Wendy uses her sleeve to wipe her cheeks and nose. Mary knows her better than anyone, and she’s right. Neverland is hers, it is precious; she will not give it to anyone to use as a weapon against her. It’s enough that Wendy knows, deep in her heart, that if she’d jumped, the sky would never let her fall. And one day, she and Mary together will fly.
* * *
Wendy scans the canopy of trees for a glimpse of the brightly colored birds she remembers from when she was a child, the ones she heard chattering as she stood on the beach. They’re eerily silent now, and she sees no sign of them, as if when she stepped beneath the trees they all fled. Wind sways in the treetops, a rippling hush. She catches a flicker of motion, but it isn’t red or blue. It’s a brownish-gray, vanishing through the branches too fast for her to track. By the time she focuses on the spot where it was, it’s already gone.
She pulls her shawl closer, but the motion doesn’t come again. The leaves cast shadow patterns on the forest floor. They shift with the breeze, but everything else is stillness. The air feels haunted, and Wendy feels watched. Even the trees seem paler, washed of their color somehow, the leaves almost translucent, like ghosts of themselves. She hurries her steps until she’s out from under the trees, looking at the rocky caldera surrounding the lagoon. It’s right where she expected it. At least this part of Neverland hasn’t changed.
Tiny shells and fossils of starfish and insects stud the porous stone that surrounds the water and hides it from view. Wendy runs her fingers over the stone. Jane would love this. She would probably know the name of every species embedded in the rock. She pulls her hand back, and it’s a moment before she can breathe again for the ache in her chest.
She removes her shawl and ties it around her waist, then unbuttons her cuffs and rolls her sleeves to her elbows. She checks her pockets; everything is secure. Wendy reaches, and as she does, the rock molds itself to her grip—just as she remembers. She pushes off with one foot, pulling herself up, and searches for a spot to wedge the toe of her boot. Her limbs aren’t as flexible as they used to be, but her fingers still find holds in all the right places. Like Neverland’s trees, the rocks here understand adventure, a desire to be higher than everything else. King of the hill. Or queen.
There’s a pleasant burn to climbing, and Wendy revels in it—the stretch of her muscles, the sweat gathering beneath her clothes. She welcomes the way her breath comes harder. It’s so unlike anything she would do at home in London. There her greatest exertion might be a stroll in the park or a game of croquet, but here, she is the Wendy again. The girl who flew.
Exhilaration fills her, and just as soon, dread comes on its heels, tripping down her spine. A memory nags her—climbing a rock to a secret place. Something Peter showed her, but what? Something that made her afraid.
At the top of the caldera, Wendy pauses. The breeze picks up a foul smell, one teetering on the edge of rot, carrying it to her from below. She should be able to hear the chatter of mermaid voices, the drifting melody of their song. There’s only more silence, like there was on the beach. Light sparkles on the water below so that Wendy has to squint her eyes against it, but the water itself seems empty. Are the mermaids hiding from her? Or are they afraid and hiding from something else?
Instinct screams at her to turn back, but even if she wanted to, gravity takes the choice from her hands. Her grip falters, and she slides, tumbling down the incline toward the blue eye of the lagoon below.
The breath rushes from her, and all Wendy can do is shield her face and try to slow her descent. Her foot catches on something, pain jolting up her leg, and for a moment she’s airborne—falling, not flying. Then she’s crashing through the long grasses and wild sea roses bordering the lagoon, the bruising violence of her impact driving the rest of the breath from her body. She rolls to a stop just at the edge of the water.
A whine emerges and she sucks in a breath, coughing, and for a moment she’s sure she’ll suffocate, drowning on dry land. The blue sky mocks her from above, clear and perfect and bright, but every part of her body aches. It’s a moment before she can roll over, planting her hand to lever herself up. Her palm slips in slick weed and foul mud, the source of the stench, plunging her arm into the water and bringing her eye to empty eye socket with the skull glaring up at her from the shore.
Wendy scrambles back, pain momentarily forgotten. The skeleton lies with one arm flung outward, the other tucked beneath its chin, head pillowed on sun-bleached bones. The lower half of the body trails into the water, which is still so painfully clear that below the torso she can see the bones of a powerful tail, stripped of its shimmering scales.
Wendy crawls forward, stopping just short of touching the skull. It’s impossible. She can’t be seeing what she’s seeing, despite the evidence in front of her eyes. Nothing can die in Neverland. Peter told her so.
But here is the skull, incontrovertible, her own truth against Peter’s, and she’s done taking other people’s word for how the world functions. Her fingers hover in the space above the pale curve of bone. There should be
