Wendy stiffens as Dr. Harrington, impeccably dressed as always, walks down the path to join them. She keeps her gaze on his polished shoes, timing her breath to his steps. White stone crunches beneath his soles; his watch chain bounces, glittering with his motion. Anything to avoid looking into his eyes, into the face of the man who will be her jailor for who knows how long.
Even when the footsteps stop, Wendy keeps her chin tucked down. The uniformed man who opened the gate lines his shoes up—far more scuffed and plain—just behind Dr. Harrington’s bright ones. His place at Dr. Harrington’s shoulder is a subtle threat, and despite herself, Wendy looks up. The uniformed man stands a good head taller than Dr. Harrington. There’s a squareness to him, his shoulders broad, his hair cut neat and close. She wonders why he isn’t overseas, fighting.
There’s a name stitched over the man’s breast pocket— Jamieson. He catches her looking and his mouth twists, the expression an ugly one. Wendy starts, a fresh thrill of fear going through her. She has done nothing to this man, and yet Jamieson looks at her as though he wants to do her harm. She knew boys like him in Neverland, bullies following at Peter’s heels, but held in check by the brightness of his games. To Jamieson, she is a wild animal to be muzzled and chained at the slightest excuse. A yearling to be broken if she refuses the saddle.
“Mr. Darling.” Dr. Harrington extends his hand to John, breaking Wendy from her dark thoughts.
Bitterness rises in her all over again, fear momentarily forgotten. Dr. Harrington and John shake hands, so civilized—neither of them looking at her—as though she were a mere business agreement, not a patient or a beloved sister. And all the while, John still has his other hand on her arm. She pulls away roughly.
“I am perfectly capable of walking on my own.” The words snap, and she steps away from her brother; more pettiness. All three men watch her, as if she might turn into a bird and fly away.
Wendy lifts her chin, but does not look at any of them. She won’t even say goodbye. Let that sit on John’s conscience. Without leave, she walks past Dr. Harrington toward St. Bernadette’s front doors. If this is to be her fate, she’ll go to it on her own, not dragged or guided. Her boot heels strike hard against the crushed stone even though her legs tremble beneath her skirt, but she refuses to slow or give in.
“Wendy!” John’s footsteps scuff the path behind her.
It puts even more resolve into her step, and Wendy quickens her pace. She doesn’t turn, doesn’t stop, and hears Dr. Harrington intercept her brother, his voice smooth and practiced, used to soothing patients.
“Perhaps it’s better this way, Mr. Darling. Your sister is in good hands here. Once she’s had a chance to settle, you can visit her, of course.” Implied is that Wendy will be more docile then. There isn’t a speck of doubt in Dr. Harrington’s voice—he will see her cured.
Despite herself, Wendy’s shoulders hunch. Dr. Harrington’s words grate, his tone scraping at her, through flesh to bone. She wants to turn and pummel him, closed fists against his shoulders and chest, but she forces her arms to hang loose at her sides. She’s broken more plates and cups in her rages at Michael and John than she cares to count. For once, she must keep her temper under control.
“Miss Darling.” Dr. Harrington catches up to her, Jamieson still shadowing him. Wendy doesn’t turn to see if John remains on the path, watching. “Allow me to show you to your room.”
Dr. Harrington says the words as though she is a guest, free to leave whenever she wants.
“I think you will find it most amenable here. Our staff and facilities are excellent. The only thing we want in this world is to make you well.”
Wendy’s mouth opens, but no sound emerges. Somehow, they’ve reached the end of the path, climbed the steps. The door frames them. Dr. Harrington takes her arm. Jamieson stands behind him. Even if she were to pull free, there is nowhere to run.
“This way.”
In her determination and pride, she’s walked herself right into the trap, and now it’s ready to snap closed behind her. It’s too late. One more step, and Wendy crosses the threshold. The air changes immediately, heavy and dim. Wendy feels the loss of the sky overhead like a stolen breath. She hadn’t realized how much comfort she’d been drawing from that perfect stretch of blue.
She glances to the ceiling, pressed tin, hung with a chandelier. Rich carpets in patterned jeweled tones cover the floor of the entryway, lovely but worn. A few steps in, and the ceiling gives way to a high, open space. Curved staircases at either end of the foyer sweep up to a balcony that overlooks the ground floor. A stained-glass window lets through light, but its quality tells Wendy it doesn’t look onto the outside. Everything here is enclosed, safe, but false.
Dr. Harrington leads her past a reception desk without even a glance at the woman in a nurse’s uniform seated there. The woman doesn’t glance up either, and Wendy suppresses a shiver at the coldness of it all. She is merely a transaction, one of how many patients marched through the doors because they are inconvenient to their families, or worse, actually sick. Is there anything in this place to heal them?
Wendy tries to take in more of her surroundings, but Dr. Harrington speeds his pace, taking her past a common room with large windows overlooking the garden, and a smaller interior room where two nurses rest their feet. They turn a corner. The air changes again, and
