But then, what had she ever done to make him trust her enough to speak his pain? All those times she’d thrown his truth back in his face, demanding he remember Neverland? Why would he ever want to confide in her, after everything she put him through?

He’d surprised her recently though. John, his then-fiancée Elizabeth, and Michael had all come for tea, while Ned had been out with his father and Jane. Mary had taken the day off, though thankfully she’d left the kitchen well stocked with scones, which Wendy surely would have burned. Afterward, Michael had offered to help her do the washing up, taking her by surprise. She couldn’t remember the last time they’d been alone together, and she’d been almost afraid, but she’d accepted Michael’s offer.

Everything felt fragile and uneasy, despite the warmth of the kitchen. Wendy had been on edge, feeling like everything would shatter around her with the slightest wrong movement, remembering broken plates and cups of old, and screamed words. Then Michael had spoken, and his voice had caught her so off guard that Wendy had dropped the saucer she’d been holding. Soapy water sprayed the floor, and Michael flinched at the sound.

Wendy remembers holding her breath, feeling herself on the edge of tears. But Michael had looked at her, and offered a pained smile. Her brother, a stranger, both wrapped in one skin. She’d almost gone to her knees to take his hands in her wet and dripping ones to beg his forgiveness. But fear had locked her in place, and she’d remained still, letting her hands drip, letting the shards of the broken saucer lie.

“I want to remember,” he’d said, making her heart stutter.

Her first irrational thought was that he meant Neverland. Even then, after everything, after St. Bernadette’s, after the hurt she’d done to him that had sent her there, it was where her mind turned first. But he meant the war, his own scar, just as Neverland was hers.

“Some men, all they want is to forget, but I want to remember.” His hands trembled, one gripping a dishrag, the other the head of the cane he still used.

His wounded leg shook too, a sign of fatigue, but she knew his pride would make him refuse if she offered him a chair. His lost expression implored her, a child again, waking from a bad dream in the nursery and asking her to make it better.