“Once upon a time, there was a Clever Tailor…” Nerves grip her.
But before doubt can fully take hold, inspiration strikes her. She doesn’t need to recite her mother’s stories; she can make up her own. That’s what her mother does, after all. She finds herself grinning as the next words leave her mouth.
“And the Tailor had a daughter who was very clever too, but instead of sewing and doing magic, she was a scientist.”
She swells with the thought of the words, pride filling her. Timothy pulls away from her side to peer up at her.
“What’s a scientist?”
“Oh. Well, it’s someone who studies books and learns things about the way plants and animals grow, and the way planets move, and how to make people better when they’re sick.” She struggles to find terms that might be familiar to him.
Timothy frowns. His hair sticks up on one side of his head where he’s been pressed against her, and she reaches automatically to smooth it down. He tolerates the touch, but his frown lingers.
“Looking at books doesn’t sound like an adventure,” he says. His voice holds no judgment, not the way Peter’s would, only the beginnings of disappointment. But there’s doubt, too, as though Timothy is merely waiting to be convinced. She thinks quickly, then launches back into the story.
“Well, the Tailor’s daughter was a different kind of scientist. All her instruments were also magic. She had a telescope that could see every star in the sky, no matter how far away. And… it could transport her to those stars to visit the people living on them and other planets too.”
Timothy’s expression brightens.
“That’s all right, then. I like magic.” He leans against her again. Is that where they are, she wonders, on another star? There’s a catch in her voice when she speaks again, but Timothy doesn’t seem to notice.
“The Tailor’s daughter also had a magical compass that could point north like any other compass, but also point to where the best adventures were…”
Timothy stays pressed against her side as the words unspool. It’s almost like her mother is telling the story through her, but even better, like they’re telling the story together. It makes her a little less afraid; it makes her feel a little less alone. Even though she can’t see or feel her mother, she knows with absolute certainty they’ll find their way back to each other soon.
When the sun comes up, it’s a surprise—a glitter of light breaking all at once through the leaves. Was she truly lost in the story, or did daylight simply pounce like a tiger, sudden and rude, like everything else in Neverland? The camp’s stillness shatters with a sound that is half cock’s crow and half war cry; Timothy bolts upright, going from half-sleep to alert fear in an instant. She looks down from the platform into the camp.
Peter stands beside the ashes of last night’s fire, as if dropped out of the sky and landing just there as the sun rose. Even from here she can see his cheeks are flushed, his eyes bright and his hair wild. Unlike the mess of Timothy’s hair though, there’s something sharp-edged and dangerous about Peter’s locks. It makes her think of a broken crown resting upon his head, and the leaves caught there might almost grow from his scalp.
His hands rest on his hips, elbows jutting sideways, and his expression is impatient as the camp wakes and gathers around him.
“We have to go.” Timothy nudges her. It’s not a suggestion. Without waiting, he scrambles down, and she follows, her pulse going harder in a way that has nothing to do with the climb.
“We’re going hunting.” Peter casts his voice like a net, snagging everyone as she and Timothy join the circle. “We must have a proper feast to welcome our new Wendy.”
Peter’s gaze skims over the boys and stops on her. It feels like a pin driven though the center of her body, holding her down the way she mounts her butterflies at home. She opens her mouth, feeling as though something is expected of her, but the moment she does, her mind goes blank.
It’s more than the sticky sweet drink; it’s Peter himself who makes her forget, who turns her strange. She has only a moment to think it then she finds herself blinking, a step or two closer to where Peter stands, as though a moment of time has slipped away without her marking it.
She closes her mouth. When did she open it? Did someone ask her a question? Peter’s expression digs at her, simultaneously seeking approval and daring her to contradict him. She fights the urge to squirm, even though everything in her wants to crawl away. Like every game Peter has proposed since she got here, she doesn’t understand the rules to this one either; she only knows she can’t be the first to look away.
She keeps her head up, keeps looking at Peter. Confusion passes through his eyes like a cloud across the sun, then his lips form a slow smile and he nods, as though she gave him her approval even though she did no such thing. She wants to stamp her foot and shout at him, but there’s no time. Peter whirls away from her to address the expectant circle of boys, all watching him eagerly. Except for Timothy, who remains pressed against her side.
“Hunters, gather your weapons. We are going to catch a boar.”
Boys scatter in every direction, like an anthill broken open. It looks like chaos, but in no time they’re assembled again into tense, eager lines, each holding a weapon. It makes her think of the pictures she’s seen of her Uncle Michael and her father dressed in their soldier’s uniforms, lined up with other men, ready to fight a war. Some of the men in those
