She almost bends to touch the footprints in the sand as though she could guess which ones belong to Jane. Her daughter, here in Neverland. It still doesn’t seem possible. The two worlds should never have touched. Jane is the life Wendy built to save herself from Peter. She should have told her daughter everything. Kept her safe.

Wendy takes a shuddering breath. Her clever, curious daughter. Will she be smarter than Wendy, less susceptible to Peter’s charms? Wendy can only hope.

She draws closer to the wreck of the ship. Beached and snapped in two, the prow pointing up toward the sky. But the interior might be intact, and there might be weapons or something else she could use. If anything in Neverland ever gave Peter pause, it was Hook. She can very well imagine the boys looking on the ship, even destroyed, with superstition, refusing to step inside what was once the realm of their greatest enemy.

Once. She comes close enough to touch the hull and rests her fingers against the weathered boards. What could be powerful enough to tear a ship in half this way? Were the pirates on board when it happened, and if not, where did they go?

NEVERLAND – 27 YEARS AGO

“Why must I stay behind? It isn’t fair.”

“Because you’re a girl. Girls don’t go to war.” Peter’s fists rest on his hips, elbows jutting out like strange wings. His tone is imperious, as though everything he’s saying should be perfectly obvious and Wendy is dull for not understanding.

“You have to heal the soldiers when they’re wounded so they can rejoin the war. Those are the rules.”

“What rules? Who made the rules?” Wendy is taller than Peter; when she pokes him in the chest he takes a step back, and there’s a moment of satisfaction as she looms over him. His scowl deepens, his bottom lip pushing out as he glares up at her, but Wendy ignores him. “If Michael and John get to go, I should get to go too.”

“No. You stay here.” Peter crosses his arms. He moves to the makeshift tent’s doorway, and somehow his slight frame fills the space so Wendy can’t see any way to slip past him.

“Fine.” She crosses her own arms, turning her head and refusing to look at him. She hopes his expression is hurt, but she won’t give him the satisfaction of looking to see for sure. She makes herself hold the pose, not turning around again until he’s gone.

The sense of triumph is temporary. Almost as soon as the tent flap falls shut behind him, Peter is shouting orders, her presence and their argument just as likely forgotten.

“Everyone, it’s time to choose our swords,” Peter says.