Applying a burst of effort, she rolls onto her side, the coils of rope slithering free, not even tying her down, just piled haphazardly as if someone meant to bind her then forgot. She sits up, twisting around so she can see that the curve of wood holding up the branches is the hull of a ship. The sand beneath her is wet, the dampness soaking through her nightgown, leaving her cold.
“Wendy! You’re awake!” The branches rustle and the boy from her window pokes his head through them, grinning.
Wendy. That’s her mother’s name. And she’s… Jane. The name is suddenly there, like something emerging from the fog, still half obscured so she isn’t certain it truly is familiar after all. Is it her? Her thoughts move slowly, like the long strings of almost-burnt sugar Cook pulls into caramel. She helps Cook in the kitchen sometimes. The precision of the measurements please her, and the way slight variations can produce different results is just like a scientific experiment. But even better, at the end, patient stirring is rewarded with a taste test.
She can almost feel the smoky sweetness on her tongue, the mass of candy clinging to her back teeth. She shakes her head, a sharp motion, bringing her thoughts back to the here and now. She isn’t normally the flighty sort; she’s a very sensible girl, her mother and father have often told her so. Right now, though, her head feels thick and muzzy, and it’s hard to concentrate.
“Who are you?” She presses her back against the ship, drawing her knees up and wrapping her arms around them.
He looks like a boy, not much older than her, but if he brought her here, if he stole her from her room, he might be something far more dangerous.
“I’m Peter, silly.” The boy crab-walks between the branches and into the shelter.
She remembers landing, panic gripping her, and the boy pressing something into her hands saying it would make her feel better. Was it medicine? She can’t recall the details, her memory is incomplete, scattered. A broken shard of sky sliding free, the beach tilting beneath her feet, the hard rain of stars. Darkness. It was night when they arrived, and it’s morning now, or even afternoon. How long has she been gone? Her parents must be worried sick about her.
“I have to get—” She starts to demand he take her home, glaring at Peter as she does, but her tongue sticks to the roof of her mouth. Her throat is bone-dry and the words get lost between her tongue and her lips. They jumble in her mind, and she can’t put them in the right order again, even in her head.
Frustrated, she snaps her mouth closed, staring at Peter. He’s done something to her, bewitched her like in one of the fairy stories her mama used to tell. He might even be a creature out of one of those stories. There’s a scent to him, wild and raw, like the green pond smell from earlier, but also like honey. They fell through the world, like a knight falling into faerie, and now she’s here, wherever here might be. Sunlight peeks through the branches and glints in Peter’s hair—a fire, consuming everything in its path.
He watches her in turn, tilting his head as if her stillness and silence puzzles him. As if she’s the strange creature from another world, which here she might be for all she knows. His hands dangle loose between his knees, which stick up at odd angles from the way he crouches on the sand. Freckles spray his nose and cheeks like stars, but the color of rust. His teeth are too sharp. The thought chills her, and she looks away. It must be the branches casting shadows through his smile. She almost convinces herself, and risks another glance. He lowers his lashes, peeking at her almost shyly as if to show her she has no reason to be afraid. His eyes—they’re a gray-blue like a storm, like the pigeons in Trafalgar Square.
“What is this place?” She finally manages to put words in order, and they’re far gentler than what she meant to say. She wants to call him a rotten thief and shout at him until he tells her where her parents are.
“It’s Neverland, of course. Where else would it be?” Peter says the words like she should know what he means, even though he’s speaking complete nonsense. She’s studied every single part of the globe her father gave her, and there’s no such place as Neverland.
“How could you forget?” Peter says.
She shakes her head, too frightened now for words. There’s a cold crawling feeling in her stomach, something important she’s missing.
“I’m Peter.” He points at himself, speaking slowly and loudly now. Then he points at her. “And you’re Wendy.”
“That’s not my name.” The fear spikes, scrabbling in her chest. “That’s my mother’s name. I’m—” But when she reaches for it, her name is gone again.
Her voice wobbles. She has a feeling like she’s looking at a puzzle—pieces are there, only she can’t fit them together. Peter’s smile flickers, a candle guttered with darkness, but returns an instant later just as bright.
“Of course you’re the Wendy. I found you and brought you back to Neverland so you can be our mother again. That’s the way it works.” He tilts his head again, making her think of a bird. Not pigeons this time, something sharper and cleverer, like a starling or a crow.
He’s still smiling, but it’s a hard smile. He isn’t making any sense, but she’s afraid to ask him to explain himself again, or tell him that he’s wrong – there’s no such place as Neverland, there can’t be, and he needs to take her home. She
