“If you go, so will I.” Mary lifts her chin, defiant, her eyes dark and hard again.
Is she thinking of the day when Wendy stood on the narrow balcony on St. Bernadette’s second floor, when she’d meant to fly, meant to leave everything behind? Wendy squeezes Mary’s hand. A thrill runs through her, half exhilaration, half fear. Until this moment, she hadn’t fully thought what they might do.
Could they really climb over the wall, run and never look back? How would they live without money, two lone women on London’s streets? Could they disguise themselves as men and stow away on a ship back to Mary’s home in Canada? Or somewhere else? Perhaps join a traveling fair?
Wendy considers as they resume walking, then all at once they’re at the tree. Wendy stops, gaping up at it. Mary presses against her side, as if the tree itself embodies everything she might fear about the world beyond the wall. Wendy’s certain Mary isn’t even aware she’s doing it, and she doesn’t intend to point it out, even welcoming the sun-warmed length of her.
The tree is gray with age, seeming almost to melt into the stone wall, both running riot with vines. Other sections of the property are guarded with iron fences, buried in thick hedges, but here there’s only the wall, tall enough Wendy can’t see over it. The sky feels tantalizingly close, the tree’s branches scraping against the blue so that Wendy almost imagines that if she did climb, she too could scrape her fingers against it like thick paint.
Boldness seizes her, and Wendy can’t help but grin.
“Race you.”
At the challenge, Mary’s expression turns sly and bright and mischievous, all hints of doubt and fear gone. She answers Wendy with a grin of her own, showing the gap between her front teeth.
“You’re a proper Englishwoman; I bet you don’t even know how to climb a tree.”
Even though there’s nothing at all alike in their voices, Mary’s words bring Peter’s taunting to Wendy’s mind. She pictures him impossibly balanced on a branch that should be too slender to hold him, sticking out his tongue at her and wiggling his fingers by his ears like absurd horns or antlers gone awry. You can’t catch me, Wendy. Girls can’t even climb trees. Everyone knows that.
“I’ll show you.” Wendy answers Peter and Mary at once, gathering the rough fabric of her skirt. “I bet I can climb better than you.”
Wendy sticks out her tongue, then grasps one of the thick vines wound about the tree. She’s in Neverland again, scrambling barefoot up a trunk, Peter darting through the air above her like a nagging fly, half delighted, half enraged. She remembers how the branches shaped themselves to her hand, knots rising for her to grip with her toes. She didn’t hesitate a moment, not even the first time. It never even occurred to her to doubt the tree would hold her. It held Peter after all, and the only thing in her mind had been showing him girls could so climb trees, every bit as well as boys.
Wendy sizes up a knot near the base of the tree. It bulges outward like melted candle wax, almost as good as the trees in Neverland. She plants her foot on it, meaning to haul herself upward until a meaty hand lands on her shoulder, yanking her back down. Her foot slips, and she bangs her knee painfully against the rough bark.
Jamieson. Wendy twists in his grip. She’d been so intent on climbing, on Peter, she hadn’t even heard the attendant come up behind them. Evans is there too, holding Mary, one hand over her mouth to keep her from shouting a warning.
Jamieson hauls Wendy upright just as Mary bites down on Evans’ hand. Evans shouts, shaking the hand, then raising it to strike Mary, but she doesn’t even flinch. He’s nowhere near as tall as Jamieson, but taller than Mary certainly, though that doesn’t stop her from glaring up at him.
Wendy’s heart surges toward Mary, and a cry—so much like Peter’s cock-crow of victory—is almost at her lips before she tamps it down. Evans hesitates, glancing at Jamieson. Wendy takes satisfaction in seeing the skin of his raised hand turn red, looking painful where Mary bit it.
Before either attendant can act, Wendy throws herself against Jamieson’s grip. He tightens it, keeping her from getting between Evans and Mary.
“It was all my idea.” Wendy ignores Jamieson, his pull on her arm, and addresses Evans. “I forced her to come along.”
Mary turns her glare on Wendy now, and Wendy glares right back, willing Mary to stay silent. Even with their escapades, Mary has earned the trust of many of the attendants and nurses. She’s allowed to work in the gardens and in the kitchen, harvesting vegetables and learning to bake, while Wendy is banished to scrubbing and laundry duties. She’d scrub till her knuckles bleed raw though if it means Mary keeping her privileges. She’s seen the joy Mary takes in baking, even simple things. If she could, Wendy imagines Mary would even improve on the dull recipes given to her to prepare.
Jamieson snorts, a sound that isn’t quite a laugh.
“You’re always the leader when there’s trouble, aren’t you, Darling?” He wrenches her arm until she has no choice but to face him.
At the corner of her eye, Evans lowers his hand, looking sullen. Jamieson digs his fingers into the muscle of her arm, and Wendy bites back a yelp. She will not give him the satisfaction.
“Look at me when I’m talking to you.” Jamieson leans closer, showing teeth stained yellow-brown by tobacco.
Everything about his expression is unpleasant. It leaves Wendy feeling vaguely sick, but she raises her chin, keeping her lips pressed together. Jamieson’s stance makes her think of Hook, leaning over her on the bridge of his ship. If Jamieson thinks he can frighten her, he has no idea.
“Yes,” she says, voice even. “Always the leader. Just like last time, and the time before.”
It doesn’t
