Wendy’s pulse trips. Her back teeth ache, unspecified dread filling her. Whatever she saw… No. It must be a lie… Neverland was a beautiful adventure. Peter was and is her friend. Nothing terrible happened, and there are no monsters. If she could only taste the sweet air once more to remind herself, if she could just see Peter’s smile one more time, then she could endure an entire lifetime in St. Bernadette’s and never lose faith.
She hurries down the hall, almost running, her bare feet slapping lightly at the tile. She can fly. She just needs to see the sky; she just needs a little height to get her started.
As she approaches the common areas, Wendy lowers her head and slows her pace. Luck is on her side; three women emerge from the large common room as she passes. Wendy falls in behind them as they climb to the second floor where the rooms are nicer, larger, more elaborately furnished. It’s where patients who have committed themselves voluntarily, or patients whose families have more money than sense, are housed.
Wendy snuck up there with Mary once. They’d spent hours exploring and spying on the “patients” there who had their own dedicated staff and were treated more like hotel guests. They were so sure they’d be caught, laughing behind their hands the whole time and sneaking tea cakes and sandwiches from an unattended tray left behind. They’d never been discovered, slipping in and out like ghosts. Wendy will be a ghost again now.
At the landing, she turns away from the women. There are windows overlooking the lawn at the opposite end of the hall, and she makes for those. Through the glass, Wendy can see false balconies just deep enough for a single person to stand. The windows are locked, but unlike the windows downstairs, they don’t have bars.
From one of the many pockets secreted in her clothing, the ones Mary taught her to sew, Wendy pulls a set of hairpins stolen from one of the nurses. The lock is easily picked. She pushes the window open and climbs onto the tiny balcony. A fresh breeze greets her and she spreads her arms, almost weeping with relief. She’s so close. Neverland is just on the other side of the painfully blue sky.
Wendy rests her hands on the stone railing, soaking in its sun-warmth for a moment before pulling herself up. The stone is just wide enough to allow her to balance on her bare feet. She crouches, peering over the edge. It’s not that far down, yet the emerald lawn looks impossibly distant. She peels one hand off the railing, then the other, holding her arms out to either side as she straightens.
Just one quick trip, and then she’ll come right back. Even if she doesn’t see Peter, she needs to feel the wind against her skin, to fall through the sky and see the stars from the wrong side. Just a sip of Neverland’s air, then she’ll return and stay as long as John and Dr. Harrington want; she won’t complain or misbehave ever again. She leans forward ever so slightly, waiting for the shift in balance, the sky to catch her weight, her feet to lift from the stone.
“Wendy.” Mary’s voice is low and tense.
It isn’t a shout, and maybe that’s what saves Wendy from wheeling around and losing her balance. Mary stares at her, eyes wide and dark. Wendy had been so intent on not being seen she hadn’t noticed that she was being followed.
“What are you doing?” Accusation in Mary’s expression, a hard edge under her level tone.
Leaving.
Wendy doesn’t say the word aloud, swallowing against a sudden painful lump in her throat. Oh, she promised herself she’d return, but Wendy knows deep down that once her feet had touched the sands of Neverland’s beach, she never would have looked back. How long would it have taken her to forget Mary? To forget her brothers? Forget everything? She would have run and kept running and never have thought of England again.
Because that’s what Neverland is—running away, cowardly, without even saying goodbye. It’s leaving behind everything you claim to love to embrace purely selfish joy. No responsibilities, no consequences, and nothing matters or ever changes.
Wendy chokes on the knowledge, a sound between a cough and a sob. The rift inside her widens. She feels exposed. Standing here with her shorn head, she’s proving Dr. Harrington right. She’s sick, a danger to herself; she needs help.
“I don’t know.” It’s barely a whisper.
She can’t make herself move, not to step down from the railing, not to let herself fall. Mary holds out a hand. A lifetime passes, but Wendy finally closes the distance, one that seems immense, and places palm against palm. The touch grounds her, and she winds their fingers together, clinging tight. Mary’s skin is warm; there are calluses from her needlework, and from baking in St. Bernadette’s kitchen.
“I’m sorry. I thought…” But she can’t get farther. The words lodge in her throat like broken glass. What was she thinking? Mary holds her steady, and once Wendy climbs down, she folds Wendy in her arms.
“I thought if I could fly—”
“Fool,” Mary whispers, and Wendy stiffens in her arms, but Mary doesn’t let go. After a moment, her body softens against Wendy’s, and Wendy finds herself relaxing too.
“Shh.” Mary runs a hand over Wendy’s bare scalp. “You don’t have to prove anything to anyone. You can fly, but if you let them see, they’ll only try to tie you down and break your wings.”
Wendy pulls back, staring at her friend. Mary’s eyes remain hard, defiant, but glittering with an edge of mischief.
“Do you think I don’t know I’m better than this place? Every time the nurses speak more slowly, assuming I’m dull because I wasn’t born on English soil, or with white skin, don’t you think I want to scream at them and slap their terrible faces? I know better, and so should you.”
Wendy catches her breath. Mary is right. The
