Her mother had come into the kitchen then and told her to stop pestering Cook, shooing her away despite Cook’s protests she didn’t mind. She’d peeked back in from the doorway and seen her mother and Cook with their heads leaned close together, whispering. They’d both looked sad then, in a way she didn’t know grown-ups could be, and she’d hurried away.
“Ha! I found you.” A hand closes around her arm, and she lets out a cry of surprise. “Now you have to help me find everyone else. Those are the rules.”
“Bertie?” She covers the arrowhead quickly, holding it tight.
Sweat dampens Bertie’s forehead, and he breathes heavily. That, and the way he avoids her eyes keeps her from correcting him to say that she’s it now, and he has to run and hide. He’s afraid; he doesn’t want to hunt through the dark alone, though he would never admit it, especially not to a girl. A thought strikes her then—if the game of hide and seek is still going on, who threw the projectiles?
“Have you found anyone else yet?”
“No.” Bertie looks a little bit relieved, but pushes his chest out, a bossy edge creeping into his voice. “You’re the first. Now you have to help me.”
His hand is still on her arm. There’s a dampness to his fingers, clammy fear seeping from his skin to hers. She glances behind her, but there’s no sign of whoever did the throwing. Maybe they weren’t trying to hurt her or scare her; maybe they were trying to warn her. But about what? Could there be something dangerous at the end of the path? Or something that needs protection?
“Come on.” Bertie tugs her arm insistently.
There’ll be time to unravel the mystery later. Besides, having Bertie along would only bungle things up. He’s too loud, and right now, too jumpy. His need to get away is palpable. She can feel his pulse in his fingertips, and it’s almost infectious. It makes her want to run, too.
“Okay, let’s go find the others.”
She follows him, ignoring the shivery feeling like a hand brushing across the nape of her neck, telling herself it’s for Bertie’s sake they’re leaving, not her own.
LET’S PLAY WAR
There’s something terrible at the center of the island.
Wendy comes to with a violent jolt, the knowledge in her mind as sure as she knew there was a boy at her daughter’s window. Her pulse beats too fast, and for a moment she’s disoriented. She wants the whole thing to have been a terrible, beautiful dream, but no—she is still here in Neverland.
She didn’t intend to sleep. She isn’t safe here, and neither is Jane. She’d only meant to sit for a moment with her back against the smooth trunk of a tree and rest her aching eyes. But her traitor mind had lulled her with images of home, Jane and Ned and Mary, all of them safe and far away from Peter’s grasp. Then she’d woken among tangled roots, her pulse racing, feeling some horrible thing, just out of reach.
Wendy puts a hand to her face, brushing at the imprint of leaves pressed into her skin. She tries to brush the dreams away, too, but they aren’t dreams. More like a memory, but one dissipating like smoke, slipping beyond her reach.
She stands, stretching, and her joints pop. It’s not just from lying on the ground with roots poking awkwardly into her back. She’s aged. She’s grown up. And Peter is still the same boy she left behind. She thinks of him standing at the foot of her daughter’s bed—the wicked grin, the fire-bright hair.
The elusive memory returns, sharp as a knife slash—his hand in hers, running through the trees. I’ll show you a secret. A really good one. One I’ve never shown anyone before. The sensation is so real, Wendy gasps aloud to catch her breath. But when she tries to grab hold, the place where the memory should be is a ragged hole, like fabric with a bit torn out. Come on, Wendy. Keep up. It’s the best secret you’ve ever seen, I promise.
Wendy clenches her jaw, leaving her teeth aching. Whatever did or didn’t happen last time she was here isn’t important. What matters now is Jane.
The sky was flush with stars when she’d sat down to rest, but now the sun is up, steadily climbing the sky. There’s no telling how much time she’s lost. She moves at a quick clip until she emerges from the trees and back onto the beach. Wendy is surprised to find the ship much closer than she thought. Did the landscape shift as she slept, the coastline curling in upon itself at Peter’s whim? Or did she walk farther than she realized?
The sand bears dimples in the places the tide doesn’t reach, the memory of feet surrounding the ship without drawing too close. She remembers the welcome party of boys that greeted her, Michael and John when Peter finally brought them down from the sky. There are long branches scattered around the remains of the ship’s hull as well, the kind that might be used as a shelter. Was Jane here? Did Peter bring the boys to meet her on the same spot where Wendy met them herself?
She almost bends to touch the footprints in the sand as though she could guess which ones belong to Jane. Her daughter, here in Neverland. It still doesn’t seem possible. The two worlds should never have touched. Jane is the life Wendy built to save herself from Peter. She should have told
