“Hide. I’ll come find you, I promise.”
Timothy turns, pelting away. She watches him go before dragging her gaze back to Peter. The circle of earth, the way the boar remains perfectly still, all of it is unnatural. It’s not just the boar though, it’s everything—the silent boys, their expressions solemn and watching. It’s not war she thinks of now, but something like being in church with her grandfather—a ritual, solemn and terrible and centuries old.
Malevolence rolls from the boar’s bristled stance, hatred in its eyes, but even still, it doesn’t move. There’s intelligence there, not animal intelligence but something akin to human. The boar knows what is about to happen, and it loathes Peter for it, but there’s absolutely nothing it can do. It waits. The cruel sweep of its tusks could tear Peter apart, but it remains transfixed as Peter hops around it, jeering and taunting. Then all at once, Peter lunges. His blade goes in and a hot spray of blood splashes his skin.
The animal doesn’t bellow or make any sound at all, and that only makes it worse. It simply collapses under Peter as he falls on top of it, stabbing and stabbing again.
Her eyes sting. Leave. She has to leave and it has to be tonight. She’ll take Timothy and Rufus and even Bertie. She’ll take everyone she can and they’ll go somewhere far away where Peter can never find them.
The boar’s sides finally stop heaving, and Peter looks up, his eyes finding hers. The freckles scattered across his skin are joined with blood now, and his grin is as wide and wicked as ever, pure delight. Like the boar, she’s hypnotized. She can’t look away as Peter rises, wiping the short blade of his sword on his blood-spattered clothing. He gestures to the boys around him, and they dutifully come forward. Two of them hold a long pole, a third carries a coil of rope. They go to work in utter silence.
Peter approaches her, his eyes still shining. She wants to ask him why, but the breath in her throat merely wheezes and no words emerge. His hand lands on her shoulder. Rinds of crimson darken the ends of his nails. He leaves a smudge of red on the fabric of her nightgown.
“There,” he says. “Now you’re one of us properly. Wendy and Peter and the Lost Boys.”
THE FROZEN GIRL
LONDON 1919
Colored threads trail from the embroidery hoop and lie across the drab gray of Wendy’s skirt—a tangle of roots, fresh-pulled from the ground. She moves her needle and the hoop just often enough to make it look like she’s stitching, but her attention is on the two attendants monitoring the room. It was a great deal of work to convince the nurses she could be trusted with a needle, even under supervision, acting the model patient for weeks on end. The attendants are always there, watching, and she, in turn, has been watching them. She knows their patterns as well as her stitching by now; she knows when they will grow bored and let their attention lapse. Any moment Jamieson will reach for his tobacco tin and rolling papers, prop the door to the garden open and step halfway outside to smoke.
When his hand goes to his side, patting at his pocket, Wendy bites the inside of her cheek. The papers he’s looking for are tucked into the hem of her skirt, a space sewn to be invisible from the outside. Wendy drops her gaze, taps the side of her embroidery hoop twice, then stands once Jamieson’s back is turned. She doesn’t dare look at Mary for fear of giving them away. Instead, Wendy moves swiftly toward the hall as Jamieson recruits the other attendant, Evans, to help him search. They’re tearing apart the cabinet where the nurses keep their tins of biscuits and tea and the occasional nip of brandy, Jamieson cursing as he does.
In the hallway, Mary falls into step behind her. Farther down the hall is another door the attendants and nurses often prop open in nice weather so they can enjoy the sunshine while they smoke. Mary was the one who came up with the idea of using a small bit of cloth wedged into the lock to keep it from catching properly. Since then, they’ve learned how to hit the door just right to pop it open again, using it regularly to sneak into the garden to pick wild strawberries in the summer, and once in the winter to stage an elaborate snowball fight.
Wendy throws her shoulder against the door now while the hallways are clear and they tumble outside, laughing and covering their mouths against the noise. Wendy grabs Mary’s hand and they sprint across the lawn.
“Strawberries?” Mary asks, her voice breathless.
“Better.” Wendy turns to grin at Mary over her shoulder. “You know the old tree growing right up against the wall in the far west corner?”
“Sure.” Mary almost stumbles, and Wendy slows, steadying her.
“I heard a rumor that a group of patients used it to escape years ago. We’re going to go see if it’s true.”
“We’re going to run away?” Mary stops and Wendy stops beside her, still holding her hand.
A frown curves Mary’s lips, something almost like fear briefly in her eyes. Mary is never frightened, and Wendy opens her mouth when understanding strikes her. Mary hasn’t been outside St. Bernadette’s walls in years. She was a child when she entered, and she scarcely knows anything of London besides the house of her mother’s husband. Mary has told her that even before her mother died, her mother’s husband rarely brought her along on outings. Her mother was lovely enough that her husband was proud to show her off, but Mary, with her rounder face, her gapped teeth, her darker skin, he preferred to keep hidden.
“Maybe not run,” Wendy says carefully. “Maybe just climb and look
