She doesn’t want to think about what she doesn’t know. It’s too big and too frightening. If she tries hard enough, perhaps she can convince herself this is all a bad dream. Her mother and father will come for her soon and everything will go back to the way it’s supposed to be. They’ll wrap her up in a warm blanket and set her in front of the fire. Cook will make scones with clotted cream and jam for tea, and they will all listen, rapt, as she relates the story of her strange adventure.
Perhaps her mother will even bring out the special china, the set that belonged to the grandmother she never met. It will be a proper celebration, to show how happy they are that she’s home. Her mama smiling, the light her papa gets in his eyes when he’s listening to someone tell a particularly good tale. Her eyes prickle, but she forces a smile to show she isn’t afraid, and lifts her chin.
“I brought you more to drink.” Peter reaches outside the shelter to retrieve a tarnished silver cup stamped with a pattern. “It’ll make you well again, so you remember Neverland.”
He extends the cup toward her with an encouraging expression. Is this what he gave her before? It doesn’t look like medicine, and it smells sweet. Despite Peter’s claim it will make her better, she isn’t certain she wants to drink it at all. How can it help her remember a place she’s never been, a place that doesn’t even exist?
She stalls, examining the cup, aware of Peter watching her with impatience growing in his eyes. She recognizes the insignia stamped upon the cup’s side – His Majesty’s Royal Navy. Her papa took her to see the ships in the harbor once, bright sails fluttering from their tall masts, so beautiful and proud. How is it she can remember that and not her own name?
“Drink.” Peter nudges her fingers, and the cup is halfway to her lips without her even realizing she’d taken it from his hand.
He pushes at the bottom of the cup, tilting it so she has no choice but to swallow the liquid or choke on it. It’s thick and sweet. It tastes good, and even as she’s drinking it, it makes her thirsty for more. She drains the cup and Peter watches in approval. She knows it isn’t wise to take things from people she doesn’t know, especially not food or drink, but with the cup empty, she does feel better. Perhaps Peter isn’t dangerous after all. Perhaps he really does want to help her. The crawling feeling inside her calms, fear receding. Even sitting on the cold, wet sand, she feels safe and warm, like floating in a hot bath. She yawns widely.
“You can sleep now, if you’d like,” Peter says. “We’ll play a game when you wake up. I bet you have all sorts of new things to teach us.”
Before she can ask what he means, he’s gone, quick as a flash, scuttling out through a gap in the branches. She wants to call after him, but her tongue feels even heavier than before. Maybe she will lie down after all. Her insides feel warm from the drink, even better than the tea Cook makes. It’s like being wrapped in a blanket, tight like a cocoon. Maybe when she wakes, she’ll be a butterfly. The thought makes her smile, already drifting. She is safe here. There’s no reason to be afraid at all.
SECOND STAR TO THE RIGHT
Wendy pulls the pins from her hair one by one and sets them in a precise line on top of her dresser. That done, she twists her loosened curls into a simple braid. Strands of gray thread the coppery-brown. Even though she was barely more than a child at the time, the first ones appeared when her hair grew back after the nurse at St. Bernadette’s shaved her head to stubble.
From the back of her wardrobe, Wendy retrieves the wide-legged trousers she sewed for herself last year. She promised Ned she wouldn’t wear them outside of the house. Like their furniture, like her agreement to call Mary by the title Cook whenever anyone else is around, it’s another concession to her father-in-law. Trousers are too modern, too mannish, not becoming of a proper lady. As if somehow the clothes Wendy chooses to wear might reflect on the tastes of her husband and his father, and not simply her own.
She pulls the trousers on, then slips her needles, her thread and her scissors into their deep pockets. She sewed them deeper than the pattern required, and she could fit several more items, but what else would she bring? What does one bring to the imaginary land of their childhood to rescue their daughter from a boy who refuses to grow old?
Wendy presses her lips together, trapping bitter laughter behind her teeth. There’s an edge of panic to it; if she lets it out, she might never stop. Everything about this is absurd, and yet it’s terrifyingly real. Her stomach twists around itself so she forces herself to focus on her wardrobe instead. She selects a blouse with long sleeves. It’s inadequate, but it will have to do. She digs out an old pair of low-heeled boots, worn but in good condition, and last, a shawl. She’s been freezing since Peter took her daughter away.
Wendy pushes opens the window then climbs onto the small sewing desk beneath it, bracing her hands on the sill and leaning into the night. Reflexively, she pats her pockets again, though she knows nothing will fall out. She crouches
