LONDON 1917
Wendy sits by the window in the common room, exhausted and numb. True to his word, Dr. Harrington kept the door to her room locked all night long, but in no way did it make her feel safe. She spent the night jumping at every sound, every shuffled footstep in the hall. Now, despite the tension singing through her, she can barely keep her eyes open. Her chin dips toward her chest, and between one over-long blink and the next, the girl who isn’t Tiger Lily drops into the chair beside her, an accusation on her lips.
“Why were you staring at me?” The violence of the girl’s motion startles Wendy, and she scoots sideways in her chair involuntarily. The legs scrape, and one of the nurses glares at her.
“I wasn’t.” Wendy drops her head, staring at the floor, her answer barely a whisper.
The girl leans forward to peer into Wendy’s face, her eyes narrowed.
“Not now, yesterday, in the hall.”
Wendy risks a look at the girl. Instead of Tiger Lily’s shining plaits, the girl’s black hair hangs loose about her face. It isn’t tangled, but it’s un-brushed even though the distinctly clean smell of soap hangs about her. Her skin is darker than Wendy’s, but now that she’s inches from Wendy’s face, it’s clear the resemblance to Tiger Lily ends there. This girl’s face is rounder, and there are scars pock-marking it, like the ghosts of some childhood illness. There’s a gap between her teeth, which she bares in something that’s closer to a challenge than a smile.
“You reminded me of someone, that’s all.” Recovering from her initial surprise, Wendy lifts her head farther, hardening the line of her jaw. Neither of them has any choice in being here; why should she let this girl intimidate her or chase her away?
“There’s no one here who looks like me.” The girl’s chin juts out, defiant. “My people are part of the Kainai Nation, and now that my mother is dead, I’m the only one in London.”
She speaks the words as if the sheer force of them could make them true. Wendy is taken aback, but there’s hurt behind the anger the girl wears like a cloak, and that’s something Wendy understands. Now it isn’t so much Tiger Lily the girl reminds her of, but Peter’s boys, so very far away from home, not daring to admit they miss their beds and mothers.
“I’m sorry. I don’t know what you’re talking about. What is the Kainai Nation?”
Wendy can’t guess at this girl’s age. In one instant, she looks younger than Wendy, the next much older.
“They’re my people.”
“Is that… I mean, you’re an Indian, aren’t you?”
“Kainai. The Blood Tribe. Part of the Blackfoot Confederacy. I don’t know anything about India.” She draws the last word out, glaring, and Wendy’s cheeks flush hot.
“I’m sorry,” Wendy says quickly.
To her relief, the girl doesn’t leave. She settles back, arms crossed, but under her annoyance Wendy sees a glimmer of curiosity, and she seizes on it.
“I didn’t mean to upset you, and I truly am sorry. How did you end up here if…” Wendy stumbles over the words, feeling as though she’s stepping onto a frozen lake, uncertain whether the ice will hold.
The girl snorts, a sound almost like laughter.
“Do you mean here?” She gestures at the room. “Or London?”
“Both, I suppose.”
Wendy fights the urge to smile, afraid it will cause the girl to turn sullen and angry. This girl may not be Tiger Lily, but in this place with its screams and its glaring nurses and attendants, she’s the closest thing Wendy has found to a friendly face. The fact that the girl hasn’t gotten up and stormed away makes Wendy think she might feel the same way. Under all the bluster and bravado, maybe she’s lonely too.
The girl rolls her eyes as if telling Wendy her story is an imposition. But there’s an edge to her voice that makes Wendy think it’s been a long time since anyone listened to her.
“My father died when I was a baby. An Englishman married my mother when I was ten years old. He brought us to London from Canada. He didn’t want to bring me, but my mother wouldn’t leave me behind.”
There’s a fierceness to the girl’s expression as she speaks of the man who married her mother. Wendy doesn’t blame her. What sort of a man would ask a mother to leave her child behind?
“A year after we came to London, my mother died giving birth to my baby sister. The baby died too, before she even had a name. My mother’s husband kept me with him for a while. I slept in a room with the maidservants where he could pretend I didn’t exist. Then he met an Englishwoman he wanted to marry, and she didn’t like being reminded that he’d been married before, so he sent me here. I was fifteen. That was four years ago.”
Wendy’s mouth drops open, a sick feeling in her stomach. She can’t imagine anyone treating another person that way, let alone a child, but the girl shrugs when she’s done speaking, as though the story doesn’t cut at her anymore, at least not on the surface.
“That’s terrible.” Wendy reaches to touch the girl’s arm, but the look of disdain the girl throws her stops her cold.
The ice on the imaginary lake shifts under her feet and she drops her hand into her lap, examining her nails as if that’s all she meant to do. The nurse who helped her change her clothes yesterday also trimmed her nails painfully short, another measure for her supposed safety, just like her locked door.
“What about you? How did you end up here?” the girl asks.
Now it’s Wendy’s turn to make an unladylike sound that’s almost a laugh.
“I make up stories. Lies. I can’t tell what’s real and what’s make-believe.” Wendy’s lips twist; it’s all so absurd when she
