they had believed that separating her from not only her brothers but all other children entirely would force her to give up what they had seen as a youthful fantasy. But it had only ingrained Neverland in her further.

Wendy had spent those nights in the too-empty nursery without the soft sounds of her brothers breathing beside her recounting to herself every detail of Neverland that she could—the precise way the bark felt under her palms as she climbed the trees while chasing Peter, the way the mermaids’ scales flashed in the sun, the scent of smoke from Tiger Lily’s camp fire, the way the deck had rolled under them when Hook’s pirates had captured them, even the particular way the terrible pirate captain had smelled.

Being apart from her brothers for the first time since they had been born had taught Wendy her first lessons in silence and lying. She had learned to keep her truths to herself, telling her parents what they wanted to hear. But she had never stopped believing, and those memories, the way she learned to conjure Neverland into her room at night, will serve her well now.

If she concentrates, she can call to mind exactly how it felt, how the sky over Neverland tasted as she flew, and the exact color of the starlight… There was a time when the stars were so close all she had to do was stretch out her hand to catch one. Wendy stretches out her hand now, curling her fingers into a waiting space. She holds her breath, yearning, concentrating all her will on that invisible tether connecting her to Neverland. But her hand remains empty, no star filling her palm. She closes her hand into a fist, slamming it into the bed in frustration.

She’s a fool. Did she really expect to capture a star in her palm? In this world, the one she’s trapped in, such things aren’t possible. Stars are distant and impossibly huge, not points of light to be gathered and held against the dark. She knows this, and still it hurts. More than she imagined possible. She’s tired beyond belief. Angry. And she’s beginning to feel hopeless.

For a year she’s listened to Dr. Harrington telling her she’s sick, and to Jamieson calling her a liar. She’s seen John tire of arguing with her and turn away, his shoulders sloped in defeat. Michael refuses to even visit her most of the time.