Wendy rests her hands on the stone railing, soaking in its sun-warmth for a moment before pulling herself up. The stone is just wide enough to allow her to balance on her bare feet. She crouches, peering over the edge. It’s not that far down, yet the emerald lawn looks impossibly distant. She peels one hand off the railing, then the other, holding her arms out to either side as she straightens.

Just one quick trip, and then she’ll come right back. Even if she doesn’t see Peter, she needs to feel the wind against her skin, to fall through the sky and see the stars from the wrong side. Just a sip of Neverland’s air, then she’ll return and stay as long as John and Dr. Harrington want; she won’t complain or misbehave ever again. She leans forward ever so slightly, waiting for the shift in balance, the sky to catch her weight, her feet to lift from the stone.

“Wendy.” Mary’s voice is low and tense.

It isn’t a shout, and maybe that’s what saves Wendy from wheeling around and losing her balance. Mary stares at her, eyes wide and dark. Wendy had been so intent on not being seen she hadn’t noticed that she was being followed.

“What are you doing?” Accusation in Mary’s expression, a hard edge under her level tone.

Leaving.

Wendy doesn’t say the word aloud, swallowing against a sudden painful lump in her throat. Oh, she promised herself she’d return, but Wendy knows deep down that once her feet had touched the sands of Neverland’s beach, she never would have looked back. How long would it have taken her to forget Mary? To forget her brothers? Forget everything? She would have run and kept running and never have thought of England again.

Because that’s what Neverland is—running away, cowardly, without even saying goodbye. It’s leaving behind everything you claim to love to embrace purely selfish joy. No responsibilities, no consequences, and nothing matters or ever changes.

Wendy chokes on the knowledge, a sound between a cough and a sob. The rift inside her widens. She feels exposed. Standing here with her shorn head, she’s proving Dr. Harrington right. She’s sick, a danger to herself; she needs help.

“I don’t know.” It’s barely a whisper.

She can’t make herself move, not to step down from the railing, not to let herself fall. Mary holds out a hand. A lifetime passes, but Wendy finally closes the distance, one that seems immense, and places palm against palm. The touch grounds her, and she winds their fingers together, clinging tight. Mary’s skin is warm; there are calluses from her needlework, and from baking in St. Bernadette’s kitchen.