When his hand goes to his side, patting at his pocket, Wendy bites the inside of her cheek. The papers he’s looking for are tucked into the hem of her skirt, a space sewn to be invisible from the outside. Wendy drops her gaze, taps the side of her embroidery hoop twice, then stands once Jamieson’s back is turned. She doesn’t dare look at Mary for fear of giving them away. Instead, Wendy moves swiftly toward the hall as Jamieson recruits the other attendant, Evans, to help him search. They’re tearing apart the cabinet where the nurses keep their tins of biscuits and tea and the occasional nip of brandy, Jamieson cursing as he does.

In the hallway, Mary falls into step behind her. Farther down the hall is another door the attendants and nurses often prop open in nice weather so they can enjoy the sunshine while they smoke. Mary was the one who came up with the idea of using a small bit of cloth wedged into the lock to keep it from catching properly. Since then, they’ve learned how to hit the door just right to pop it open again, using it regularly to sneak into the garden to pick wild strawberries in the summer, and once in the winter to stage an elaborate snowball fight.

Wendy throws her shoulder against the door now while the hallways are clear and they tumble outside, laughing and covering their mouths against the noise. Wendy grabs Mary’s hand and they sprint across the lawn.

“Strawberries?” Mary asks, her voice breathless.

“Better.” Wendy turns to grin at Mary over her shoulder. “You know the old tree growing right up against the wall in the far west corner?”

“Sure.” Mary almost stumbles, and Wendy slows, steadying her.

“I heard a rumor that a group of patients used it to escape years ago. We’re going to go see if it’s true.”

“We’re going to run away?” Mary stops and Wendy stops beside her, still holding her hand.

A frown curves Mary’s lips, something almost like fear briefly in her eyes. Mary is never frightened, and Wendy opens her mouth when understanding strikes her. Mary hasn’t been outside St. Bernadette’s walls in years. She was a child when she entered, and she scarcely knows anything of London besides the house of her mother’s husband. Mary has told her that even before her mother died, her mother’s husband rarely brought her along on outings. Her mother was lovely enough that her husband was proud to show her off, but Mary, with her rounder face, her gapped teeth, her darker skin, he preferred to keep hidden.

“Maybe not run,” Wendy says carefully. “Maybe just climb and look over the wall.”

“If you go, so will I.” Mary lifts her chin, defiant, her eyes dark and hard again.