She pulls her shawl closer, but the motion doesn’t come again. The leaves cast shadow patterns on the forest floor. They shift with the breeze, but everything else is stillness. The air feels haunted, and Wendy feels watched. Even the trees seem paler, washed of their color somehow, the leaves almost translucent, like ghosts of themselves. She hurries her steps until she’s out from under the trees, looking at the rocky caldera surrounding the lagoon. It’s right where she expected it. At least this part of Neverland hasn’t changed.

Tiny shells and fossils of starfish and insects stud the porous stone that surrounds the water and hides it from view. Wendy runs her fingers over the stone. Jane would love this. She would probably know the name of every species embedded in the rock. She pulls her hand back, and it’s a moment before she can breathe again for the ache in her chest.

She removes her shawl and ties it around her waist, then unbuttons her cuffs and rolls her sleeves to her elbows. She checks her pockets; everything is secure. Wendy reaches, and as she does, the rock molds itself to her grip—just as she remembers. She pushes off with one foot, pulling herself up, and searches for a spot to wedge the toe of her boot. Her limbs aren’t as flexible as they used to be, but her fingers still find holds in all the right places. Like Neverland’s trees, the rocks here understand adventure, a desire to be higher than everything else. King of the hill. Or queen.

There’s a pleasant burn to climbing, and Wendy revels in it—the stretch of her muscles, the sweat gathering beneath her clothes. She welcomes the way her breath comes harder. It’s so unlike anything she would do at home in London. There her greatest exertion might be a stroll in the park or a game of croquet, but here, she is the Wendy again. The girl who flew.

Exhilaration fills her, and just as soon, dread comes on its heels, tripping down her spine. A memory nags her—climbing a rock to a secret place. Something Peter showed her, but what? Something that made her afraid.

At the top of the caldera, Wendy pauses. The breeze picks up a foul smell, one teetering on the edge of rot, carrying it to her from below. She should be able to hear the chatter of mermaid voices, the drifting melody of their song. There’s only more silence, like there was on the beach. Light sparkles on the water below so that Wendy has to squint her eyes against it, but the water itself seems empty. Are the mermaids hiding from her? Or are they afraid and hiding from something else?