In the lagoon’s depths, there are more skeletons. Dozens of them, some entangled, some alone, some seeming as though they simply dropped through the current as they swam. A gull screams, and Wendy jumps. The cut-out shape of the bird’s wings passes across the cloudless blue as she looks up, and she shudders to think what the curved tip of its beak has been feeding on.

Grief-fueled rage leaves her arms trembling, but she scoops up the first stone she can find and hurls it at the bird. The stone goes wide, arcing back into the water, breaking the still surface so wavelets lap the bones at her feet. A choked sob catches in Wendy’s throat as the bird glides on, oblivious.

She closes her eyes, breathing against the tightness in her chest. And now, when she no longer wants it, memory comes flooding back, conjuring the feel of fingers combing through her hair, the susurrus of gossip passing as flashing tails fan the water. The mermaids knew every inch of the secret underground tunnels lacing through the water beneath the island. They could cross it in a flash, carrying news from one shore to the other. There was a time when the birds were their allies, bringing scraps of news in a language Wendy couldn’t understand. Now Wendy imagines those tunnels clogged with more bones, death under her feet threaded through every part of the island.

It isn’t just the mermaids’ deaths; she selfishly mourns their knowledge, their news. She’s certain they could have told her where to find Jane.

She opens her eyes. The memory of a song hangs over the lagoon, the last note on a wind instrument, unplayed. Wendy brushes at her trousers ineffectively, only succeeding in smearing more mud on the fabric. She remembers sitting with Mary in the parlor window, planning alterations to the pattern, stitching everything by hand as Mary told Wendy her grand ideas for the bakery she would open one day. Another choked sound, half laughter, tasting of salt, and Wendy scrubs at her eyes.

What could kill so many, so quickly? And why didn’t Peter stop it?

She turns away from the water, irrationally angry at herself, at Peter, at the mermaids. She shouldn’t have delayed so long on the beach, and now she’s wasted more time. Neverland may not be big, but there are ever so many places for a clever boy to hide. On top of that, Peter could rearrange it all on a whim. Jane could be anywhere.

So, where next, then? The pirates or the Indians? Weariness and fear clamor inside her, and she pushes them both down. She’ll go inland, cut across the island toward the shipwreck. If she’d been thinking more clearly, she would have started there—the beach is the first place Peter brought her. Why wouldn’t he do the same for Jane?